Captain Fracasse by Theophile Gautier

With these words he picked up de Sigognac's cloak, and having put
it carefully, even reverentially, over his shoulders, made him a
profound obeisance, and departed.
Thus the efforts of the Duke of Vallombreuse, to advance his suit
and to get rid of his rival, had once more failed ignominiously.
CHAPTER XIV. LAMPOURDE'S DELICACY
It is easy to imagine the frame of mind in which the Duke of
Vallombreuse returned home after his repulse by Isabelle, and her
rescue from his arms by the timely intervention of her friends,
the comedians. At sight of his face, fairly livid and contorted
with suppressed rage, his servants trembled and shrunk away from
him--as well they might--for his natural cruelty was apt to vent
itself upon the first unhappy dependent that happened to come in
his way when his wrath was excited. He was not an easy master to
serve, even in his most genial mood--this haughty, exacting young
nobleman--and in his frantic fits of anger be was more savage and
relentless than a half-starved tiger. Upon entering his own house
he rushed through it like a whirlwind, shutting every door behind
him with such a violent bang that the very walls shook, and
pieces of the gilt mouldings round the panels were snapped off,
and scattered on the floor. When he reached his own room he flung
down his hat with such force that it was completely flattened,
and the feather broken short off. Then, unable to breathe freely,
he tore open his rich velvet pourpoint, as he rushed frantically
to and fro, without any regard for the superb diamond buttons
that fastened it, which flew in every direction. The exquisitely
fine lace ruffles round his neck were reduced to shreds in a
second, and with a vigorous kick he knocked over a large
arm-chair that stood in his way, and left it upside down, with
its legs in the air.
"The impudent little hussy!" he cried, as he continued his
frenzied walk, like a wild beast in a cage. "I have a great mind
to have her thrown into prison, there to be well-whipped, and
have her hair shaved off, before being sent to a lunatic
asylum--or better still to some strict convent where they take in
bad girls who have been forcibly rescued from lives of infamy. I
could easily manage it. But no, it would be worse than
useless--persecution would only make her hate me more, and would
not make her love that cursed de Sigognac a bit less. How can I
punish her? what on earth shall I do?" and still he paced
restlessly to and fro, cursing and swearing, and raving like a
madman. While he was indulging in these transports of rage,
without paying any attention to how the time was passing, evening
drew on, and it was rapidly growing dark when his faithful
Picard, full of commiseration, screwed up his courage to the
highest point, and ventured to go softly in--though he had not
been called, and was disobeying orders--to light the candles in
his master's room; thinking that he was quite gloomy enough
already without being left in darkness as well, and hoping that
the lights might help to make him more cheerful. They did seem to
afford him some relief, in that they caused a diversion; for his
thoughts, which had been all of Isabelle and her cruel repulse of
his passionate entreaties, suddenly flew to his successful rival,
the Baron de Sigognac.
"But how is this?" he cried, stopping short in his rapid pacing
up and down the room. "How comes it that that miserable, degraded
wretch has not been despatched before this? I gave the most
explicit orders about it to that good-for-nothing Merindol. In
spite of what Vidalinc says, I am convinced that I shall succeed
with Isabelle when once that cursed ]over of hers is out of my
way. She will be left entirely at my mercy then, and will have to
submit to my will and pleasure with the best grace she can
muster--for I shall not allow any sulking or tears. Doubtless she
clings so obstinately to that confounded brute in the belief that
she can induce him to marry her in the end. She means to be Mme.
la Baronne de Sigognac--the aspiring little actress! That must be
the reason of all this mighty display of mock modesty, and of her
venturing to repulse the attentions of a duke, as scornfully, by
Jove! as if he were a stable-boy. But she shall rue it--the
impertinent little minx! and I'll have no mercy shown to the
audacious scoundrel who dared to disable this right arm of mine.
Halloa there! send Merindol up to me instantly, do you hear?"
Picard flew to summon him, and in a few moments the discomfited
bully made his appearance; pale from abject terror, with teeth
chattering and limbs trembling, as he was ushered into the dread
presence of his angry lord. In spite of his efforts to assume the
sang-froid he was so far from feeling, he staggered like a
drunken man, though he had not drank enough wine that day to
drown a fly, and did not dare to lift his eyes to his master's
face.
"Well, you cowardly beast," said Vallombreuse angrily, how long,
pray, are you going to stand there speechless, like a stupid
fool, with that hang-dog air, as if you already had the rope that
you so richly deserve round your wicked neck? "I only awaited
your lordship's orders," stammered Merindol, trying to appear at
ease, and failing lamentably. "My lord duke knows that I am
entirely devoted to his service--even to being hanged, if it
seems good to your lordship."
"Enough of that cant!" interrupted the duke impatiently. "Didn't
I charge you to have that cursed de Sigognac, otherwise Captain
Fracasse, cleared out of my way? You have not done it--my orders
have not been obeyed. It is worth while, upon my word, to keep
confounded hired rascals to do such work for me, at this rate!
All that you are good for is to stuff yourself in the kitchen,
you dastardly beast, and to guzzle my good wine from morning
until night. But I've had enough of this, by Jove! and if there
is not a change, and that without any further loss of time, to
the hangman you shall go--do you hear? just as sure as you stand
there, gaping like a drivelling idiot."
"My lord duke," said Merindol in a trembling voice, is unjust to
his faithful servant, who desires nothing but to do his lord's
bidding. But this Baron de Sigognac is not to be disposed of so
easily as my lord believes. Never was there a braver, more
fearless man. In our first attack on him, at Poitiers, he got the
better of us in a most wonderful way--we never saw the like
of it--and all he had to fight with was a dull, rusty sword, not
intended for use at all; a theatre sword, just for looks. And
when we tried to do for him here in Paris, the very night he got
here, it all came to naught, because he was so watchful, and
somehow suspected what we were up to, and was ready for us; and
that upset our beautiful little plan entirely. I never was so
surprised in my life; and there was nothing for us to do, the
whole four of us, but to get out of his sight as fast as we
could, and he standing there laughing at us. Oh! he's a rare one,
is Captain Fracasse. And now he knows my face, so I can't go
near him myself. But I have engaged the services of a particular
friend of mine--the bravest man and the best fighter in Paris--he
hasn't his equal in the world with the sword, they all say. He is
lying in wait for him on the Pont-Neuf now, at this very moment,
and there'll be no mistake this time. Lampourde will be sure to
despatch him for us--if it is not done already--and that without
the slightest danger of your lordship's name being mixed up with
the affair in any way, as it might have been if your lordship's
own servants bad done it."
"The plan is not a bad one," said the young duke, somewhat
mollified, "and perhaps it is better that it should be done in
that way. But are you really sure of the courage and skill of
this friend of yours? He will need both to get the better of that
confounded de Sigognac, who is no coward, and a master hand with
the sword, I am bound to acknowledge, though I do hate him like
the devil."
"My lord need have no fears," said Merindol enthusiastically,
being now more at his ease. "Jacquemin Lampourde is a hero, a
wonder, as everybody will tell your lordship. He is more valiant
than Achilles, or the great Alexander. He is not spotless
certainly, like the Chevalier Bayard, but he is fearless."
Picard, who had been hovering about for a few minutes in an
uneasy way, now seeing that his master was in a better humour,
approached and told him that a very odd-looking man was below,
who asked to see him immediately on most important business.
"You may bring him in," said the duke, "but just warn him,
Picard, that if he dares to intrude upon me for any trifling
matter, I'll have him skinned alive before I let him go."
Mirindol was just about leaving the room, when the entrance of
the newcomer rooted him to the spot; he was so astonished and
alarmed that he could not move hand or foot. And no wonder, for
it was no other than the hero whose name he had just
spoken--Jacquemin Lampourde in person--and the bare fact of his
having dared to penetrate so boldly into the dread presence of
that high and mighty seignior, the Duke of Vallombreuse, ignoring
entirely the agent through whom his services had been engaged,
showed of itself that something very extraordinary must have
taken place.
Lampourde himself did not seem to be in the least disconcerted,
and after winking at his friend furtively in a very knowing way,
stood unabashed before the duke, with the bright light of the
many wax candles shining full upon his face. There was a red mark
across his forehead, where his hat had been pressed down over it,
and great drops of sweat stood on it, as if he had been running
fast, or exercising violently. His eyes, of a bluish gray tint,
with a sort of metallic lustre in them, were fixed upon those of
the haughty young nobleman, with a calm insolence that made
Merindol's blood run cold in his veins; his large nose, whose
shadow covered all one side of his face, as the shadow of Mount
Etna covers a considerable portion of the island of Sicily, stood
out prominently, almost grotesquely, in profile; his mustache,
with its long stiff points carefully waxed, which produced
exactly the effect of an iron skewer stuck through his upper lip,
and the "royal" on his chin curled upward, like a comma turned
the wrong way, all contributed to make up a very extraordinary
physiognomy, such as caricaturists dote on. He wore a large
scarlet cloak, wrapped closely about his erect, vigorous form,
and in one hand, which he extended towards the duke, he held
suspended a well filled purse--a strange and mysterious
proceeding which Mirindol could by no means understand.
"Well, you rascal," said the duke, after staring for a moment in
astonishment at this odd-looking specimen, "what does this mean?
Are you offering alms to me, pray, or what? with your purse there
held out at arm's length, apparently for my acceptance."
"In the first place, my lord duke," said Lampourde, with perfect
sang-froid and gravity, "may it not displease your highness, but
I am not a rascal. My name is Jacquemin Lampourde, and I ply the
sword for a living. My profession is an honourable one. I have
never degraded myself by taking part in trade of any kind, or by
manual labour. Killing is my business, at the risk of my own life
and limb--for I always do my work alone, unaided, armed only with
my trusty sword. Fair play is a jewel, and I would scorn to take
a mean advantage of anybody. I always give warning before I
attack a man, and let him have a chance to defend himself--having
a horror of treachery, and cowardly, sneaking ways. What
profession could be more noble than mine, pray? I am no common,
brutal assassin, my lord duke, and I beseech your lordship to
take back that offensive epithet, which I could never accept,
save in a friendly, joking way--it outrages too painfully the
sensitive delicacy of my amour-propre, my lord!"
"Very well, so be it, Maitre Jacquemin Lampourde, since you
desire it," answered Vallombreuse, very much amused at the oddity
of his strange visitor. "And now have the goodness to explain
your business here, with a purse in your hand, that you certainly
appear to be steadily offering to me."
Jacquemin satisfied by this concession to his susceptibility,
suddenly jerked his head forward, without bending his body, while
he waved the hat that he held slowly to and fro, making,
according to his ideas, a salute that was a judicious mingling of
the soldier's and the courtier's--which ceremony being concluded,
he proceeded as follows with his explanation:
"Here is the whole thing in a nutshell, my lord duke! I received,
from Merindol--acting for your lordship--part payment in advance
for despatching a certain Baron de Sigognac, commonly called
Captain Fracasse. On account of circumstances beyond my control,
I have not been able to finish the job, and as I am a great
stickler for honesty, and honour also, I have hastened to bring
back to you, my lord duke, the money that I did not earn."
With these words he advanced a step, and with a gesture that was
not devoid of dignity, gently laid the purse down on a beautiful
Florentine mosaic table, that stood at the duke's elbow.
"Verily," said Vallombreuse sneeringly, "we seem to have here one
of those droll bullies who are good for naught but to figure in a
comedy; an ass in a lion's skin, whose roar is nothing worse than
a bray. Come, my man, own up frankly that you were afraid of that
same de Sigognac."
"Jacquemin Lampourde has never been afraid of anybody in his
life," the fighting man replied, drawing himself up haughtily,
"and no adversary has ever seen his back. Those who know me will
tell your lordship that easy victories have no charm for me. I
love danger and court it. I take positive delight in it. I
attacked the Baron de Sigognac 'secundum artem,' and with one of
my very best swords--made by Alonzo de Sahagun, the elder, of
Toledo."
"Well, and what happened then?" said the young duke eagerly. "It
would seem that you could not have been victorious, since you
wish to refund this money, which was to pay you for despatching
him."
"First let me inform your highness that in the course of my duels
and combats, of one sort and another, I have left no less than
thirty-seven men stretched dead upon the ground--and that without
counting in all those I have wounded mortally or crippled for
life. But this Baron de Sigognac intrenched himself within a
circle of flashing steel as impenetrable as the walls of a
granite fortress. I called into requisition all the resources of
my art against him, and tried in every possible way to surprise
him off his guard, but he was ready for everything--as quick as a
flash, as firm as a rock--he parried every thrust triumphantly,
magnificently, with the most consummate science, and a grace and
ease I have never seen equalled. He kept me busy defending myself
too all the time, and more than once had nearly done for me. His
audacity was astonishing, his sang froid superb, and his perfect
mastery over his sword, and his temper, sublime--he was not a
man, but a god. I could have fallen down and worshipped him. At
the risk of being spitted on his sword, I prolonged the fight as
much as I dared, so as to enjoy his marvellous, glorious,
unparalleled method to the utmost. However, there had to be an
end of it, and I thought I was sure of despatching him at last by
means of a secret I possess--an infallible and very difficult
thrust, taught and bequeathed to me by the great Girolamo of
Naples, my beloved master--no man living has a knowledge of it
but myself--there is no one else left capable of executing it to
perfection, and upon that depends its success. Well, my lord
duke, Girolamo himself could not have done it better than I did
to-night. I was thunderstruck when my opponent did not go down
before it as if he had been shot. I expected to see him lying
dead at my feet. But not at all, by Jove! That devil of a Captain
Fracasse parried my blow with dazzling swiftness, and with such
force that my blade was broken short off, and I left completely
at his mercy, with nothing but the stump in my hand. See here, my
lord duke! just look what he did to my precious, priceless
Sahagun." And Jacquemin Lampourde, with a piteous air, drew out
and exhibited the sorry remains of his trusty sword--almost
weeping over it--and calling the duke's attention to the
perfectly straight and even break.
"Your highness can see that it was a prodigious blow that snapped
this steel like a pipe-stem, and it was done with such ease and
precision. To despatch Captain Fracasse by fair means is beyond
my skill, my lord duke, and I would scorn to resort to treachery.
Like all truly brave men, he is generous. I was left entirely
defenceless, and he could have spitted me like an ortolan just by
extending his arm, but he refrained; he let me go unscathed. A
miraculous display of delicacy, as well as chivalrous generosity,
from a gentleman assaulted in the gloaming on the Pont-Neuf. I
owe my life to him, and moreover, such a debt of gratitude as I
shall never be able to repay. I cannot undertake anything more
against him, my lord duke; henceforth he is sacred to me.
Besides, it would be a pity to destroy such a swordsman--good
ones are rare in these degenerate days, and growing more so every
year. I don't believe he has his equal on earth. Most men handle
a sword as if it were a broomstick nowadays, and then expect to
be praised and applauded, the clumsy, stupid fools! Now, I have
given my reasons for coming to inform your highness that I must
resign the commission I had accepted. As for the money there, I
might perhaps have been justified in keeping it, to indemnify me
for the great risk and peril I incurred, but such a questionable
proceeding would be repugnant to my tender conscience and my
honest pride, as your highness can understand."
"In the name of all the devils in the infernal regions, take back
your money!" cried Vallombreuse impetuously, "or I will have you
pitched out of the window yonder, you and your money both. I
never heard of such a scrupulous scoundrel in my life. You,
Merindol, and your cursed crew,have not a spark of honour or
honesty among you all; far enough from it." Then perceiving that
Lampourde hesitated about picking up the purse, he added, "Take
it, I tell you! I give it to you to drink my health with."
"In that, my lord duke, you shall be religiously obeyed,"
Lampourde replied joyfully; "however, I do not suppose that your
highness will object to my dedicating part of it to lansquenet."
And he stretched out his long arm, seized the purse, and with one
dexterous movement, like a juggler, chucked it jingling into the
depths of his pocket.
"It is understood then, my lord duke, that I retire from the
affair so far as the Baron de Sigognac is concerned," continued
Lampourde, "but, if agreeable to your highness, it will be taken
in hand by my 'alter ego,' the Chevalier Malartic, who is worthy
to be intrusted with the most delicate and hazardous enterprises,
because of his remarkable adroitness and superior ability, and he
is one of the best fellows in the world into the bargain. I had
sketched out a scheme for the abduction of the young actress, in
whom your highness condescends to take an interest, which
Malartic will now carry out, with all the wonderful perfection of
detail that characterizes his clever way of doing things.
Merindol here, who knows him, will testify to his rare
qualifications, my lord duke, and you could not find a better man
for your purpose. I am presenting a real treasure to your
lordship in tendering Malartic's services. When he is wanted your
highness has only to send a trusty messenger to mark a cross in
chalk on the left-hand door-post of the Crowned Radish. Malartic
will understand, and repair at once, in proper disguise, to this
house, to receive your lordship's last orders."
Having finished this triumphant address, Maitre Jacquemin
Lampourde again saluted the duke as before, then put his hat on
his head and stalked majestically out of the room, exceedingly
well satisfied with his own eloquence, and what he considered
courtly grace, in the presence of so illustrious a nobleman. His
oddity and originality, together with his strange mingling of
lofty notions of honour and rascality, had greatly amused and
interested the young Duke of Vallombreuse, who was even willing
to forgive him for not having despatched de Sigognac; for, if
even this famous professional duellist could not get the better
of him, he really must be invincible, and in consequence the
thought of his own defeat became less galling and intolerable to
his pride and vanity. Moreover, he had not been able to get rid
of an uncomfortable consciousness, even in his most angry mood,
that his endeavouring to compass de Sigognac's assassination was
rather too great an enormity, not on account of any conscientious
scruples, but simply because his rival was a gentleman; he would
not have hesitated a second about having half-a-dozen bourgeois
murdered, if they had been rash or unfortunate enough to
interfere with him, the blood of such base, ignoble creature
being of no more consequence in his eyes than so much water.
Vallombreuse would have liked to despatch his enemy himself in
honourable combat, but that was rendered impossible by the
baron's superior ability as a swordsman, of which he still had a
painful reminder in his wounded arm; which was scarcely healed
yet, and would prevent his indulging in anything like a duel for
some time to come. So his thoughts turned to the abduction of the
young actress; a pleasanter subject to dwell upon, as he felt not
the slightest doubt that once he had her to himself, separated
from de Sigognac and her companions, she would not long be able
to withstand his eloquent pleading and personal attractions. His
self-conceit was boundless, but not much to be wondered at,
considering his invariable and triumphant success in affairs of
gallantry; so, in spite of his recent repulse, he flattered
himself that he only required a fitting opportunity to obtain
from Isabelle all that he desired.
"Let me have her for a few days in some secluded place," said he
to himself, "where she cannot escape from me, or have any
intercourse with her friends, and I shall be sure to win her
heart. I shall be so kind and good and considerate to her, treat
her with so much delicacy and devotion, that she cannot help
feeling grateful to me; and then the transition to love will be
easy and natural. But when once I have won her, made her wholly
mine, then she shall pay dearly for what she has made me suffer.
Yes, my lady, I mean to have my revenge--you may rest assured of
that."
CHAPTER XV. MALARTIC AT WORK
If the Duke of Vallombreuse had been furious after his
unsuccessful visit to Isabelle, the Baron de Sigognac was not
less so, when, upon his return that evening, he learned what had
taken place during his absence. The tyrant and Blazius were
almost obliged to use force to prevent his rushing off, without
losing a minute, to challenge the duke to mortal combat--a
challenge sure to be refused; for de Sigognac, being neither the
brother nor husband of the injured fair one, had no earthly right
to call any other gentleman to account for his conduct towards
her; in France all men are at liberty to pay their court to every
pretty woman.
As to the attack upon the baron on the Pont-Neuf, there could be
no doubt that it was instigated by the Duke of Vallombreuse; but
how to prove it? that was the difficulty. And even supposing it
could be proved, what good would that do? In the eyes of the
world the Baron de Sigognac, who carefully concealed his real
rank, was only Captain Fracasse, a low play-actor, upon whom a
great noble, like the Duke of Vallombreuse, had a perfect right
to inflict a beating, imprisonment, or even assassination, if it
so pleased him; and that without incurring the blame, or serious
disapproval, of his friends and equals.
So far as Isabelle was concerned, if the affair were made public,
nobody would believe that she was really pure and virtuous--the
very fact of her being an actress was enough to condemn her--for
her sake it was important to keep the matter secret if possible.
So there was positively no means of calling their enemy to
account for his flagrant misdeeds, though de Sigognac, who was
almost beside himself with rage and indignation, and burning
to avenge Isabelle's wrongs and his own, swore that he would
punish him, even if he had to move heaven and earth to compass
it. Yet, when he became a little calmer, he could not but
acknowledge that Herode and Blazius were right in advising that
they should all remain perfectly quiet, and feign the most
absolute indifference; but at the same time keep their eyes and
ears very wide open, and be unceasingly on their guard against
artful surprises, since it was only too evident that the
vindictive young duke, who was handsome as a god and wicked as
the devil, did not intend to abandon his designs upon them;
although thus far he had failed ignominiously in everything he
had undertaken against them.
A gentle, loving remonstrance from Isabelle, as she held de
Sigognac's hands, all hot and trembling with suppressed rage,
between her own soft, cool palms, and caressingly interlaced her
slender white fingers with his, did more to pacify him than all
the rest, and he finally yielded to her persuasions; promising to
keep quiet himself, and allow, things to go on just as usual.
Meantime the representations of the troupe had met with splendid
success. Isabelle's modest grace and refined beauty, Serafina's
more brilliant charms, the soubrette's sparkling vivacity and
bewitching coquetry, the superb extravagances of Captain
Fracasse, the tyrant's majestic mien, Leander's manly beauty, the
grotesque good humour of the pedant, Scapin's spicy deviltries,
and the duenna's perfect acting had taken Paris by storm, and
their highest hopes were likely to be realized. Having
triumphantly won the approbation of the Parisians, nothing was
wanting but to gain also that of the court, then at Saint
Germain, and a rumour had reached their ears that they were
shortly to be summoned thither; for it was asserted that the
king, having heard such favourable reports of them, had expressed
a desire to see them himself. Whereas Herode, in his character of
treasurer, greatly rejoiced, and all felt a pleasant excitement
at the prospect of so distinguished an honour. Meanwhile the
troupe was often in requisition to give private representations
at the houses of various people of rank and wealth in Paris,
and it quickly became the fashion among them to offer this very
popular style of entertainment to their guests.
Thus it befell that the tyrant, being perfectly accustomed to
that sort of thing, was not at all surprised, or suspicious of
evil, when one fine morning a stranger, of most venerable and
dignified mien, presented himself at the hotel in the Rue
Dauphine, and asked to speak with him on business. He appeared to
be the major-domo, or steward, of some great nobleman's
establishment, and, in effect, announced to Herode that he had
been sent to consult with him, as manager of the troupe, by his
master, the Comte de Pommereuil.
This highly respectable old functionary was richly dressed in
black velvet, and had a heavy gold chain round his neck. His face
was slightly sunburnt; the wavy hair that fell upon his
shoulders, his thick, bushy eyebrows, heavy mustache, and long,
sweeping beard were all white as snow. He had the most
patriarchal, benevolent air imaginable, and a very gentle, yet
dignified manner. The tyrant could not help admiring him very
much, as he said, courteously, "Are you, sir, the famous Herode I
am in quest of, who rules with a hand as firm as Apollo's the
excellent company of comedians now playing in Paris? Their renown
has gone abroad, beyond the walls of the city, and penetrated
even to my master's ears, on his estate out in the country."
"Yes, I have the honour to be the man you seek," the tyrant
answered, bowing very graciously.
"The Comte de Pommereuil greatly desires to have you give one of
your celebrated representations at his chateau, where guests of
high rank are sojourning at this moment, and I have come to
ascertain whether it will be possible for you to do so. The
distance is not very considerable, only a few leagues. The comte,
my master, is a very great and generous seignior, who is prepared
to reward your illustrious company munificently for their
trouble, and will do everything in his power to make them
comfortable while they are under his roof."
"I will gladly do all that I can to please your noble master,"
the tyrant replied, " though it will be a little difficult for
us to leave Paris at present, just in the height of the
season; even if it be only for a short absence."
"Three days would suffice for this expedition," said the
venerable major-domo persuasively; "one for the journey, the
second for the representation, and the third for the return to
Paris. There is a capital theatre at the chateau, furnished with
everything that is requisite, so that you need not be encumbered
with much luggage--nothing beyond your costumes. Here is a purse
containing a hundred pistoles that the Comte de Pommereuil
charged me to put into your hands, to defray the expenses of the
journey. You will receive as much more before you return, and
there will be handsome presents for the actresses forthcoming, of
valuable jewels, as souvenirs of the occasion."
After a momentary hesitation, the tyrant accepted the well-filled
purse tendered to him, and, with a gesture of acquiescence, put
it into his pocket.
"I am to understand then that you accept, and I may tell my
master that you will give a representation at the chateau, as he
desires?"
"Yes, I place myself and my company at his disposition," Herode
said, smilingly. "And now let me know what day you want us to go,
and which of our pieces your master prefers."
"Thursday is the day my master designated; as for selecting the
play, that he leaves to your own good taste and discretion."
"Very well; and now you have only to give me directions as to the
road we must take to reach the chateau. Be as explicit as you
can, I pray you, so that there may be no danger of our going
astray."
The agent of the Comte de Pommereuil accordingly gave the most
minute and exact directions possible, but ended by saying, "Never
mind, you need not burden your memory with all these troublesome
details! I will send you a lackey to serve as guide."
Matters being thus satisfactorily arranged, the charming old
major-domo took leave of Herode, who accompanied him down the
stairs and across the court to the outer door of the hotel,
and departed, looking back to exchange a last polite sign of
farewell ere he turned the corner of the street. If the honest
tyrant could have seen him as he walked briskly away, the moment
he was safely out of sight, he would have been astonished at the
way the broad, stooping shoulders straightened themselves up, and
at the rapid, vigorous step that succeeded to the slow, rather
infirm gait of his venerable visitor--but these things our worthy
Herode neither saw nor suspected.
On Wednesday morning, as the comedians were finishing the packing
of their chariot, which stood ready for departure in the
courtyard of the hotel, with a pair of fine spirited horses
before it that the tyrant had hired for the journey, a tall,
rather fierce-looking lackey, dressed in a neat livery and
mounted on a stout pony, presented himself at the outer door,
cracking his whip vigorously, and announcing himself as the
guide, sent according to promise by the considerate major-domo,
to conduct them to the Chateau de Pommereuil.
Eight clear strokes rang out from the Samaritan just as the heavy
vehicle emerged into the Rue Dauphine, and our company of players
set forth on their ill-fated expedition. In less than half an
hour they had left the Porte Saint Antoine and the Bastile behind
them, passed through the thickly settled faubourg and gained the
open country; advancing towards Vincennes, which they could
distinguish in the distance, with its massive keep partially
veiled by a delicate blue mist, that was rapidly dispersing under
the influence of the bright, morning sunshine. As the horses were
fresh, and travelled at a good pace, they soon came up with the
ancient fortress--which was still formidable in appearance,
though it could not have offered any adequate resistance to the
projectiles of modern artillery. The gilded crescents on the
minarets of the chapel built by Pierre de Montereau shone out
brightly, as if joyous at finding themselves in such close
proximity to the cross--the sign of redemption. After pausing a
few minutes to admire this monument of the ancient splendour of
our kings, the travellers entered the forest, where, amid the
dense growth of younger trees, stood a few majestic old
oaks--contemporaries doubtless of the one under which Saint
Louis, that king of blessed memory, used to sit and dispense
justice to his loyal subjects in person--a most becoming and
laudable occupation for a monarch.
The road was so little used that it was grass-grown in many
places, and the chariot rolled so smoothly and noiselessly along
over it that they occasionally surprised a party of rabbits
frolicking merrily together, and were very much amused to see
them scamper away, in as great a hurry as if the hounds were at
their heels. Farther on a frightened deer bounded across the road
in front of them, and they could watch its swift, graceful flight
for some distance amid the leafless trees. The young baron was
especially interested in all these things, being country-bred,
and it was a delight unspeakable to him to see the fields, the
hedgerows, the forest, and the wild creatures of the wood once
more. It was a pleasure he bad been deprived of ever since he had
frequented cities and towns, where there is nothing to look at
but dingy houses, muddy streets and smoky chimneys--the works of
man not of God. He would have pined in them for the fresh country
air if he had not had the sweet companionship of the lovely woman
he adored; in whose deep, blue eyes he saw a whole heaven of
bliss.
Upon emerging from the wood the road wound up a steep hill-side,
so the horses were stopped, to rest a few minutes before
beginning the ascent, and de Sigognac, profiting by the
opportunity thus afforded him, said to Isabelle, "Dear heart,
will you get down and walk a little way with me? You will find it
a pleasant change and rest after sitting still in the chariot so
long. The road is smooth and dry, and the sunshine deliciously
warm--do come!"
Isabelle joyfully acceded to this request, and putting her hand
into the one extended to help her, jumped lightly down. It was a
welcome means of according an innocent tete-a-tete to her devoted
lover, and both felt as if they were treading on air, they were
so happy to find themselves alone together, as, arm in arm, they
walked briskly forward, until they were out of sight of their
companions. Then they paused to look long and lovingly into each
other's eyes, and de Sigognac began again to pour out to Isabelle
"the old, old story," that she was never weary of hearing, but
found more heavenly sweet at every telling. They were like the
first pair of mortal lovers in Paradise, entirely sufficient to
and happy in each other. Yet even then Isabelle gently checked
the passionate utterances of her faithful suitor, and strove to
moderate his rapturous transports, though their very fervour made
her heart rejoice, and brought a bright flush to her cheeks and a
happy light to her eyes that rendered her more adorably beautiful
than ever.
"Whatever you may do or say, my darling," he answered, with a
sweet, tender smile, "you will never be able to tire out my
constancy. If need be, I will wait for you until all your
scruples shall have vanished of themselves--though it be not till
these beautiful, soft brown tresses, with their exquisite tinge
of gold where the sun shines on them, shall have turned to
silver."
"Oh!" cried Isabelle, "I shall be so old and so ugly then that
even your sublime courage will be daunted, and I fear that in
rewarding your perseverance and fidelity by the gift of myself I
should only be punishing my devoted knight and brave champion."
"You will never be ugly, my beloved Isabelle, if you live to be a
hundred," he replied, with an adoring glance, "for yours is not
the mere physical beauty, that fades away and vanishes--it is the
beauty of the soul, which is immortal."
"All the same you would be badly off," rejoined Isabelle, "if I
were to take you at your word, and promise to be yours when I was
old and gray. But enough of this jesting," she continued gravely,
"let us be serious! You know my resolution, de Sigognac, so try
to content yourself with being the object of the deepest, truest,
most devoted love that was ever yet bestowed on mortal man since
hearts began to beat in this strange world of ours."
"Such a charming avowal ought to satisfy me, I admit, but it does
not! My love for you is infinite--it can brook no bounds--it is
ever increasing--rising higher and higher, despite your
heavenly voice, that bids it keep within the limits you have
fixed for it."
"Do not talk so, de Sigognac! you vex me by such extravagances,"
said Isabelle, with a little pout that was as charming as her
sweetest smile; for in spite of herself her heart beat high with
joy at these fervent protestations of a love that no coldness
could repel, no remonstrance diminish.
They walked on a little way in silence--de Sigognac not daring to
say more then, lest he should seriously displease the sweet
creature he loved better than his own life. Suddenly she drew her
arm out of his, and with an exclamation of delight, sprang to a
little bank by the road-side, where she had spied a tiny violet,
peeping out from amid the dead leaves that had lain there all the
winter through--the first harbinger of spring, smiling up at her
a friendly greeting, despite the wintry cold of February. She
knelt down and gently cleared away the dry leaves and grass about
it, carefully broke the frail little stem, and returned to de
Sigognac's side with her treasure--more delighted than if she had
found a precious jewel lying hidden among the mosses.
"Only see, how exquisitely beautiful and delicate it is"--said
she, showing it to him--"with its dear little petals scarcely
unrolled yet to return the greeting of this bright, warm
sunshine, that has roused it from its long winter sleep."
"It was not the sunshine, however bright and warm," answered de
Sigognac, "but the light of your eyes, sweet Isabelle, that made
it open out to greet you--and it is exactly the colour too of
those dear eyes of yours."
"It has scarcely any fragrance, but that is because it's so
cold," said Isabelle, loosening her scarf, and putting it
carefully inside the ruff that encircled her slender, white neck.
In a few minutes she took it out again, inhaled its rich perfume,
pressed it furtively to her lips, and offered it to de Sigognac.
"See how sweet it is now! The warmth I imparted to it has
reassured the little modest, timid blossom, and it breathes out
its incomparable fragrance in gratitude to me."
"Say rather that it has received it from you," he replied,
raising the violet tenderly to his lips, and taking from it the
kiss Isabelle had bestowed--"for this delicate, delicious odour
has nothing gross or earthly about it--it is angelically pure and
sweet, like yourself, my own Isabelle."
"Ah! the naughty flatterer," said she, smiling upon him with all
her heart in her eyes. "I give him a little flower that he may
enjoy its perfume, and straightway he draws from it inspiration
for all sorts of high-flown conceits, and fine compliments.
There's no doing anything with him--to the simplest, most
commonplace remark he replies with a poetical flight of fancy."
However, she could not have been very seriously displeased, for
she took his arm again, and even leaned upon it rather more
heavily than the exigencies of the way actually required; which
goes to prove that the purest virtue is not insensible to pretty
compliments, and that modesty itself knows how to recompense
delicate flattery.
Not far from the road they were travelling stood a small group of
thatched cottages--scarcely more than huts--whose inhabitants
were all afield at their work, excepting a poor blind man,
attended by a little ragged boy, who sat on a stone by the
wayside, apparently to solicit alms from those who passed by.
Although he seemed to be extremely aged and feeble, he was
chanting a sort of lament over his misfortunes, and an appeal to
the charity of travellers, in a loud, whining, yet vigorous
voice; promising his prayers to those who gave him of their
substance, and assuring them that they should surely go to
Paradise as a reward for their generosity. For some time before
they came up with him, Isabelle and de Sigognac had heard his
doleful chant--much to the annoyance of the latter; for when one
is listening, entranced, to the sweet singing of the nightingale,
it is sorely vexatious to be intruded upon by the discordant
croaking of a raven. As they drew near to the poor old blind man,
they saw his little attendant bend down and whisper in his ear,
whereupon he redoubled his groans and supplications--at the same
time holding out towards them a small wooden bowl, in which were
a few coppers, and shaking it, so as to make them rattle as
loudly as possible, to attract their attention. He was a
venerable looking old man, with a long white beard, and seemed to
be shivering with cold, despite the great, thick, woollen cloak
in which he was wrapped. The child, a wild-looking little
creature, whose scanty, tattered clothing was but a poor
protection against the stinging cold, shrunk timidly from notice,
and tried to hide himself behind his aged charge. Isabelle's
tender heart was moved to pity at the sight of so much misery,
and she stopped in front of the forlorn little group while she
searched in her pocket for her purse--not finding it there she
turned to her companion and asked him to lend her a little money
for the poor old blind beggar, which the baron hastened to
do--though he was thoroughly out of patience with his whining
jeremiads--and, to prevent Isabelle's coming in actual contact
with him, stepped forward himself to deposit the coins in his
wooden bowl. Thereupon, instead of tearfully thanking his
benefactor and invoking blessings upon his head, after the usual
fashion of such gentry, the blind man--to Isabelle's
inexpressible alarm--suddenly sprang to his feet, and
straightening himself up with a jerk, opened his arms wide, as a
vulture spreads its wings for flight, gathered up his ample cloak
about his shoulders with lightning rapidity and flung it from him
with a quick, sweeping motion like that with which the fisherman
casts his net. The huge, heavy mantle spread itself out like a
dense cloud directly above de Sigognac, and falling over and
about him enveloped him from head to foot in its long, clinging
folds, held firmly down by the lead with which its edges were
weighted--making him a helpless prisoner--depriving him at once
of sight and breath, and of the use of his hands and feet. The
young actress, wild with terror, turned to fly and call for help,
but before she could stir, or utter a sound, a hand was clapped
over her mouth, and she felt herself lifted from the ground. The
old blind beggar, who, as by a miracle, had suddenly become young
and active, and possessed of all his faculties, had seized her by
the shoulders, while the boy took her by the feet, and they
carried her swiftly and silently round a clump of bushes near by
to where a man on horseback and masked, was waiting for them.
Two other men, also mounted and masked, and armed to the
teeth, were standing close at hand, behind a wall that prevented
their being seen from the road. Poor Isabelle, nearly fainting
with fright, was lifted up in front of the first horseman, and
seated on a cloak folded so as to serve for a cushion; a broad
leather strap being passed round her waist, which also encircled
that of the rider, to hold her securely in her place. All this
was done with great rapidity and dexterity, as if her captors
were accustomed to such manoeuvres, and then the horseman, who
held her firmly with one hand, shook his bridle with the other,
drove his spurs into the horse's sides, and was off like a
flash--the whole thing being done in less time than it takes to
describe it. Meanwhile de Sigognac was struggling fiercely and
wildly under the heavy cloak that enveloped him--like a gladiator
entangled in his adversary's net--beside himself with rage and
despair, as he gasped for breath in his stifling prison, and
realized that this diabolical outrage must be the work of the
Duke of Vallombreuse. Suddenly, like an inspiration, the thought
flashed into his mind of using his dagger to free himself from
the thick, clinging folds, that weighed him down like the leaden
cloaks of the wretched condemned spirits we read of with a
shudder in Dante's Inferno. With two or three strong, quick
strokes he succeeded in cutting through it, and casting it from
him, with a fierce imprecation, perceived Isabelle's abductors,
still near at hand, galloping across a neighbouring field, and
apparently making for a thick grove at a considerable distance
from where he was standing. As to the blind beggar and the child,
they had disappeared--probably hiding somewhere near by--but de
Sigognac did not waste a second thought on them; throwing off his
own cloak, lest it should impede him, he started swiftly in
pursuit of the flying enemy and their fair prize, with fury and
despair in his heart. He was agile and vigorous, lithe of frame,
fleet of foot, the very figure for a runner, and he quickly began
to gain on the horsemen. As soon as they became aware of this one
of them drew a pistol from his girdle and fired at their pursuer,
but missed him; whereupon de Sigognac, bounding rapidly from
side to side as he ran, made it impossible for them to take aim
at him, and effectually prevented their arresting his course in
that way. The man who had Isabelle in front of him tried to ride
on in advance, and leave the other two to deal with the baron,
but the young actress struggled so violently on the horse's neck,
and kept clutching so persistently at the bridle, that his rider
could not urge him to his greatest speed. Meantime de Sigognac
was steadily gaining upon them; without slackening his pace he
had managed to draw his sword from the scabbard, and brandished
it aloft, ready for action, as he ran. It is true that he was one
against three--that he was on foot while they were on
horseback--but he had not time to consider the odds against him,
and he seemed possessed of the strength of a giant in Isabelle's
behalf. Making a prodigious effort, he suddenly increased his
speed, and coming up with the two horsemen, who were a little
behind the other one, quickly disposed of them, by vigorously
pricking their horses' flanks with the point of his sword; for,
what with fright and pain, the animals, after plunging violently,
threw off all restraint and bolted--dashing off across country as
if the devil were after them, and carrying their riders with
them, just as de Sigognac had expected and intended that they
should do. The brave young baron was nearly spent--panting,
almost sobbing, as he struggled desperately on--feeling as if his
heart would burst at every agonizing throb; but he was indued
with supernatural strength and endurance, and as Isabelle's voice
reached his ear calling, "Help, de Sigognac, help!" he cleared
with a bound the space that separated them, and leaping up to
catch the broad leathern strap that was passed round her and her
captor, answered in a hoarse, shrill tone, "I am here." Clinging
to the strap, he ran along beside the galloping horse--like the
grooms that the Romans called desultores--and strove with all his
might to pull the rider down out of his saddle. He did not dare
to use his sword to disable him, as they struggled together, lest
he should wound Isabelle also; and, meantime, the man on
horseback was trying his utmost to shake off his fierce
assailant-unsuccessfully, because he had both hands fully
occupied with his horse and his captive, who was doing all she
could to slip from his grasp, and throw herself into her lover's
arms. Loosing his hold on the rein for a second, the horseman
managed to draw a knife from his girdle, and with one blow
severed the strap to which the baron was clinging; then, driving
his spurs into the horse's sides made the frightened animal
spring suddenly forward, while de Sigognac--who was not prepared
for this emergency, and found himself deprived of all
support--fell violently upon his back in the road. He was up
again in an instant, and flying after Isabelle, who was now being
borne rapidly away from him, and whose cries for help came more
and more faintly to his ear; but the moment he had lost made his
pursuit hopeless, and he knew that it was all in vain when he saw
her disappear behind the thicket her ravisher had been aiming for
from the first. His heart sank within him, and he staggered as he
still ran feebly on--feeling now the effects of his superhuman
exertions, and fearing at each step that his feet would carry him
no farther. He was soon overtaken by Herode and Scapin, who,
alarmed by the pistol shot, and fearing that something was wrong,
had started in hot pursuit, though the lackey who served them as
guide had done all that he possibly could to hinder them, and in
a few faltering words he told them what had occurred.
"Vallombreuse again!" cried the tyrant, with an oath. "But how
the devil did he get wind of our expedition to the Chateau de
Pommereuil? or can it be possible that it was all a plot from the
beginning, and we are bound on a fool's errand? I really begin to
think it must be so. If it is true, I never saw a better actor in
my life than that respectable old major-domo, confound him! But
let us make haste and search this grove thoroughly; we may find
some trace of poor Isabelle; sweet creature that she is! Rough
old tyrant though I be, my heart warms to her, and I love her
more tenderly than I do myself. Alas! I'm afraid, that this poor,
innocent, little fly is caught in the toils of a cruel spider,
who will take care never to let us get sight of her again."
"I will crush him," said de Sigognac, striking his heel savagely
on the ground, as if he actually had the spider under it. "I will
crush the life out of him, the venomous beast!" and the fierce,
determined expression of his usually calm, mild countenance
showed that this was no idle threat, but that he was terribly in
earnest.
"Look," cried Herode, as they dashed through the thicket, "there
they are!
They could just discern, through the screen of leafless but
thickly interlaced branches, a carriage, with all the curtains
carefully closed, and drawn by four horses lashed to a gallop,
which was rapidly rolling away from them in the distance. The two
men whose horses had run away with them had them again under
control, and were riding on either side of it--one of them
leading the horse that had carried Isabelle and her captor. HE
was doubtless mounting guard over her in the carriage--perhaps
using force to keep her quiet--at thought of which de Sigognac
could scarcely control the transport of rage and agony that shook
him. Although the three pursuers followed the fugitives, as fast
as they could run, it was all of no avail, for they soon lost
sight of them altogether, and nothing remained to be done but to
ascertain, if possible, the direction they had taken, so as to
have some clew to poor Isabelle's whereabouts. They had
considerable difficulty in making out the marks of the carriage
wheels, for the roads were very dry; and when at length they had
succeeded in tracing them to a place where four roads met they
lost them entirely--it was utterly impossible to tell which way
they had gone. After a long and fruitless search they turned back
sorrowfully to join their companions, trying to devise some plan
for Isabelle's rescue, but feeling acutely how hopeless it was.
They found the others in the chariot waiting for them, just where
the tyrant and Scapin had left them, for their false guide had
put spurs to his horse and ridden off after his confederates, as
soon as he became aware that their undertaking had proved
successful. When Herode asked an old peasant woman, who came by
with a bundle of fagots on her back, how far it was to the
Chateau de Pommereuil, she answered that there was no place of
that name anywhere in the country round. Upon being questioned
closely, she said that she had lived in the neighbourhood for
seventy years, knew every house within many leagues, and could
positively assure them that there was no such Chateau within a
day's journey. So it was only too evident that they were the
dupes of the clever agents of the Duke of Vallombreuse, who had
at last succeeded in getting possession of Isabelle, as he had
sworn that he would do. Accordingly, all of the party turned back
towards Paris, excepting de Sigognac, the tyrant and Scapin, who
had decided to go on to the next village, where they hoped to be
able to procure horses, with which to prosecute their search for
Isabelle and her abductors.
After the baron's fall, she had been swiftly taken on to the
other side of the thicket, where the carriage stood awaiting her;
then lifted down from the horse and put into it, in spite of her
frantic struggles and remonstrances. The man who had held her in
front of him got down also and sprang in after her, closing the
door with a bang, and instantly they were off at a tremendous
pace. He seated himself opposite to her, and when she impetuously
tried to pull aside the curtain, so that she could see out of the
window nearest to her, he respectfully but firmly restrained her.
"Mademoiselle, I implore you to keep quiet," he said, with the
utmost politeness, "and not oblige me to use forcible means to
restrain so charming and adorable a creature as your most lovely
self. No harm shall come to you--do not be afraid!--only kindness
is intended; therefore I beseech you do not persist in vain
resistance. If you will only submit quietly, you shall be treated
with as much consideration and respect as a captive queen, but if
you go on acting like the devil, struggling and shrieking, I have
means to bring you to terms, and I shall certainly resort to
them. THIS will stop your screaming, mademoiselle, and THIS will
prevent your struggling."
As he spoke he drew out of his pocket a small gag, very
artistically made, and a long, thick, silken cord, rolled up into
a ball.
"It would be barbarous indeed," he continued, "to apply such a
thing as this to that sweet, rosy mouth of yours, mademoiselle,
as I am sure that you will admit--or to bind together those
pretty, delicate, little wrists, upon which no worse fetters than
diamond bracelets should ever be placed."
Poor Isabelle, furious and frightened though she was, could not
but acknowledge to herself that further physical resistance then
would be worse than useless, and determined to spare herself at
least such indignities as she was at that moment threatened with;
so, without vouchsafing a word to her attendant, she threw
herself back into the corner of the carriage, closed her eyes,
and tried to keep perfectly still. But in spite of her utmost
endeavours she could not altogether repress an occasional sob,
nor hold back the great tears that welled forth from under her
drooping eyelids and rolled down over her pale cheeks, as she
thought of de Sigognac's despair and her own danger.
"After the nervous excitement comes the moist stage; said her
masked guardian to himself, "things are following their usual and
natural course. I am very glad of it, for I should have greatly
disliked to be obliged to act a brutal part with such a sweet,
charming girl as this."
Now and then Isabelle opened her eyes and cast a timid glance at
her abductor, who finally said to her, in a voice he vainly
strove to render soft and mild:
"You need not be afraid of me, mademoiselle! I would not harm you
in any way for the world. If fortune had been more generous to me
I certainly would never have undertaken this enterprise against
such a lovely, gentle young lady as you are; but poor men like me
are driven to all sorts of expedients to earn a little money;
they have to take whatever comes within their reach, and
sacrifice their scruples to their necessities."
"You do admit then," said Isabelle vehemently, "that you have
been bribed to carry me off ? An infamous, cruel, outrageous
thing it is."
"After what I have had to do," he replied, "it would be idle to
deny it. There are a good many philosophers like myself in Paris,
mademoiselle, who, instead of indulging in love affairs, and
intrigues of various sorts, of their own, interest themselves in
those of other people, and, for a consideration, make use of
their courage, ingenuity and strength to further them. But to
change the subject, how charming you were in that last new play!
You went through the scene of the avowal with a grace I have
never seen equalled. I applauded you to the echo; the pair of
hands that kept it up so perseveringly and vigorously, you know,
belonged to me."
"I beg you to dispense with these ill-judged remarks and
compliments, and to tell me where you are taking me, in this
strange, outrageous manner, against my will, and, in despite of
all the ordinary usages of civilized society."
"I cannot tell you that, mademoiselle, and besides, it would do
you no sort of good to know. In our profession, you see, we are
obliged to observe as much secrecy and discretion as confessors
and physicians. Indeed, in such affairs as this we often do not
know the names of the parties we are working for ourselves."
"Do you mean to say that you do not know who has employed you to
commit this abominable, cruel crime?"
"It makes no difference whether I know his name or not, since I
am not at liberty to disclose it to you. Think over your numerous
admirers, mademoiselle! the most ardent and least favoured one
among them would probably be at the bottom of all this."
Finding that she could not get any information from him, Isabelle
desisted, and did not speak again. She had not the slightest
doubt that the Duke of Vallombreuse was the author of this new
and daring enterprise. The significant and threatening way in
which he had said "au revoir, mademoiselle," as he quitted her
presence after she had repulsed him a few days before, had
haunted her, and she had been in constant dread ever since of
some new outrage. She hoped, against hope, that de Sigognac, her
valiant lover, would yet come to her rescue, and thought proudly
of the gallant deeds he had already done in her behalf that
day--but how was he to find out where to seek her?
"If worst comes to worst," she said to herself, "I still have
Chiquita's knife, and I can and will escape from my persecutor in
that way, if all other means fail."
For two long hours she sat motionless, a prey to sad and terrible
thoughts and fears, while the carriage rolled swiftly on without
slackening its speed, save once, for a moment, when they changed
horses. As the curtains were all lowered, she could not catch
even a glimpse of the country she was passing through, nor tell
in what direction she was being driven. At last she heard the
hollow sound of a drawbridge under the wheels; the carriage
stopped, and her masked companion, promptly opening the door,
jumped nimbly out and helped her to alight. She cast a hurried
glance round her, as she stepped down, saw that she was in a
large, square court, and that all the tall, narrow windows in the
high brick walls that surrounded it had their inside shutters
carefully closed. The stone pavement of the spacious courtyard
was in some places partly covered with moss, and a few weeds had
sprung up in the corners, and along the edges by the walls. At
the
foot of a broad, easy flight of steps, leading up to a covered
porch, two majestic Egyptian sphinxes lay keeping guard; their
huge rounded flanks mottled here and there with patches of moss
and lichens. Although the large chateau looked lonely and
deserted, it had a grand, lordly air, and seemed to be kept in
perfect order and repair. Isabelle was led up the steps and into
the vestibule by the man who had brought her there, and then
consigned to the care of a respectable-looking majordomo, who
preceded her up a magnificent staircase, and into a suite of
rooms furnished with the utmost luxury and elegance. Passing
through the first--which was enriched with fine old carvings in
oak, dark with age--he left her in a spacious, admirably
proportioned apartment, where a cheery wood fire was roaring up
the huge chimney, and she saw a bed in a curtained alcove. She
chanced to catch sight of her own face in the mirror over an
elaborately furnished dressing-table, as she passed it, and was
startled and shocked at its ghastly pallor and altered
expression; she scarcely could recognise it, and felt as if she
had seen a ghost--poor Isabelle! Over the high, richly ornamented
chimney-piece hung a portrait of a gentleman, which, as she
approached the fire, at once caught and riveted her attention.
The face seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she could not
remember where she had seen it before. It was pale, with large,
black eyes, full red lips, and wavy brown hair, thrown carelessly
back from it-apparently the likeness of a man about forty years
of age and it had a charming air of nobility and lofty pride,
tempered with benevolence and tenderness, which was inexpressibly
attractive. The portrait was only half-length--the breast being
covered with a steel cuirass, richly inlaid with gold, which was
partly concealed by a white scarf, loosely knotted over it.
Isabelle, despite her great alarm and anxiety, could not long
withdraw her eyes or her thoughts from this picture, which seemed
to exert a strange fascination over her. There was something
about it that at the first glance resembled the Duke of
Vallombreuse, but the expression was so different that the
likeness disappeared entirely upon closer examination. It brought
vague memories to Isabelle's mind that she tried in vain to
seize--she felt as if she must be looking at it in a dream. She
was still absorbed in reverie before it when the major-domo
reappeared, followed by two lackeys, in quiet livery, carrying a
small table set for one person, which they put down near the
fire; and as one of them took the cover off an old-fashioned,
massive silver tureen, he announced to Isabelle that her dinner
was ready. The savoury odour from the smoking soup was very
tempting, and she was very hungry; but after she had mechanically
seated herself and dipped her spoon into the broth, it suddenly
occurred to her that the food might contain a narcotic--such
things had been done--and she pushed away the plate in front of
her in alarm. The major-domo, who was standing at a respectful
distance watching her, ready to anticipate her every wish, seemed
to divine her thought, for he advanced to the table and
deliberately partook of all the viands upon it, as well as of the
wine and water--as if to prove to her that there was nothing
wrong or unusual about them. Isabelle was somewhat reassured by
this, and feeling that she would probably have need of all her
strength, did bring herself to eat and drink, though very
sparingly. Then, quitting the table, she sat down in a large
easy-chair in front of the fire to think over her terrible
position, and endeavour to devise some means of escape from it.
When the servants had attended to their duties and left her alone
again, she rose languidly and walked slowly to the
window--feeling as weak as though she had had a severe illness,
after the violent emotions and terrors of the day, and as if she
had aged years in the last few hours. Could it be possible that
only that very morning she and de Sigognac had been walking
together, with hearts full of happiness and peace--and she had
rapturously hailed the appearance of the first spring violet as
an omen of good, and gathered the sweet little blossom to bestow
upon the devoted lover who adored her? And now, alas! alas! they
were as inexorably and hopelessly separated as if half the globe
lay between them. No wonder that her breast heaved tumultuously
with choking sobs, and hot tears rained down over her pallid
cheeks, as she wept convulsively at the thought of all she had
lost. But she did not long indulge her grief--she remembered that
at any moment she might have need of all her coolness and
fortitude--and making a mighty effort, like the brave heroine
that she was, she regained control over herself, and drove back
the gushing tears to await a more fitting season. She was
relieved to find that there were no bars at the window, as she
had feared; but upon opening the casement and leaning out she saw
immediately beneath her a broad moat, full of stagnant water,
which surrounded the chateau, and forbade any hope of succour or
escape on that side. Beyond the moat was a thick grove of large
trees, which entirely shut out the view; and she returned to her
seat by the fire, more disheartened and cast down than ever. She
was very nervous, and trembled at the slightest sound--casting
hasty, terrified glances round the vast apartment, and dreading
lest an unseen door in some shadowy corner should be softly
opened, or a hidden panel in the wall be slipped aside, to admit
her relentless enemy to her presence. She remembered all the
horrible tales she had ever heard of secret passages and winding
staircases in the walls, that are supposed to abound in ancient
castles; and the mysterious visitants, both human and
supernatural, that are said to be in the habit of issuing from
them, in the gloaming, and at midnight. As the twilight deepened
into darkness, her terror increased, and she nearly fainted from
fright when a servant suddenly entered with lights.
While poor Isabelle was suffering such agony in one part of the
chateau, her abductors were having a grand carouse in another.
They were to remain there for a while as a sort of garrison, in
case of an attack by de Sigognac and his friends; and were
gathered round the table in a large room down on the ground
floor--as remote as possible from Isabelle's sumptuous quarters.
They were all drinking like sponges, and making merry over their
wine and good cheer, but one of them especially showed the most
remarkable and astounding powers of ingurgitation--it was the man
who had carried off the fair prize before him on his horse; and,
now that the mask was thrown aside, he disclosed to view the
deathly pale face and fiery red nose of Malartic, bosom friend
and "alter ego" of Maitre Jacquemin Lampourde.
CHAPTER XVI. VALLOMBREUSE
Isabelle sat for a long time perfectly motionless in her
luxurious chamber, sunk in a sad reverie, apparently entirely
oblivious of the glow of light, warmth, and comfort that closed
her in--glancing up occasionally at the portrait over the
chimney-piece, which seemed to be smiling down upon her and
promising her protection and peace, while it more than ever
reminded her of some dear face she had known and loved long ago.
After a time, however, her mood changed. She grew restless, and
rising, began to wander aimlessly about the room; but her
uneasiness only increased, and finally, in desperation, she
resolved to venture out into the corridor and look about her, no
matter at what risk. Anything would be better than this enforced
inactivity and suspense. She tried the door with a trembling
hand, dreading to find herself locked in, but it was not
fastened, and seeing that all was dark outside, she took up a
small lamp, that had been left burning on a side table, and
boldly setting forth, went softly down the long flight of stairs,
in the hope of finding some means of exit from the chateau on the
lower floor. At the foot of the stairs she came to a large double
door, one leaf of which yielded easily when she timidly tried to
open it, but creaked dolefully as it turned on its hinges. She
hesitated for a moment, fearing that the noise would alarm the
servants and bring them out to see what was amiss; but no one
came, and taking fresh courage, she moved on and passed into a
lofty, vaulted hall, with highbacked, oaken benches ranged
against the tapestry-covered walls, upon which hung several large
trophies of arms, and sundry swords, shields, and steel
gauntlets, which caught and flashed back the light from her lamp
as she held it up to examine them. The air was heavy, chilly, and
damp. An awful stillness reigned in this deserted hall. Isabelle
shivered as she crept slowly along, and nearly stumbled against a
huge table, with massive carved feet, that stood in the centre of
the tesselated marble pavement. She was making for a door,
opposite the one by which she had entered; but, as she approached
it, was horror-stricken when she perceived two tall men, clad in
armour, standing like sentinels, one on either side of it. She
stopped short, then tried to turn and fly, but was so paralyzed
with terror that she could not stir, expecting every instant that
they would pounce upon her and take her prisoner, while she
bitterly repented her temerity in having ventured to leave her
own room, and vainly wished herself back by the quiet fireside
there. Meanwhile the two dread figures stood as motionless as
herself--the silence was unbroken, and "the beating of her own
heart was the only sound she heard." So at last she plucked up
courage to look more closely at the grim sentinels, and could not
help smiling at her own needless alarm, when she found that they
were suits of armour, indeed, but without men inside of
them--just such as one sees standing about in the ancient royal
palaces of France. Passing them with a saucy glance of defiance,
and a little triumphant toss of the head, Isabelle entered a vast
dining room, with tall, sculptured buffets, on which stood many
superb vessels of gold and silver, together with delicate
specimens of exquisite Venetian and Bohemian glass, and precious
pieces of fine porcelain, fit for a king's table. Large handsome
chairs, with carved backs, were standing round the great
dining-table, and the walls, above the heavy oaken wainscot, were
hung with richly embossed Cordova leather, glowing with warm,
bright tints and golden arabesques.
She did not linger to examine and admire all the beautified
things dimly revealed to her by the feeble light of her small
lamp, but hurried on to the third door, which opened into an
apartment yet more spacious and magnificent than the other two.
At one end of it was a lordly dais, raised three steps above the
inlaid floor, upon which stood a splendid great arm-chair, almost
a throne, under a canopy emblazoned with a brilliant coat of arms
and surmounted by a tuft of nodding plumes. Still hurrying on,
Isabelle next entered a sumptuous bed-chamber, and, as she paused
for an instant to hold up her lamp and look about her, fancied
that she could hear the regular breathing of a sleeper in the
immense bed, behind the crimson silk curtains which were closely
drawn around it. She did not dare to stop and investigate the
matter, but flew on her way, as lightly as any bird, and next
found herself in a library, where the white busts surmounting the
well-filled book-cases stared down at her with their hard, stony
eyes, and made her shudder as she nervously sought for an exit,
without delaying one moment to glance at the great variety of
curious and beautiful objects scattered lavishly about, which,
under any ordinary circumstances, would have held her enthralled.
Running at right angles with the library, and opening out of it,
was the picture gallery, where the family portraits were arranged
in chronological order on one side, while opposite to them was a
long row of windows, looking into the court. The shutters were
closed, but near the top of each one was a small circular
opening, through which the moon shone and faintly lighted the
dusky gallery, striking here and there directly upon the face of
a portrait, with an indescribably weird and startling effect. It
required all of Isabelle's really heroic courage to keep on past
the long line of strange faces, looking down mockingly it seemed
to her from their proud height upon her trembling form as she
glided swiftly by, and she was thankful to find, at the end of
the gallery, a glass door opening out upon the court. It was not
fastened, and after carefully placing her lamp in a sheltered
corner, where no draughts could reach it, she stepped out under
the stars. It was a relief to find herself breathing freely in
the fresh, pure air, though she was actually no less a prisoner
than before, and as she stood looking up into the clear evening
sky, and thinking of her own true lover, she seemed to feel new
courage and hope springing up in her heart.
In one corner of the court she saw a strong light shining out
through the crevices in the shutters that closed several low
windows, and heard sounds of revelry from the same direction--the
only signs of life she had detected about the whole place. Her
curiosity was excited by them, and she stole softly over towards
the quarter from whence they came, keeping carefully in the
shadow of the wall, and glancing anxiously about to make sure
that no one was furtively watching her. Finding a considerable
aperture in one of the wooden shutters she peeped through it, and
saw a party of men gathered around a table, eating and drinking
and making merry in a very noisy fashion. The light from a lamp
with three burners, which was suspended by a copper chain from
the low ceiling, fell full upon them, and although she had only
seen them masked before, Isabelle instantly recognised those who
had been concerned in her abduction. At the head of the table sat
Malartic, whose extraordinary face was paler and nose redder than
ever, and at sight of whom the young girl shuddered and drew
back. When she had recovered herself a little, she looked in
again upon the repulsive scene, and was surprised to see, at the
other end of the table, and somewhat apart from the others,
Agostino, the brigand, who had now laid aside the long white
beard in which he had played the part of the old blind beggar so
successfully. A great deal of loud talking was going on,
constantly interrupted by bursts of laughter, but Isabelle could
not hear distinctly enough through the closed window to make out
what they were saying. Even if she had been actually in the room
with them, she would have found much of their conversation
incomprehensible, as it was largely made up of the extraordinary
slang of the Paris street Arabs and rascals generally. From time
to time one or the other of the participants in this orgy seemed
to propose a toast, whereupon they would all clink their glasses
together before raising them to their lips, drain them at a
draught, and applaud vociferously, while there was a constant
drawing of corks and placing of fresh bottles on the table by the
servant who was waiting upon them. just as Isabelle, thoroughly
disgusted with the brutality of the scene before her, was about
to turn away, Malartic rapped loudly on the table to obtain a
hearing, and after making a proposition, which met with ready and
cordial assent, rose from his seat, cleared his throat, and began
to sing, or rather shout, a ribald song, all the others joining
in the chorus, with horrible grimaces and gesticulations, which
so frightened poor Isabelle that she could scarcely find strength
to creep away from the loathsome spectacle.
Before re-entering the house she went to look at the drawbridge,
with a faint hope that she might chance upon some unexpected
means of escape, but all was secure there, and a little postern,
opening on the moat, which she discovered near by, was also
carefully fastened, with bolts and bars strong enough to keep out
an army. As these seemed to be the only means of exit from the
chateau, she felt that she was a prisoner indeed, and understood
why it had not been deemed necessary to lock any of the inner
doors against her. She walked slowly back to the gallery, entered
it by the glass door, found her lamp burning tranquilly just
where she had left it, retraced her steps swiftly through the
long suite of spacious apartments already described and flew jp
the grand staircase to her own room, congratulating herself upon
not having been detected in her wanderings. She put her lamp down
in the antechamber, but paused in terror on the threshold of the
inner room, stifling a shriek that had nearly escaped her as she
caught sight of a strange, wild figure crouching on the hearth.
But her fears were short-lived, for with an exclamation of
delight the intruder sprang towards her and she saw that it was
Chiquita--but Chiquita in boy's clothes.
"Have you got the knife yet?" said the strange little creature
abruptly to Isabelle--"the knife with three bonny red marks."
"Yes, Chiquita, I have it here in my bosom," she replied. "But
why do you ask? Is my life in danger?"
"A knife," said the child with fierce, sparkling eyes, "a knife
is a faithful friend and servant; it never betrays or fails its
master, if he is careful to give it a drink now and then, for a
knife is often thirsty you know."
"You frighten me, you naughty child!" exclaimed Isabelle, much
troubled and agitated by these sinister, extravagant words, which
perhaps, she thought, might be intended as a friendly warning.
"Sharpen the edge on the marble of the chimney-piece, like this,"
continued Chiquita, "and polish the blade on the sole of your
shoe."
"Why do you tell me all this?" cried Isabelle, turning very pale.
"For nothing in particular, only he who would defend himself gets
his weapons ready--that's all."
These odd, fierce phrases greatly alarmed Isabelle, yet
Chiquita's presence in her room was a wonderful relief and
comfort to her. The child apparently cherished a warm and sincere
affection for her, which was none the less genuine because of its
having arisen from such a trivial incident--for the pearl beads
were more precious than diamonds to Chiquita. She had given a
voluntary promise to Isabelle never to kill or harm her, and with
her strange, wild, yet exalted notions of honour she looked upon
it as a solemn obligation and vow, by which she must always
abide--for there was a certain savage nobility in Chiquita's
character, and she could be faithful unto death. Isabelle was the
only human being, excepting Agostino, who had been kind to her.
She had smiled upon the unkempt child, and given her the coveted
necklace, and Chiquita loved her for it, while she adored her
beauty. Isabelle's sweet countenance, so angelically mild and
pure, exercised a wonderful influence over the neglected little
savage, who had always been surrounded by fierce, haggard faces,
expressive of every evil passion, and disfigured by indulgence in
the lowest vices, and excesses of every kind.
"But how does it happen that you are here, Chiquita? asked
Isabelle, after a short silence. "Were you sent to keep guard
over me?
"No, I came alone and of my own accord," answered Chiquita,
"because I saw the light and fire. I was tired of lying all
cramped up in a corner, and keeping quiet, while those beastly
men drank bottle after bottle of wine, and gorged themselves with
the good things set before them. I am so little, you know, so
young and slender, that they pay no more attention to me than
they would to a kitten asleep under the table. While they were
making a great noise I slipped quietly away unperceived. The
smell of the wine and the food sickened me. I am used to the
sweet perfume of the heather, and the pure resinous odour of the
pines. I cannot breathe in such an atmosphere as there is down
below there."
"And you were not afraid to wander alone, without a light,
through the long, dark corridors, and the lonely, deserted
rooms?"
"Chiquita does not know what it is to be afraid--her eyes can see
in the dark, and her feet never stumble. The very owls shut their
eyes when they meet her, and the bats fold their wings when she
comes near their haunts. Wandering ghosts stand aside to let her
pass, or turn back when they see her approaching. Night is her
comrade and hides no secrets from her, and Chiquita never betrays
them to the day."
Her eyes flashed and dilated as she spoke, and Isabelle looked at
her with growing wonder, not unmixed with a vague sensation of
fear.
"I like much better to stay here, in this heavenly quiet, by the
fire with you," continued the child, "than down there in all the
uproar. You are so beautiful that I love to look at you-you are
like the Blessed Virgin that I have seen shining above the altar.
Only from afar though, for they always chase me out of the
churches with the dogs, because I am so shabby and forlorn. How
white your hand is! Mine looks like a monkey's paw beside it--and
your hair is as fine and soft as silk, while mine is all rough
and tangled. Oh! I am so horribly ugly--you must think so too."
"No, my dear child,"Isabelle replied, touched by her naive
expressions of affection and admiration, "I do not think so. You
have beauty too--you only need to make yourself neat and clean to
be as pretty a little girl as one would wish to see."
"Do you really think so? Are you telling me true? I would steal
fine clothes if they would make me pretty, for then Agostino
would love me."
This idea brought a little flush of colour to her thin brown
cheeks, and for a few minutes she seemed lost in a pleasant
reverie.
"Do you know where we are?" asked Isabelle, when Chiquita looked
up at her again.
"In a chateau that belongs to the great seignior who has so much
money, and who wanted to carry you off at Poitiers. I had only to
draw the bolt and it would have been done then. But you gave me
the pearl necklace, and I love you, and I would not do anything
you did not like."
"Yet you have helped to carry me off this time," said Isabelle
reproachfully. "Is it because you don't love me any more that you
have given me up to my enemies?"
"Agostino ordered me, and I had to obey; besides, some other
child could have played guide to the blind man as well as I, and
then I could not have come into the chateau with you, do you
see?--here I may be able to do something to help you. I am brave,
active and strong, though I am so small, and quick as lightning
too--and I shall not let anybody harm you."
"Is this chateau very far from Paris?" asked Isabelle, drawing
Chiquita up on her lap. "Did you hear any one mention the name of
this place?"
"Yes, one of them called it--now what was it?" said the child,
looking up at the ceiling and absently scratching her head, as if
to stimulate her memory.
"Try to remember it, my child!" said Isabelle, softly stroking
Chiquita's brown cheeks, which flushed with delight at the
unwonted caress--no one had ever petted the poor child in her
life before.
"I think that it was Val-lom-breuse," said Chiquita at last,
pronouncing the syllables separately and slowly, as if listening
to an inward echo. "Yes, Vallombreuse, I am sure of it now. It is
the name of the seignior that your Captain Fracasse wounded in a
duel--he would have done much better if he had killed him
outright--saved a great deal of trouble to himself and to you. He
is very wicked, that rich duke, though he does throw his gold
about so freely by the handfuls--just like a man sowing grain.
You hate him, don't you? and you would be glad if you could get
away from him, eh?"
"Oh yes, indeed!" cried Isabelle impetuously. "But alas! it is
impossible--a deep moat runs all around this chateau the
drawbridge is up, the postern securely fastened--there is no way
of escape."
"Chiquita laughs at bolts and bars, at high walls and deep moats.
Chiquita can get out of the best guarded prison whenever she
pleases, and fly away to the moon, right before the eyes of her
astonished jailer. If you choose, before the sun rises your
Captain Fracasse shall know where the treasure that he seeks is
hidden."
Isabelle was afraid, when she heard these incoherent phrases,
that the child was not quite sane, but her little face was so
calm, her dark eyes so clear and steady, her voice so earnest,
and she spoke with such an air of quiet conviction, that the
supposition was not admissible, and the strange little creature
did seem to be possessed of some of the magic powers she claimed.
As if to convince Isabelle that she was not merely boasting, she
continued, "Let me think a moment, to make a plan--don't speak
nor move, for the least sound interferes with me--I must listen
to the spirit."
Chiquita bent down her head, put her hand over her eyes, and
remained for several minutes perfectly motionless; then she
raised her head and without a word went and opened the window,
clambered up on the sill, and gazed out intently into the
darkness.
"Is she really going to take flight?" said Isabelle to herself,
as she anxiously watched Chiquita's movements, not knowing what
to expect. Exactly opposite to the window, on the other side of
the moat, was an immense tree, very high and old, whose great
branches, spreading out horizontally, overhung the water; but the
longest of them did not reach the wall of the chateau by at least
ten feet. It was upon this tree, however, that Chiquita's plan
for escape depended. She turned away from the window, drew from
her pocket a long cord made of horse-hair, very fine and
strong, which she carefully unrolled to its full length and laid
upon the floor; then produced from another pocket an iron hook,
which she fastened securely to the cord. This done to her
satisfaction, she went to the window again, and threw the end of
the cord with the hook into the branches of the tree. The first
time she was unsuccessful; the iron hook fell and struck against
the stone wall beneath the casement; but at the second attempt
the hook caught and held, and Chiquita, drawing the cord taut,
asked Isabelle to take hold of it and bear her whole weight on
it, until the branch was bent as far as possible towards the
chateau--coming five or six feet nearer to the window where they
were. Then Chiquita tied the cord firmly to the ornamental iron
railing of the tiny balcony, with a knot that could not slip,
climbed over, and grasping the cord with both hands, swung
herself off, and hung suspended over the waters of the moat far
below. Isabelle held her breath. With a rapid motion of the hands
Chiquita crossed the clear space, reached the tree safely, and
climbed down into it with the agility of a monkey.
"Now undo the knot so that I can take the cord with me," she
said, in a low but very distinct tone of voice to Isabelle, who
began to breathe freely again, "unless, indeed, you would like to
follow me. But you would be frightened and dizzy, and might fall,
so you had better stay where you are. Good-bye! I am going
straight to Paris, and shall soon be back again; I can get on
quickly in this bright moonlight."
Isabelle did as she was bid, and the branch, being no longer held
by the cord, swung back to its original position. In less than a
minute Chiquita had scrambled down to the ground, and the captive
soon lost sight of her slender little figure as she walked off
briskly towards the capital.
All that had just occurred seemed like a strange dream to
Isabelle, now that she found herself alone again. She remained
for some time at the open casement, looking at the great tree
opposite, and trembling as she realized the terrible risk
Chiquita had run for her sake--feeling warm gratitude and tender
affection for the wild, incomprehensible little creature, who
manifested such a strong attachment for herself, and a new
hope sprang up in her heart as she thought that now de Sigognac
would soon know where to find her. The cold night air at last
forced her to close the window, and after arranging the curtains
over it carefully, so as to show no signs of having been
disturbed, she returned to her easy-chair by the fire; and just
in time, for she had scarcely seated herself when the major-domo
entered, followed by the two servants, again carrying the little
table, set for one, with her supper daintily arranged upon it. A
few minutes earlier and Chiquita's escape would have been
discovered and prevented. Isabelle, still greatly agitated by all
that had passed, could not eat, and signed to the servants to
remove the supper untouched. Whereupon the major-domo himself put
some bread and wine on a small table beside the bed, and placed
on a chair near the fire a richly trimmed dressing-gown, and
everything that a lady could require in making her toilet for the
night. Several large logs of wood were piled up on the massive
andirons, the candles were renewed, and then the major-domo,
approaching Isabelle with a profound obeisance, said to her that
if she desired the services of a maid he would send one to her.
As she made a gesture of dissent he withdrew, after again bowing
to her most respectfully. When they had all gone, Isabelle, quite
worn out, threw herself down on the outside of the bed without
undressing, so as to be ready in case of any sudden alarm in the
night; then took out Chiquita's knife, opened it, and laid it
beside her. Having taken these precautions, she closed her eyes,
and hoped that she could for a while forget her troubles in
sleep; but she had been so much excited and agitated that her
nerves were all quivering, and it was long before she even grew
drowsy. There were so many strange, incomprehensible noises in
the great, empty house to disturb and startle her; and in her own
room, the cracking of the furniture, the ticking of a death-watch
in the wall near her bed, the gnawing of a rat behind the
wainscot, the snapping of the fire. At each fresh sound she
started up in terror, with her poor heart throbbing as if it
would burst out of her breast, a cold perspiration breaking out
on her forehead, and trembling in every limb. At last, however,
weary nature had to succumb, and she fell into a deep sleep,
which lasted until she was awakened by the sun shining on her
face. Her first thought was to wonder that she had not yet seen
the Duke of Vallombreuse; but she was thankful for his absence,
and hoped that it would continue until Chiquita should have
brought de Sigognac to the rescue.
The reason why the young duke had not yet made his appearance was
one of policy. He had taken especial pains to show himself at
Saint Germain on the day of the abduction--had joined the royal
hunting party, and been exceedingly and unwontedly affable to all
who happened to come in contact with him. In the evening he had
played at cards, and lost ostentatiously sums that would have
been of importance to a less wealthy man--being all the time in a
very genial mood--especially after the arrival of a mounted
messenger, who brought him a little note. Thus the duke's desire
to be able to establish an incontestable alibi, in case of need,
had spared Isabelle thus far the infliction of his hated
presence; but while she was congratulating herself upon it, and
welcoming the sunshine that streamed into her room, she heard the
drawbridge being let down, and immediately after a carriage
dashed over it and thundered into the court. Her heart sank, for
who would be likely to enter in that style save the master of the
house? Her face grew deathly pale, she reeled, and for one
dreadful moment felt as if she should faint; but, rallying her
courage, she reminded herself that Chiquita had gone to bring de
Sigognac to her aid, and determined afresh to meet bravely
whatever trials might be in store for her, until her beloved
knight and champion should arrive, to rescue her from her
terrible danger and irksome imprisonment. Her eyes involuntarily
sought the portrait over the chimney-piece, and after
passionately invoking it, and imploring its aid and protection,
as if it had been her patron saint, she felt a certain sense of
ease and security, as if what she had so earnestly entreated
would really be accorded to her.
A full hour had elapsed, which the young duke had employed in the
duties of the toilet, and in snatching a few minutes of
repose after his rapid night-journey, when the major-domo
presented himself, and asked respectfully if Isabelle would
receive the Duke of Vallombreuse.
"I am a prisoner," she replied, with quiet dignity, "and this
demand, which would be fitting and polite in any ordinary case,
is only a mockery when addressed to one in my position. I have no
means of preventing your master's coming into this room, nor can
I quit it to avoid him. I do not accept his visit but submit to
it.
He must do as he pleases about it, and come and go when he likes.
He allows me no choice in the matter. Go and tell him exactly
what I have said to you."
The major-domo bowed low, and retired backward to the door,
having received strict orders to treat Isabelle with the greatest
respect and consideration. In a few minutes he returned, and
announced the Duke of Vallombreuse.
Isabelle half rose from her chair by the fire, but turned very
pale and fell back into it, as her unwelcome visitor made his
appearance at the door. He closed it and advanced slowly towards
her, hat in hand, but when he perceived that she was trembling
violently, and looked ready to faint, he stopped in the middle of
the room, made a low bow, and said in his most dulcet, persuasive
tones:
"If my presence is too unbearably odious now to the charming
Isabelle, and she would like to have a little time to get used to
the thought of seeing me, I will withdraw. She is my prisoner, it
is true, but I am none the less her slave."
"This courtesy is tardy," Isabelle replied coldly, "after the
violence you have made use of against me."
"That is the natural result," said the duke, with a smile, "of
pushing people to extremity by a too obstinate and prolonged
resistance. Having lost all hope, they stop at nothing--knowing
that they cannot make matters any worse, whatever they do. If you
had only been willing to suffer me to pay my court to you in the
regular way, and shown a little indulgence to my love, I should
have quietly remained among the ranks of your passionate adorers;
striving, by dint of delicate attentions, chivalrous devotion,
magnificent offerings, and respectful yet ardent solicitations,
to soften that hard heart of yours. If I could not have succeeded
in inspiring it with love for me, I might at least have
awakened in it that tender pity which is akin to love, and
which is so often only its forerunner. In the end, perhaps, you
would have repented of your cruel severity, and acknowledged that
you had been unjust towards me. Believe me, my charming Isabelle,
I should have neglected nothing to bring it about."
"If you had employed only honest and honourable means in your
suit," Isabelle rejoined, "I should have felt very sorry that I
had been so unfortunate as to inspire an attachment I could not
reciprocate, and would have given you my warm sympathy, and
friendly regard, instead of being reluctantly compelled, by
repeated outrages, to hate you instead.
"You do hate me then?--you acknowledge it?" the duke cried, his
voice trembling with rage; but he controlled himself, and after a
short pause continued, in a gentler tone, "Yet I do not deserve
it. My only wrongs towards you, if any there be, have come from
the excess and ardour of my love; and what woman, however chaste
and virtuous, can be seriously angry with a gallant gentleman
because he has been conquered by the power of her adorable
charms? whether she so desired or not."
"Certainly, that is not a reason for dislike or anger, my lord,
if the suitor does not overstep the limits of respect, as all
women will agree. But when his insolent impatience leads him to
commit excesses, and he resorts to fraud, abduction, and
imprisonment, as you have not hesitated to do, there is no other
result possible than an unconquerable aversion. Coercion is
always and inevitably revolting to a nature that has any proper
pride or delicacy. Love, true love, is divine, and cannot be
furnished to order, or extorted by violence. It is spontaneous,
and freely given--not to be bought, nor yet won by importunity."
"Is an unconquerable aversion then all that I am to expect from
you?" said Vallombreuse, who had become pale to ghastliness, and
been fiercely gnawing his under lip, while Isabelle was
speaking, in her sweet, clear tones, which fell on his ear like
the soft chiming of silver bells, and only served to enhance his
devouring passion.
"There is yet one means of winning my friendship and gratitude--
be noble and generous, and give me back the liberty of which you
have deprived me. Let me return to my companions, who must be
anxiously seeking for me, and suffering keenly because of their
fears for my safety. Let me go and resume my lowly life as an
actress, before this outrageous affair--which may irreparably
injure my reputation--has become generally known, or my absence
from the theatre been remarked by the public."
"How unfortunate it is," cried the duke, angrily, "that you
should ask of me the only thing I cannot do for you. If you had
expressed your desire for an empire, a throne, I would have given
it to you--or if you had wished for a star, I would have climbed
up into the heavens to get it for you. But here you calmly ask me
to open the door of this cage, little bird, to which you would
never come back of your own accord, if I were stupid enough to
let you go. It is impossible! I know well that you love me so
little, or rather hate me so much, that you would never see me
again of your own free will--that my only chance of enjoying your
charming society is to lock you up--keep you my prisoner. However
much it may cost my pride, I must do it--for I can no more live
without you than a plant without the light. My thoughts turn to
you as the heliotrope to the sun. Where you are not, all is
darkness for me. If what I have dared to do is a crime, I must
make the best of it, and profit by it as much as I can--for you
would never forgive nor overlook it, whatever you may say now.
Here at least I have you--I hold you. I can surround you with my
love and care, and strive to melt the ice of your coldness by the
heat of my passion. Your eyes must behold me--your ears must
listen to my voice. I shall exert an influence over you, if only
by the alarm and detestation I am so unfortunate as to inspire in
your gentle breast; the sound of my footsteps in your antechamber
will make you start and tremble. And then, besides all that, this
captivity separates you effectually from the miserable fellow
you fancy that you love--and whom I abhor; because he has dared
to turn your heart away from me. I can at least enjoy this small
satisfaction, of keeping you from him; and I will not let you go
free to return to him--you may be perfectly sure of that, my fair
lady!"
"And how long do you intend to keep me captive?--not like a
Christian gentleman, but like a lawless corsair."
"Until you have learned to love me--or at least to say that you
have, which amounts to the same thing."
Then he made her a low bow, and departed, with as self-satisfied
and jaunty an air as if he had been in truth a favoured suitor.
Half an hour later a lackey brought in a beautiful bouquet, of
the rarest and choicest flowers, while the stems were clasped by
a magnificent bracelet, fit for a queen's wearing. A little piece
of folded paper nestled among the flowers--a note from the
duke--and the fair prisoner recognised the handwriting as the
same in which "For Isabelle" was written, on the slip of paper
that accompanied the casket of jewels at Poitiers. The note read
as follows:
"DEAR ISABELLE--I send you these flowers, though I know they will
be ungraciously received. As they come from me, their beauty and
fragrance will not find favour in your eyes. But whatever may be
their fate, even though you only touch them to fling them
disdainfully out of the window, they will force you to think for
a moment--if it be but in anger--of him who declares himself, in
spite of everything, your devoted adorer,
"VALLOMBREUSE."
This note, breathing of the most specious gallantry, and tenacity
of purpose, did produce very much the effect it predicted; for it
made Isabelle exceedingly angry; and, without even once inhaling
the delicious perfume of the flowers, or pausing for an instant
to admire their beauty, she flung the bouquet, diamond bracelet
and all, out into the antechamber. Never surely were lovely
blossoms so badly treated; and yet Isabelle was excessively fond
of them; but she feared that if she even allowed them to remain a
little while in her room, their donor would presume upon the
slight concession. She had scarcely resumed her seat by the fire,
after disposing of the obnoxious bouquet, when a maid appeared,
who had been sent to wait upon her. She was a pretty, refined
looking girl, but very pale, and with an air of deep
melancholy--as if she were brooding over a secret sorrow. She
offered her services to Isabelle without looking up, and in a
low, subdued voice, as if she feared that the very walls had
ears. Isabelle allowed her to take down and comb out her long,
silky hair, which was very much dishevelled, and to arrange it
again as she habitually wore it; which was quickly and skilfully
done. Then the maid opened a wardrobe and took out several
beautiful gowns, exquisitely made and trimmed, and just
Isabelle's size; but she would not even look at them, and sharply
ordered that they should instantly be put back where they
belonged, though her own dress was very much the worse for the
rough treatment it had been subjected to on the preceding day,
and it was a trial to the sweet, dainty creature to be so untidy.
But she was determined to accept nothing from the duke, no matter
how long her captivity might last. The maid did not insist, but
acceded to her wishes with a mild, pitying air--just as
indulgence is shown, as far as possible, to all the little whims
and caprices of prisoners condemned to death. Isabelle would have
liked to question her attendant, and endeavour to elicit some
information from her, but the girl was more like an automaton
than anything else, and it was impossible to gain more than a
monosyllable from her lips. So Isabelle resigned herself with a
sigh to her mute ministerings, not without a sort of vague
terror.
After the maid had retired, dinner was served as before, and
Isabelle made a hearty meal--feeling that she must keep up her
strength, and also hopeful of hearing something in a few hours
more from her faithful lover. Her thoughts were all of him, and
as she realized the dangers to which he would inevitably be
exposed for her sake, her eyes filled with tears, and a sharp
pang shot through her heart. She was angry with herself for being
the cause of so much trouble, and fain to curse her own
beauty--the unhappy occasion of it all. She was absorbed in these
sad thoughts when a little noise as if a hail-stone had struck
against the window pane, suddenly aroused her. She flew to the
casement, and saw Chiquita, in the tree opposite, signing to her
to open it, and swinging back and forth the long horse-hair cord,
with the iron hook attached to it. She hastened to comply with
the wishes of her strange little ally, and, as she stepped back
in obedience to another sign, the hook, thrown with unerring aim,
caught securely in the iron railing of the little balcony.
Chiquita tied the other end of the cord to the branch to which
she was clinging, and then began to cross over the intervening
space as before; but ere she was half-way over, the knot gave
way, and poor Isabelle for one moment of intense agony thought
that the child was lost. But, instead of falling into the moat
beneath her, Chiquita, who did not appear to be in the least
disconcerted by this accident, swung over against the wall below
the balcony, and climbing up the cord hand over hand, leaped
lightly into the room, before Isabelle had recovered her breath.
Finding her very pale, and tremulous, the child said smilingly,
"You were frightened, eh? and thought Chiquita would fall down
among the frogs in the moat. When I tied my cord to the branch, I
only made a slip-knot, so that I could bring it back with me. I
must have looked like a big spider climbing up its thread," she
added, with a laugh.
"My dear child," said Isabelle, with much feeling, and kissing
Chiquita's forehead, "you are a very brave little girl."
"I saw your friends. They had been searching and searching for
you; but without Chiquita they would never have found out where
you were hidden. The captain was rushing about like an angry
lion--his eyes flashed fire--he was magnificent. I came back with
him. He rode, and held me in front of him. He is hidden in a
little wood not far off, he and his comrades--they must keep out
of sight, you know. This evening, as soon as it is dark, they
will try to get in here to you--by the tree, you know. There's
sure to be a scrimmage--pistol shots and swords clashing--oh!
it will be splendid; for there's nothing so fine as a good fight;
when the men are in earnest, and fierce and brave. Now don't you
be frightened and scream, as silly women do; nothing upsets them
like that. You must just remain perfectly quiet, and keep out of
their way. If you like, I will come and stay by you, so that you
will not be afraid."
"Don't be uneasy about that, Chiquita! I will not annoy my brave
friends, who come to save my life at the risk of their own, by
any foolish fears or demonstrations; that I promise you."
"That's right," the child replied, "and until they come, you can
defend yourself with my knife, you know. Don't forget the proper
way to use it. Strike like this, and then do so; you can rip him
up beautifully. As for me, I'm going to hunt up a quiet corner
where I can get a nap. No, I can't stay here, for we must not be
seen together; it would never do. Now do you be sure to keep away
from that window. You must not even go near it, no matter what
you hear, for fear they might suspect that you hoped for help
from that direction. If they did, it would be all up with us; for
they would send out and search the woods, and beat the bushes,
and find our friends where they lie hidden. The whole thing would
fall through, and you would have to stop here with this horrid
duke that you hate so much."
"I will not go near the window," Isabelle answered, "nor even
look towards it, however much I may wish to. You may depend upon
my discretion, Chiquita, I do assure you."
Reassured upon this important point, Chiquita crept softly away,
and went back to the lower room where she had left the ruffians
carousing. They were still there--lying about on the benches and
the floor, in a drunken sleep, and evidently had not even missed
her. She curled herself up in a corner, as far as might be from
the loathsome brutes, and was asleep in a minute. The poor child
was completely tired out; her slender little feet had travelled
eight leagues the night before, running a good part of the way,
and the return on horseback had perhaps fatigued her even more,
being unaccustomed to it. Although her fragile little body
had the strength and endurance of steel, she was worn out now,
and lay, pale and motionless, in a sleep that seemed like death.
"Dear me! how these children do sleep to be sure," said Malartic,
when he roused himself at last and looked about him. "In spite of
our carouse, and all the noise we made, that little monkey in the
corner there has never waked nor stirred. Halloa! wake up you
fellows! drunken beasts that you are. Try to stand up on your
hind legs, and go out in the court and dash a bucket of cold
water over your cursed heads. The Circe of drunkenness has made
swine of you in earnest--go and see if the baptism I recommend
will turn you back into men, and then we'll take a little look
round the place, to make sure there's no plot hatching to rescue
the little beauty we have in charge."
The men scrambled to their feet slowly and with difficulty, and
staggered out into the court as best they might, where the fresh
air, and the treatment prescribed by Malartic, did a good deal
towards reviving them; but they were a sorry looking set after
all, and there were many aching heads among them. As soon as they
were fit for it, Malartic took three of the least tipsy of them,
and leading the way to a small postern that opened on the moat,
unchained a row-boat lying there, crossed the broad ditch,
ascended a steep flight of steps leading up the bank on the other
side, and, leaving one man to guard the boat, proceeded to make a
tour of inspection in the immediate vicinity of the chateau;
fortunately without stumbling on the party concealed in the wood,
or seeing anything to arouse their suspicions; so they returned
to their quarters perfectly satisfied that there was no enemy
lurking near.
Meantime Isabelle, left quite alone, tried in vain to interest
herself in a book she had found lying upon one of the
side-tables. She read a few pages mechanically, and then, finding
it impossible to fix her attention upon it, threw the volume from
her and sat idly in front of the fire, which was blazing
cheerily, thinking of her own true lover, and praying that he
might be preserved from injury in the impending struggle.
Evening came at last--a servant brought in lights, and soon after
the major-domo announced a visit from the Duke of Vallombreuse.
He entered at once, and greeted his fair captive with the most
finished courtesy. He looked very handsome, in a superb suit of
pearl gray satin, richly trimmed with crimson velvet, and
Isabelle could not but admire his personal appearance, much as
she detested his character.
"I have come to see, my adorable Isabelle, whether I shall be
more kindly received than my flowers," said he, drawing up a
chair beside hers. "I have not the vanity to think so, but I want
you to become accustomed to my presence. To-morrow another
bouquet, and another visit."
"Both will be useless, my lord," she replied, "though I am sorry
to have to be so rude as to say so--but I had much better be
perfectly frank with you."
"Ah, well!" rejoined the duke, with a malicious smile, I will
dispense with hope, and content myself with reality. You do not
know, my poor child, what a Vallombreuse can do--you, who vainly
try to resist him. He has never yet known what it was to have an
unsatisfied desire--he invariably gains his ends, in spite of all
opposition--nothing can stop him. Tears, supplication, laments,
threats, even dead bodies and smoking ruins would not daunt him.
Do not tempt him too powerfully, by throwing new obstacles in his
way, you imprudent child!"
Isabelle, frightened by the expression of his countenance as he
spoke thus, instinctively pushed her chair farther away from his,
and felt for Chiquita's knife. But the wily duke, seeing that he
had made a mistake, instantly changed his tone, and begging her
pardon most humbly for his vehemence, endeavoured to persuade
her, by many specious arguments, that she was wrong in
persistently turning a deaf ear to his suit--setting forth at
length, and in glowing words, all the advantages that would
accrue to her if she would but yield to his wishes, and
describing the happiness in store for her. While he was thus
eloquently pleading his cause, Isabelle, who had given him only a
divided attention, thought that she heard a peculiar little noise
in the direction whence the longed-for aid was to come, and
fearing that Vallombreuse might hear it also, hastened to answer
him the instant that he paused, in a way to vex him still
further--for she preferred his anger to his love-making. Also,
she hoped that by quarrelling with him she would be able to
prevent his perceiving the suspicious little sound--now growing
louder and more noticeable.
"The happiness that you so eloquently describe, my lord, would be
for me a disgrace, which I am resolved to escape by death, if all
other means fail me. You never shall have me living. Formerly I
regarded you with indifference, but now I both hate and despise
you, for your infamous, outrageous and violent behaviour to me,
your helpless victim. Yes, I may as well tell you openly--and I
glory in it--that I do love the Baron de Sigognac, whom you have
more than once so basely tried to assassinate, through your
miserable hired ruffians."
The strange noise still kept on, and Isabelle raised her voice to
drown it. At her audacious, defiant words, so distinctly and
impressively enunciated--hurled at him, as it were--Vallombreuse
turned pale, and his eyes flashed ominously; a light foam
gathered about the corners of his mouth, and he laid hold of the
handle of his sword. For an instant he thought of killing
Isabelle himself, then and there. If he could not have her, at
least no one else should. But he relinquished that idea almost as
soon as it occurred to him, and with a hard, forced laugh said,
as he sprang up and advanced impetuously towards Isabelle, who
retreated before him:
"Now, by all the devils in hell, I cannot help admiring you
immensely in this mood. It is a new role for you, and you are
deucedly charming in it. You have got such a splendid colour, and
your eyes are so bright--you are superb, I declare. I am greatly
flattered at your blazing out into such dazzling beauty on my
account--upon my word I am. You have done well to speak out
openly--I hate deceit. So you love de Sigognac, do you? So much
the better, say I--it will be all the sweeter to call you mine.
It will be a pleasing variety to press ardent kisses upon sweet
lips that say 'I hate you,' instead of the insipid, everlasting
'I love you,' that one gets a surfeit of from all the pretty
women of one's acquaintance."
Alarmed at this coarse language, and the threatening gestures
that accompanied it, Isabelle started back and drew out
Chiquita's knife.
Bravo!" cried the duke--"here comes the traditional poniard. We
are being treated to a bit of high tragedy. But, my fierce little
beauty, if you are well up in your Roman history, you will
remember that the chaste Mme. Lucretia did not make use of her
dagger until AFTER the assault of Sextus, the bold son of Tarquin
the Proud. That ancient and much-cited example is a good one to
follow."
And without paying any more attention to the knife than to a
bee-sting, he had violently seized Isabelle in his arms before
she could raise it to strike.
Just at that moment a loud cracking noise was heard, followed by
a tremendous crash, and the casement fell clattering to the
floor, with every pane of glass in it shattered; as if a giant
had put his knee against it and broken it in; while a mass of
branches protruded through the opening into the room. It was the
top of the tree that Chiquita had made such good use of as a way
of escape and return. The trunk, sawed nearly through by de
Sigognac and his companions, was guided in its fall so as to make
a means of access to Isabelle's window; both bridging the moat,
and answering all the purposes of a ladder.
The Duke of Vallombreuse, astonished at this most extraordinary
intrusion upon his love-making, released his trembling victim,
and drew his sword. Chiquita, who had crept into the room
unperceived when the crash came, pulled Isabelle's sleeve and
whispered, "Come into this corner, out of the way; the dance is
going to begin."
As she spoke, several pistol shots were heard without, and four
of the duke's ruffians--who were doing garrison duty came rushing
up the stairs, four steps at a time, and dashed into the
room-sword in hand, and eager for the fray.
CHAPTER XVII. THE AMETHYST RING
The topmost branches of the tree, protruding through the window,
rendered the centre of the room untenable, so Malartic and his
three aids ranged themselves two and two against the wall on
either side of it, armed with pistols and swords--ready to give
the assailants a warm welcome.
"You had better retire, my lord duke, or else put on a mask,"
whispered Malartic to the young nobleman, "so that you may not be
seen and recognised in this affair."
"What do I care?" cried Vallombreuse, flourishing his sword. "I
am not afraid of anybody in the world--and besides, those who see
me will never go away from this to tell of it."
"But at least your lordship will place this second Helen in some
safe retreat. A stray bullet might so easily deprive your
highness of the prize that cost so dear--and it would be such a
pity."
The duke, finding this advice judicious, went at once over to
where Isabelle was standing beside Chiquita, and throwing his
arms round her attempted to carry her into the next room. The
poor girl made a desperate resistance, and slipping from the
duke's grasp rushed to the window, regardless of danger, crying,
"Save me, de Sigognac! save me!" A voice from without answered,
"I am coming," but, before he could reach the window,
Vallombreuse had again seized his prey, and succeeded in carrying
her into the adjoining room, closing and bolting the stout oaken
door behind him just as de Sigognac bounded into the chamber he
had quitted. His entrance was so sudden, and so swiftly and
boldly made, that he entirely escaped the pistol shots aimed at
him, and the four bullets all fell harmless. When the smoke had
cleared away and the "garrison" saw that he was unhurt, a murmur
of astonishment arose, and one of the men exclaimed aloud that
Captain Fracasse--the only name by which THEY knew him--must bear
a charmed life; whereupon, Malartic cried, "Leave him to me, I'll
soon finish him, and do you three keep a strict guard over the
window there; for there will be more to follow this one if I am
not mistaken."
But he did not find his self-imposed task as easy as he
supposed--for de Sigognac was ready for him, and gave him plenty
to do, though his surprise and disappointment were overwhelming
when he found that Isabelle was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is she?" he cried impetuously. "Where is Isabelle? I heard
her voice in here only a moment ago."
"Don't ask me!" Malartic retorted. "YOU didn't give her into my
charge." And all this time their swords were flashing and
clashing, as the combat between them grew more animated.
A moment later, before the men had finished reloading their
pistols, Scapin dashed in through the window, throwing a
remarkable somersault like an acrobat as he came, and seeing that
the three ruffians had laid down their swords beside them on the
floor while attending to their other weapons, he seized upon them
all, ere their owners had recovered from their astonishment at
his extraordinary advent, and hurled them through the broken
casement down into the moat. Then, laying hold of one of the
three from behind, and pinning down his arms securely, he placed
him in front of himself for a shield--turning him dexterously
this way and that, in order to keep his body always between his
own and the enemy; so that they dared not fire upon him lest they
should kill their comrade, who was vehemently beseeching them to
spare his life, and vainly struggling to escape from Scapin's
iron grip.
The combat between de Sigognac and Malartic was still going on,
but at last, the baron--who had already wounded his adversary
slightly, and whose agony and desperation at being kept from
prosecuting his search for Isabelle were intense--wrested
Malartic's sword from his grasp, by a dexterous manoeuvre with
his own, and putting his foot upon it as it lay on the floor
raised the point of his blade to the professional ruffian's
throat, crying "Surrender, or you are a dead man!"
At this critical moment another one of the besieging party burst
in through the window, who, seeing at a glance how matters stood,
said to Malartic in an authoritative tone, "You can surrender
without dishonour to this valiant hero--you are entirely at his
mercy. You have done your duty loyally--now consider yourself a
prisoner of war."
Then turning to de Sigognac, he said, "You may trust his word,
for he is an honourable fellow in his way, and will not molest
you again--I will answer for him."
Malartic made a gesture of acquiescence, and the baron let him
go--whereupon the discomfited bully picked up his sword, and with
a crestfallen air walked off very disconsolately to a corner,
where he sat down and occupied himself in staunching the blood
that was flowing from his wound. The other three men were quickly
conquered, and, at the suggestion of the latest comer, were
securely bound hand and foot as they lay upon the floor, and then
left to reflect upon their misfortunes.
"They can't do any more mischief now," said Jacquemin Lampourde,
mockingly; for it was that famous fighting man in person, who,
in his enthusiastic admiration, or rather adoration, for
de Sigognac, had offered his services on this momentous
occasion--services by no means to be despised. As to the brave
Herode, he was doing good service in fighting the rest of the
garrison below. They had hastened out and crossed the moat in the
little row-boat as quickly as possible after the alarm was given,
but arrived too late, as we have seen, to prevent the assailants
from ascending their strange scaling ladder. So they determined
to follow, hoping to overtake and dislodge some of them. But
Herode, who had found the upper branches bending and cracking in
a very ominous manner under his great weight, was forced to turn
about and make his way back to the main trunk, where, under
cover of darkness, he quietly awaited the climbing foe. Merindol,
who commanded this detachment of the garrison, was first, and
being completely taken by surprise was easily dislodged and
thrown down into the water below. The next one, aroused to a
sense of his danger by this, pulled out a pistol and fired, but
in the agitation of the moment, and the darkness, missed his aim,
so that he was entirely at the tyrant's mercy, and in an instant
was held suspended over the deep waters of the moat. He clung
desperately to a little branch he had managed to lay hold of, and
made such a brave fight for his life, that Herode, who was
merciful by nature, though so fierce of aspect, decided to make
terms with him, if he could do so without injuring the interests
of his own party; and upon receiving a solemn promise from him to
remain strictly neutral during the remainder of the fray, the
powerful actor lifted him up, with the greatest ease, and seated
him in safety upon the tree-trunk again. The poor fellow was so
grateful that he was even better than his word, for, making use
of the password and giving a pretended order from Merindol to the
other two, who were some distance behind him and ignorant of what
had happened, he sent them off post-haste to attend to an
imaginary foe at some distance from the chateau; availing himself
of their absence to make good his escape, after heartily thanking
Herode for his clemency. The moon was just rising, and by its
light the tyrant spied the little row-boat, lying not very far
off at the foot of a flight of steps in the steep bank, and he
was not slow to make use of it to cross the moat, and penetrate
into the interior court of the chateau--the postern having been
fortunately left open. Looking about him, to see how he could
best rejoin his comrades within the building, his eyes fell upon
the porch guarded by the two huge, calm sphinxes, and he wisely
concluded that through it must lie his way to the scene of
action.
Meantime de Sigognac, Scapin and Lampourde, having a chance to
look about them, were horrified to find that they were prisoners
in the room where the battle had been fought. In vain they tried
to burst open the stout oaken door which was their only means
of egress--for the tree had, but a moment before, given way and
fallen with a loud crash into the moat; in vain they strove to
cut through one of the panels, or force the lock from its
fastenings. To de Sigognac this delay was maddening, for he knew
that the Duke of Vallombreuse had carried Isabelle away, and that
he must still be with her. He worked like a giant himself, and
incited the others to redouble their efforts; making battering
rams of various pieces of furniture--resorting to every means
that their ingenuity could devise--but without making the least
impression on the massive barrier. They had paused in dismay,
when suddenly a slight, grinding noise was heard, like a key
turning in a lock, and the door, so unsuccessfully attacked,
opened as if by magic before them.
"What good angel has come to our aid?" cried de Sigognac; "and by
what miracle does this door open of itself, after having so
stoutly resisted all our efforts?"
"There is neither angel nor miracle; only Chiquita," answered a
quiet little voice, as the child appeared from behind the door,
and fixed her great, dark, liquid eyes calmly on de Sigognac. She
had managed to slip out with Vallombreuse and Isabelle, entirely
unnoticed by the former, and in the hope of being of use to the
latter.
"Where is Isabelle?" cried the baron, as he crossed the threshold
and looked anxiously round the anteroom, which was dimly lighted
by one little flickering lamp. For a moment he did not perceive
her; the Duke of Vallombreuse, surprised at the sudden opening of
the door, which he had believed to be securely fastened and
impenetrable, had retreated into a corner, and placed Isabelle,
who was almost fainting from terror and exhaustion, behind him.
She had sunk upon her knees, with her head leaning against the
wall, her long hair, which had come down, falling about her, and
her dress in the utmost disorder; for she had struggled
desperately in the arms of her captor; who, feeling that his fair
victim was about to escape from his clutches, had vainly striven
to snatch a few kisses from the sweet lips so temptingly near his
own.
"Here she is," said Chiquita, "in this corner, behind the Duke of
Vallombreuse; but to get to her you must first kill him."
"Of course I shall kill him," cried de Sigognac, advancing sword
in hand towards the young duke, who was ready to receive him.
"We shall see about that, Sir Captain Fracasse--doughty knight of
Bohemiennes!" said Vallombreuse disdainfully, and the conflict
began. The duke was not de Sigognac's equal at this kind of work,
but still he was skilful and brave, and had had too much good
instruction to handle his sword like a broom-stick, as Lampourde
expressed it. He stood entirely upon the defensive, and was
exceedingly wary and prudent, hoping, as his adversary must be
already considerably fatigued by his encounter with Malartic,
that he might be able to get the better of him this time, and
retrieve his previous defeat. At the very beginning he had
succeeded in raising a small silver whistle to his lips with his
left hand--and its shrill summons brought five or six armed
attendants into the room.
"Carry away this woman," he cried, "and put out those two
rascals. I will take care of the captain myself."
The sudden interruption of these fresh forces astonished de
Sigognac, and as he saw two of the men lift up and carry off
Isabelle--who had fainted quite away--he was thrown for an
instant off his guard, and very nearly run through the body by
his opponent.
Roused to a sense of his danger, he attacked the duke with
renewed fury, and with a terrible thrust, that made him reel,
wounded him seriously in the upper part of the chest.
Meanwhile Lampourde and Scapin had shown the duke's lackeys that
it would not be a very easy matter to put them out, and were
handling them rather roughly, when the cowardly fellows, seeing
that their master was wounded, and leaning against the wall,
deathly pale, thought that he was done for, and although they
were fully armed, took to their heels and fled, deaf to his
feeble cry for assistance. While all this was going on, the
tyrant was making his way up the grand staircase, as fast as his
corpulence would permit, and reached the top just in time to see
Isabelle, pale, dishevelled, motionless, and apparently dead,
being borne along the corridor by two lackeys. Without stopping
to make any inquiries, and full of wrath at the thought that the
sweet girl had fallen a victim to the wickedness of the cruel
Duke of Vallombreuse, he drew his sword, and fell upon the two
men with such fury that they dropped their light burden and fled
down the stairs as fast as their legs could carry them. Then he
knelt down beside the unconscious girl, raised her gently in his
arms, and found that her heart was beating, though but feebly,
and that she apparently had no wound, while she sighed faintly,
like a person beginning to revive after a swoon. In this position
he was found by de Sigognac, who had effectually gotten rid of
Vallombreuse, by the famous and well-directed thrust that had
thrown Jacquemin Lampourde into a rapture of admiration and
delight. He knelt down beside his darling, took both her hands in
his, and said, in the most tender tones, that Isabelle heard
vaguely as if in a dream:
"Rouse yourself, dear heart, and fear nothing. You are safe now,
with your own friends, and your own true lover--nobody can harm
or frighten you again."
Although she did not yet open her eyes, a faint smile dawned upon
the colourless lips, and her cold, trembling, little fingers
feebly returned the tender pressure of de Sigognac's warm hands.
Lampourde stood by, and looked down with tearful eyes upon this
touching group--for he was exceedingly romantic and sentimental,
and always intensely interested in a love affair. Suddenly, in
the midst of the profound silence that had succeeded to the
uproar of the melee, the winding of a horn was heard without,
and in a moment energetically repeated. It was evidently a
summons that had to be instantly obeyed; the drawbridge was
lowered in haste, with a great rattling of chains, and a
carriage driven rapidly into the court, while the red flaring
light of torches flashed through the windows of the corridor. In
another minute the door of the vestibule was thrown open, and
hasty steps ascended the grand staircase. First came four tall
lackeys, in rich liveries, carrying lights, and directly behind
them a tall, noble-looking man, who was dressed from head to foot
in black velvet, with an order shining on his breast--of those
that are usually reserved for kings and princes of the blood, and
only very exceptionally bestowed, upon the most illustrious
personages.
When the four lackeys reached the landing at the head of the
stairs, they silently ranged themselves against the wall, and
stood like statues bearing torches; without the raising of an
eyelid, or the slightest change in the stolid expression of their
countenances to indicate that they perceived anything out of the
usual way--exhibiting in perfection that miraculous
imperturbability and self-command which is peculiar to well-bred,
thoroughly trained menservants. The gentleman whom they had
preceded paused ere he stepped upon the landing. Although age had
brought wrinkles to his handsome face, and turned his abundant
dark hair gray, it was still easy to recognise in him the
original of the portrait that had so fascinated Isabelle, and
whose protection she had passionately implored in her distress.
It was the princely father of Vallombreuse--the son bearing a
different name, that of a duchy he possessed, until he in his
turn should become the head of the family, and succeed to the
title of prince.
At sight of Isabelle, supported by de Sigognac and the tyrant,
whose ghastly pallor made her look like one dead, the aged
gentleman raised his arms towards heaven and groaned.
"Alas! I am too late," said he, "for all the haste I made," and
advancing a few steps he bent over the prostrate girl, and took
her lifeless hand in his. Upon this hand, white, cold and
diaphanous, as if it had been sculptured in alabaster, shone a
ring, set with an amethyst of unusual size. The old nobleman
seemed strangely agitated as it caught his eye. He drew it gently
from Isabelle's slender finger, with a trembling hand signed to
one of the torch-bearers to bring his light nearer, and by it
eagerly examined the device cut upon the stone; first holding it
close to the light and then at arm's length; as those whose
eyesight is impaired by age are wont to do. The Baron de
Sigognac, Herode and Lampourde anxiously watched the agitated
movements of the prince, and his change of expression, as he
contemplated this jewel, which he seemed to recognise; and which
he turned and twisted between his fingers, with a pained look in
his face, as if some great trouble had befallen him.
"Where is the Duke of Vallombreuse?" he cried at last, in a voice
of thunder. "Where is that monster in human shape, who is
unworthy of my race?"
He had recognised, without a possibility of doubt, in this ring,
the one bearing a fanciful device, with which he had been
accustomed, long ago, to seal the notes he wrote to
Cornelia--Isabelle's mother, and his own youthful love. How
happened it that this ring was on the finger of the young
actress, who had been forcibly and shamefully abducted by
Vallombreuse? From whom could she have received it? These
questions were torturing to him.
"Can it be possible that she is Cornelia's daughter and mine?"
said the prince to himself. "Her profession, her age, her sweet
face, in which I can trace a softened, beautified likeness of her
mother's, but which has a peculiarly high bred, refined
expression, worthy of a royal princess, all combine to make me
believe it must be so. Then, alas! alas! it is his own sister
that this cursed libertine has so wronged, and he has been guilty
of a horrible, horrible crime. Oh! I am cruelly punished for my
youthful folly and sin."
Isabelle at length opened her eyes, and her first look fell upon
the prince, holding the ring that he had drawn from her finger.
It seemed to her as if she had seen his face before--but in
youth, without the gray hair and beard. It seemed also to be an
aged copy of the portrait over the chimney-piece in her room, and
a feeling of profound veneration filled her heart as she gazed at
him. She saw, too, her beloved de Sigognac kneeling beside her,
watching her with tenderest devotion; and the worthy tyrant as
well--both safe and sound. To the horrors of the terrible
struggle had succeeded the peace and security of deliverance. She
had nothing more to fear, for her friends or for herself--how
could she ever be thankful enough?
The prince, who had been gazing at her with passionate
earnestness, as if her fair face possessed an irresistible charm
for him, now addressed her in low, moved tones:
"Mademoiselle, will you kindly tell me how you came by this ring,
which recalls very dear and sacred memories to me? Has it been
long in your possession?"
"I have had it ever since my infancy; it is the only thing that
my poor mother left me," Isabelle replied, with gentle dignity.
"And who was your mother? Will you, tell me something about her?"
continued the prince, with increasing emotion.
"Her name was Cornelia, and she was an actress, belonging to the
same troupe that I am a member of now."
"Cornelia! then there is no possible doubt about it,' murmured
the prince to himself, in great agitation. "Yes, it is certainly
she whom I have been seeking all these years--and now to find her
thus!"
Then, controlling his emotion, he resumed his usual calm,
majestic demeanour, and turning back to Isabelle, said to her,
"Permit me to keep this ring for the present; I will soon give it
back to you."
"I am content to leave it in your lordship's hands," the young
actress replied, in whose mind the memory of a face, that she had
seen long years ago bending over her cradle, was growing clearer
and more distinct every moment.
"Gentlemen," said the prince, turning to de Sigognac and his
companions, "under any other circumstances I might find your
presence here, in my chateau, with arms in your hands,
unwarranted, but I am aware of the necessity that drove you to
forcibly invade this mansion, hitherto sacred from such scenes as
this--I know that violence must be met with violence, and
justifies it; therefore I shall take no further notice of what
has happened here to-night, and you need have no fears of any
evil consequences to yourselves because of your share in it. But
where is the Duke of Vallombreuse? that degenerate son who
disgraces my old age."
As if in obedience to his father's call, the young duke at that
moment appeared upon the threshold of the door leading into what
had been Isabelle's apartment, supported by Malartic. He was
frightfully. pale, and his clinched hand pressed a handkerchief
tightly upon his wounded chest. He came forward with difficulty,
looking like a ghost. Only a strong effort of will kept him from
falling--an effort that gave to his face the immobility of a
marble mask. He had heard the voice of his father, whom, depraved
and shameless as he was, he yet respected and dreaded, and he
hoped to be able to conceal his wound from him. He bit his lips
so as not to cry out or groan in his agony, and resolutely
swallowed down the bloody foam that kept rising and filling his
mouth. He even took off his hat, in spite of the frightful pain
the raising of his arm caused him, and stood uncovered and silent
before his angry parent.
"Sir," said the prince, severely, "your misdeeds transcend all
limits, and your behaviour is such that I shall be forced to
implore the king to send you to prison, or into exile. You are
not fit to be at large. Abduction--imprisonment--criminal
assault. These are not simple gallantries; and though I might be
willing to pardon and overlook many excesses, committed in the
wildness of licentious youth, I never could bring myself to
forgive a deliberate and premeditated crime. Do you know, you
monster," he continued approaching Vallombreuse, and whispering
in his ear, so that no one else could hear, "do you know who this
young girl is? this good and chaste Isabelle, whom you have
forcibly abducted, in spite of her determined and virtuous
resistance! She is your own sister!
"May she replace the son you are about to lose," the young duke
replied, attacked by a sudden faintness, and an agony of pain
which he felt that he could not long endure and live; "but I am
not as guilty as you suppose. Isabelle is pure--stainless. I
swear it, by the God before whom I must shortly appear. Death
does not lie, and you may believe what I say, upon the word of a
dying gentleman."
These words were uttered loudly and distinctly, so as to be heard
by all. Isabelle turned her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, upon
de Sigognac, and read in those of her true and faithful lover
that he had not waited for the solemn attestation, "in extremis,"
of the Duke of Vallombreuse to believe in the perfect purity of
her whom he adored.
"But what is the matter?" asked the prince, holding out his hand
to his son, who staggered and swayed to and fro in spite of
Malartic's efforts to support him, and whose face was fairly
livid.
"Nothing, father," answered Vallombreuse, in a scarcely
articulate voice, "nothing--only I am dying"--and he fell at full
length on the floor before the prince could clasp him in his
arms, as he endeavoured to do.
"He did not fall on his face," said Jacquemin Lampourde,
sententiously; "it's nothing but a fainting fit. He may escape
yet. We duellists are familiar with this sort of thing, my lord;
a great deal more so than most medical men, and you may depend
upon what I say."
"A doctor! a doctor!" cried the prince, forgetting his anger as
he saw his son lying apparently lifeless at his feet. "Perhaps
this man is right, and there may be some hope for him yet. A
fortune to whomsoever will save my son!--my only son!--the last
scion of a noble race. Go! run quickly! What are you about
there?--don't you understand me? Go, I say, and run as fast as
you
can; take the fleetest horse in the stable."
Whereupon two of the imperturbable lackeys, who had held their
torches throughout this exciting scene without moving a muscle,
hastened off to execute their master's orders. Some of his own
servants now came forward, raised up the unconscious Duke of
Vallombreuse with every possible care and precaution, and by his
father's command carried him to his own room and laid him on his
own bed,the aged prince following, with a face from which grief
and anxiety had already driven away all traces of anger. He saw
his race extinct in the death of this son, whom he so dearly
loved--despite his fault--and whose vices he forgot for the
moment, remembering only his brilliant and lovable qualities. A
profound melancholy took complete possession of him, as he stood
for a few moments plunged in a sorrowful reverie that everybody
respected.
Isabelle, entirely revived, and no longer feeling at all faint,
bad risen to her feet, and now stood between de Sigognac and the
tyrant, adjusting, with a trembling hand, her disordered dress
and dishevelled hair. Lampourde and Scapin had retired to a
little distance from them, and held themselves modestly aloof,
whilst the men within, still bound hand and foot, kept as quiet
as possible; fearful of their fate if brought to the prince's
notice. At length that aged nobleman returned, and breaking the
terrible silence that had weighed upon all, said, in severe
tones, "Let all those who placed their services at the
disposition of the Duke of Vallombreuse, to aid him in indulging
his evil passions and commiting a terrible crime, quit this
chateau instantly. I will refrain from placing you in the hands
of the public executioner, though you richly deserve it. Go now!
vanish! get ye back to your lairs! and rest assured that justice
will not fail to overtake you at last."
These words were not complimentary, but the trembling offenders
were thankful to get off so easily, and the ruffians, whom
Lampourde and Scapin had unbound, followed Malartic down the
stairs in silence, without daring to claim their promised reward.
When they had disappeared, the prince advanced and took Isabelle
by the hand, and gently detaching her from the group of which she
had formed a part, led her over to where he had been standing,
and kept her beside him.
"Stay here, mademoiselle," he said; "your place is henceforth by
my side. It is the least that you can do to fulfil your duty as
my daughter, since you are the innocent means of depriving me of
my son." And he wiped away a tear, that, despite all his efforts
to control his grief, rolled down his withered cheek. Then
turning to de Sigognac, he said, with an incomparably noble
gesture, "Sir, you are at liberty to withdraw, with your brave
companions. Isabelle will have nothing to fear under her father's
protection, and this chateau will be her home for the present.
Now that her birth is made known it is not fitting that
my daughter should return to Paris with you. I thank you, though
it costs me the hope of perpetuating my race, for having spared
my son a disgraceful action--what do I say? An abominable crime.
I would rather have a bloodstain on my escutcheon than a
dishonourable blot. Since Vallombreuse was infamous in his
conduct, you have done well to kill him. You have acted like a
true gentleman, which I am assured that you are, in chivalrously
protecting weakness, innocence and virtue. You are nobly in the
right. That my daughter's honour has been preserved unstained, I
owe to you--and it compensates me for the loss of my son--at
least my reason tells me that it should do so; but the father's
heart rebels, and unjust ideas of revenge might arise, which I
should find it difficult to conquer and set at rest. Therefore
you had better go your way now, and whatever the result may be I
will not pursue or molest you. I will try to forget that a
terrible necessity turned your sword against my son's life."
"My lord," said de Sigognac, with profound respect, "I feel so
keenly for your grief as a father, that I would have accepted any
reproaches, no matter how bitter and unjust, from you, without
one word of protest or feeling of resentment; even though I
cannot reproach myself for my share in this disastrous conflict.
I do not wish to say anything to justify myself in your eyes, at
the expense of the unhappy Duke of Vallombreuse, but I beg you to
believe that this quarrel was not of my seeking. He persistently
threw himself in my way, and I have done everything I could to
spare him, in more than one encounter. Even here it was his own
blind fury that led to his being wounded. I leave Isabelle, who
is dearer to me than my own soul, in your hands, and shall grieve
my whole life long for this sad victory; which is a veritable and
terrible defeat for me, since it destroys my happiness. Ah! if
only I could have been slain myself, instead of your unhappy son;
it would have been better and happier for me."
He bowed with grave dignity to the prince, who courteously
returned his salute, exchanged a long look, eloquent of
passionate love and heart-breaking regret, with Isabelle, and
went sadly down the grand staircase, followed by his
companions--not however without glancing back more than once at
the sweet girl he was leaving--who to save herself from falling,
leaned heavily against the railing of the landing, sobbing as if
her heart would break, and pressing a handkerchief to her
streaming eyes. And, so strange a thing is the human heart, the
Baron de Sigognac departed much comforted by the bitter grief and
tears of her whom he so devotedly loved and worshipped. He and
his friends went on foot to the little wood where they had left
their horses tied to the trees, found them undisturbed, mounted
and returned to Paris.
"What do you think, my lord, of all these wonderful events?" said
the tyrant, after a long silence, to de Sigognac, beside whom he
was riding. "It all ends up like a regular tragi-comedy. Who
would ever have dreamed, in the midst of the melee, of the sudden
entrance upon the scene of the grand old princely father,
preceded by torches, and coming to put a little wholesome
restraint on the too atrociously outrageous pranks of his
dissolute young son? And then the recognition of Isabelle as his
daughter, by means of the ring with a peculiar device of his own
engraved upon it; haven't you seen exactly the same sort of thing
on the stage? But, after all, it is not so surprising perhaps as
it seems at the first glance--since the theatre is only a copy of
real life. Therefore, real life should resemble it, just as the
original does the portrait, eh? I have always heard that our
sweet little actress was of noble birth. Blazius and old Mme.
Leonarde remember seeing the prince when he was devoted to
Cornelia. The duenna has often tried to persuade Isabelle to seek
out her father, but she is of too modest and gentle a nature to
take a step of that kind; not wishing to intrude upon a family
that might reject her, and willing to content herself in her own
lowly, position."
"Yes, I knew all about that," rejoined de Sigognac, "for Isabelle
told me some time ago her mother's history, and spoke of the
ring; but without attaching any importance to the fact of her
illustrious origin. It is very evident, however, from the
nobility and delicacy of her nature, without any other proof,
that princely blood flows in her veins; and also the refined,
pure, elevated type of her beauty testifies to her descent. But
what a terrible fatality that this cursed Vallombreuse should
turn out to be her brother! There is a dead body between us
now--a stream of blood separates us--and yet, I could not save
her honour in any other way. Unhappy mortal that I am! I have
myself created the obstacle upon which my love is wrecked, and
killed my hopes of future bliss with the very sword that defended
the purity of the woman I adore. In guarding her I love, I have
put her away from me forever. How could I go now and present
myself to Isabelle with blood-stained hands? Alas! that the blood
which I was forced to shed in her defence should have been her
brother's. Even if she, in her heavenly goodness, could forgive
me, and look upon me without a feeling of horror, the prince, her
father, would repulse and curse me as the murderer of his only
son. I was born, alas! under an unlucky star."
"Yes, it is all very sad and lamentable, certainly," said the
tyrant; "but worse entanglements than this have come out all
right in the end. You must remember that the Duke of Vallombreuse
is only half-brother to Isabelle, and that they were aware of the
relationship but for a few minutes before he fell dead at our
feet; which must make a great difference in her feelings. And
besides, she hated that overbearing nobleman, who pursued her so
cruelly with his violent and scandalous gallantries. The prince
himself was far from being satisfied with his wretched son--who
was ferocious as Nero, dissolute as Heliogabalus, and perverse as
Satan himself, and who would have been hanged ten times over if
he had not been a duke. Do not be so disheartened! things may
turn out a great deal better than you think now."
"God grant it, my good Herode," said de Sigognac fervently. "But
naturally I cannot feel happy about it. It would have been far
better for all if I had been killed instead of the duke, since
Isabelle would have been safe from his criminal pursuit under her
father's care. And then, I may as well tell you all, a secret
horror froze the very marrow in my bones when I saw that handsome
young man, but a moment before so full of life, fire, and
passion, fall lifeless, pale and stiff at my feet. Herode, the
death of a man is a grave thing, and though I cannot suffer from
remorse for this one, since I have committed no crime, still, all
the time I see Vallombreuse before me, lying, motionless and
ghastly, with the blood oozing slowly from his wound. It haunts
me. I cannot drive the horrid sight away."
"That is all wrong," said the tyrant, soothingly--for the other
was much excited--"for you could not have done otherwise. Your
conscience should not reproach you. You have acted throughout,
from the very beginning to the end, like the noble gentleman that
you are. These scruples are owing to exhaustion, to the
feverishness due to the excitement you have gone through, and the
chill from the night air. We will gallop on swiftly in a moment,
to set our blood flowing more freely, and drive away these sad
thoughts of yours. But one thing must be promptly done; you must
quit Paris, forthwith, and retire for a time to some quiet
retreat, until all this trouble is forgotten. The violent death
of the Duke of Vallombreuse will make a stir at the court, and in
the city, no matter how much pains may be taken to keep the facts
from the public, and, although he was not at all popular, indeed
very much the reverse, there will be much regret expressed, and
you will probably be severely blamed. But now let us put spurs to
these lazy steeds of ours, and try to get on a little faster."
While they are galloping towards Paris, we will return to the
chateau--as quiet now as it had been noisy a little while before.
In the young duke's room, a candelabrum, with several branches,
stood on a round table, so that the light from the candles fell
upon the bed, where he lay with closed eyes, as motionless as a
corpse, and as pale. The walls of the large chamber, above a high
wainscot of ebony picked out with gold, were hung with superb
tapestry, representing the history of Medea and Jason, with all
its murderous and revolting details. Here, Medea was seen cutting
the body of Pelias into pieces, under pretext of restoring his
youth--there, the madly jealous woman and unnatural mother was
murdering her own children; in another panel she was fleeing,
surfeited with vengeance, in her chariot, drawn by huge dragons
breathing out flames of fire. The tapestry was certainly
magnificent in quality and workmanship, rich in colouring,
artistic in design, and very costly--but inexpressibly repulsive.
These mythological horrors gave the luxurious room an intensely
disagreeable, lugubrious aspect, and testified to the natural
ferocity and cruelty of the person who had selected them. Behind
the bed the crimson silk curtains had been drawn apart, exposing
to view the representation of Jason's terrible conflict with the
fierce, brazen bulls that guarded the golden fleece, and
Vallombreuse, lying senseless below them, looked as if he might
have been one of their victims. Various suits of clothes, of the
greatest richness and elegance, which had been successively tried
on and rejected, were scattered about, and in a splendid great
Japanese vase, standing on an ebony table near the head of the
bed, was a bouquet of beautiful flowers, destined to replace the
one Isabelle had already refused to receive--its glowing tints
making a strange contrast with the death-like face, which was
whiter than the snowy pillow it rested on. The prince, sitting in
an arm-chair beside the bed, gazed at his unconscious son with
mournful intentness, and bent down from time to time to listen at
the slightly parted lips; but no fluttering breath came through
them; all was still. Never had the young duke looked handsomer.
The
haughty, fierce expression, habitual with him, had given place to
a serenity that was wonderfully beautiful, though so like death.
As the father contemplated the perfect face and form, so soon to
crumble into dust, he forgot, in his overwhelming grief, that the
soul of a demon had animated it, and he thought sorrowfully of
the great name that had been revered and honoured for centuries
past, but which could not go down to centuries to come. More even
than the death of his son did he mourn for the exinction of his
home.
Isabelle stood at the foot of the bed, with clasped hands,
praying with her whole soul for this new-found brother, who had
expiated his crime with his life--the crime of loving too much,
which woman pardons so easily.
The prince, who had been for some time holding his son's icy cold
hand between both his own, suddenly thought that he could feel a
slight warmth in it, and not realizing that he himself had
imparted it, allowed himself to hope again.
"Will the doctor never come?" he cried impatiently; "something
may yet be done; I am persuaded of it."
Even as he spoke the door opened, and the surgeon appeared,
followed by an assistant carrying a case of instruments. He bowed
to the prince, and without saying one word went straight to the
bedside, felt the patient's pulse, put his hand over his heart,
and shook his head despondingly. However, to make sure, he drew a
little mirror of polished steel from his pocket, removed it from
its case, and held it for a moment over the parted lips; then,
upon examining its surface closely, he found that a slight
dimness was visible upon it. Surprised at this unexpected
indication of life, he repeated the experiment, and again the
little mirror was dimmed--Isabelle and the prince meantime
breathlessly watching every movement, and even the expression of
the doctor's face.
"Life is not entirely extinct," he said at last, turning to the
anxious father, as he wiped the polished surface of his tiny
mirror. "The patient still breathes, and as long as there is life
there is hope, But do not give yourself up to a premature joy
that might render your grief more bitter afterwards. I only say
that the Duke of Vallombreuse has not yet breathed his last; that
is all. Now, I am going to probe the wound, which perhaps is not
fatal, as it did not kill him at once."
"You must not stay here, Isabelle," said the prince, tenderly;
"such sights are too trying for a young girl like you. Go to your
own room now, my dear, and I will let you know the doctor's
verdict as soon as he has pronounced it."
Isabelle accordingly withdrew, and was conducted to an apartment
that had been made ready for her; the one she had occupied being
all in disorder after the terrible scenes that had been enacted
there.
The surgeon proceeded with his examination, and when it was
finished said to the prince, "My lord, will you please to order a
cot put up in that corner yonder, and have a light supper sent in
for my assistant and myself? We shall remain for the night with
the Duke of Vallombreuse, and take turns in watching him. I must
be with him constantly, so as to note every symptom; to combat
promptly those that are unfavorable, and aid those that are the
reverse. Your highness may trust everything to me, and feel
assured that all that human skill and science can do towards
saving your son's life shall be faithfully done. Let me advise
you to go to your own room now and try to get some rest; I think
I may safely answer for my patient's life until the morning."
A little calmed and much encouraged by this assurance, the prince
retired to his own apartment, where every hour a servant brought
him a bulletin from the sick-room.
As to Isabelle, lying in her luxurious bed and vainly trying to
sleep, she lived over again in imagination all the wonderful as
well as terrible experiences of the last two days, and tried to
realize her new position; that she was now the acknowledged
daughter of a mighty prince, than whom only royalty was higher;
that the dreaded Duke of Vallombreuse, so handsome and winning
despite his perversity, was no longer a bold lover to be feared
and detested, but a brother, whose passion, if he lived, would
doubtless be changed into a pure and calm fraternal affection.
This chateau, no longer her prison, had become her home, and she
was treated by all with the respect and consideration due to the
daughter of its master. From what had seemed to be her ruin had
arisen her good fortune, and a destiny radiant, unhoped-for, and
beyond her wildest flights of fancy. Yet, surrounded as she was
by everything to make her happy and content, Isabelle was far
from feeling so--she was astonished at herself for being sad and
listless, instead of joyous and exultant--but the thought of de
Sigognac, so infinitely dear to her, so far more precious than
any other earthly blessing, weighed upon her heart, and the
separation from him was a sorrow for which nothing could console
her. Yet, now that their relative positions were so changed,
might not a great happiness be in store for her? Did not this
very change bring her nearer in reality to that true, brave,
faithful, and devoted lover, though for the moment they were
parted? As a poor nameless actress she had refused to accept his
offered hand, lest such an alliance should be disadvantageous to
him and stand in the way of his advancement, but now--how
joyfully would she give herself to him. The daughter of a great
and powerful prince would be a fitting wife for the Baron de
Sigognac. But if he were the murderer of her father's only son;
ah! then indeed they could never join hands over a grave. And
even if the young duke should recover, he might cherish a lasting
resentment for the man who had not only dared to oppose his
wishes and designs, but had also defeated and wounded him. As to
the prince, good and generous though he was, still he might not
be able to bring himself to look with favour upon the man who had
almost deprived him of his son. Then, too, he might desire some
other alliance for his new-found daughter--it was not
impossible--but in her inmost heart she promised herself to be
faithful to her first and only love; to take refuge in a convent
rather than accept the hand of any other; even though that other
were as handsome as Apollo, and gifted as the prince of a fairy
tale. Comforted by this secret vow, by which she dedicated her
life and love to de Sigognac, whether their destiny should give
them to each other or keep them asunder, Isabelle was just
falling into a sweet sleep when a slight sound made her open her
eyes, and they fell upon Chiquita, standing at the foot of the
bed and gazing at her with a thoughtful, melancholy air.
"What is it, my dear child?" said Isabelle, in her sweetest
tones. "You did not go away with the others, then? I am glad; and
if you would like to stay here with me, Chiquita, I will keep you
and care for you tenderly; as is justly due to you, my dear, for
you have done a great deal for me."
"I love you dearly," answered Chiquita, "but I cannot stay with
you while Agostino lives; he is my master, I must follow him. But
I have one favour to beg before I leave you; if you think that I
have earned the pearl necklace now, will you kiss me? No one ever
did but you, and it was so sweet."
"Indeed I will, and with all my heart," said Isabelle, taking the
child's thin face between her hands and kissing her warmly on her
brown cheeks, which flushed crimson under the soft caress.
"And now, good-bye!" said Chiquita, when after a few moments of
silence she had resumed her usual sang-froid. She turned quickly
away, but, catching sight of the knife she had given Isabelle,
which lay upon the dressing-table, she seized it eagerly, saying,
"Give me back my knife now; you will not need it any more," and
vanished.
CHAPTER XVIII. A FAMILY PARTY
The next morning found the young Duke of Vallombreuse still
living, though his life hung by so slender a thread, that the
surgeon, who anxiously watched his every breath, feared from
moment to moment that it might break. He was a learned and
skilful man, this same Maitre Laurent, who only needed some
favourable opportunity to bring him into notice and make him as
celebrated as he deserved to be. His remarkable talents and skill
had only been exercised thus far "in anima vili," among the lower
orders of society--whose living or dying was a matter of no
moment whatever. But now had come at last the chance so long
sighed for in secret, and he felt that the recovery of his
illustrious patient was of paramount importance to himself. The
worthy doctor's amour propre and ambition were both actively
engaged in this desperate duel he was fighting with Death, and he
set his teeth and determined that the victory must rest with him.
In order to keep the whole glory of the triumph for himself, he
had persuaded the prince--not without difficulty--to renounce his
intention of sending for the most celebrated surgeons in Paris,
assuring him that he himself was perfectly capable to do all that
could be done, and pleading that nothing was more dangerous than
a change of treatment in such a case as this. Maitre Laurent
conquered, and feeling that there was now no danger of his being
pushed into the background, threw his whole heart and strength
into the struggle; yet many times during that anxious night he
feared that his patient's life was slipping away from his
detaining grasp, and almost repented him of having assumed the
entire responsibility. But with the morning came encouragement,
and as the watchful surgeon stood at the bedside, intently gazing
upon the ghastly face on the pillow, he murmured to himself:
"No, he will not die--his countenance has lost that terrible,
hippocratic look that had settled upon it last evening when I
first saw him--his pulse is stronger, his breathing free and
natural. Besides, he MUST live--his recovery will make my
fortune. I must and will tear him out of the grim clutches of
Death--fine, handsome, young fellow that he is, and the heir and
hope of his noble family--it will be long ere his tomb need be
made ready to receive him. He will help me to get away from this
wretched little village, where I vegetate ignobly, and eat my
heart out day by day. Now for a bold stroke!--at the risk of
producing fever--at all risks--I shall venture to give him a dose
of that wonder-working potion of mine." Opening his case of
medicines, he took out several small vials, containing different
preparations--some red as a ruby, others green as an
emerald--this one yellow as virgin gold, that bright and
colourless as a diamond--and on each one a small label bearing a
Latin inscription. Maitre Laurent, though he was perfectly sure
of himself, carefully read the inscriptions upon those he had
selected several times over, held up the tiny vials one after
another, where a ray of sunshine struck upon them, and looked
admiringly through the bright transparent liquids they
contained--then, measuring with the utmost care a few drops from
each, compounded a potion after a secret recipe of his own; which
he made a mystery of, and refused to impart to his fellow
practitioners. Rousing his sleeping assistant, he ordered him to
raise the patient's head a little, while, with a small spatula,
he pried the firmly set teeth apart sufficiently to allow the
liquid he had prepared to trickle slowly into the mouth. As it
reached the throat there was a spasmodic contraction that gave
Maitre Laurent an instant of intense anxiety--but it was only
momentary, and the remainder of the dose was swallowed easily and
with almost instantaneous effect. A slight tinge of colour showed
itself in the pallid cheeks, the eyelids trembled and half
unclosed, and the hand that had lain inert and motionless upon
the counterpane stirred a little. Then the young duke heaved
a deep sigh, and opening his eyes looked vacantly in about him,
like one awakening from a dream, or returning from those
mysterious regions whither the soul takes flight when
unconsciousness holds this mortal frame enthralled. Only a
glance, and the long eyelashes fell again upon the pale
cheeks--but a wonderful change had passed over the countenance.
"I staked everything on that move," said Maitre Laurent to
himself, with a long breath of relief, "and I have won. It was
either kill or cure--and it has not killed him. All glory be to
Aesculapius, Hygeia, and Hippocrates!"
At this moment a hand noiselessly put aside the hangings over the
door, and the venerable head of the prince appeared--looking ten
years older for the agony and dread of the terrible night just
passed.
"How is he, Maitre Laurent?" he breathed, in broken, scarcely
audible tones.
The surgeon put his finger to his lips, and with the other hand
pointed to the young duke's face-still raised a little on the
pillows, and no longer wearing its death-like look; then, with
the light step habitual with those who are much about the sick,
he went over to the prince, still standing on the threshold, and
drawing him gently outside and away from the door, said in a low
voice, "Your highness can see that the patient's condition, so
far from growing worse, has decidedly improved. Certainly he is
not out of danger yet--his state is very critical--but unless
some new and totally unforeseen complication should arise, which
I shall use every effort to prevent, I think that we can pull him
through, and that he will be able to enjoy life again as if he
had never been hurt."
The prince's care-worn face brightened and his fine eyes flashed
at these hopeful words; he stepped forward to enter the
sick-room, but Maitre Laurent respectfully opposed his doing so.
"Permit me, my lord, to prevent your approaching your son's
bedside just now--doctors are often very disagreeable, you know,
and have to impose trying conditions upon those to whom their
patients are dear. I beseech you not to go near the Duke of
Vallombreuse at present. Your beloved presence might, in the
excessively weak and exhausted condition of my patient, cause
dangerous agitation. Any strong emotion would be instantly fatal
to him, his hold upon life is still so slight. Perfect
tranquility is his only safety. If all goes well--as I trust and
believe that it will--in a few days he will have regained his
strength in a measure, his wound will be healing, and you can
probably be with him as much as you like, without any fear of
doing him harm. I know that this is very trying to your highness,
but, believe me, it is necessary to your son's well-being."
The prince, very much relieved, and yielding readily to the
doctor's wishes, returned to his own apartment; where he occupied
himself with some religious reading until noon, when the
major-domo came to announce that dinner was on the table.
"Go and tell my daughter, the Comtesse Isabelle de Lineuil--such
is the title by which she is to be addressed henceforth--that I
request her to join me at dinner," said the prince to the
major-domo, who hastened off to obey this order.
Isabelle went quickly down the grand staircase with a light step,
and smiled to herself as she passed through the noble hall where
she had been so frightened by the two figures in armour, on the
occasion of her bold exploring expedition the first night after
her arrival at the chateau. Everything looked very different
now--the bright sunshine was pouring in at the windows, and large
fires of juniper, and other sweet-smelling woods, had completely
done away with the damp, chilly, heavy atmosphere that pervaded
the long disused rooms when she was in them before.
In the splendid dining-room she found a table sumptuously spread,
and her father already seated at it, in his large, high-backed,
richly carved chair, behind which stood two lackeys, in superb
liveries. As she approached him she made a most graceful curtsey,
which had nothing in the least theatrical about it, and would
have met with approbation even in courtly circles. A servant was
holding the chair destined for her, and with some timidity,
but no apparent embarrassment, she took her seat opposite to the
prince. She was served with soup and wine, and then with course
after course of delicate, tempting viands; but she could not eat
her heart was too full--her nerves were still quivering, from the
terror and excitement of the preceding day and night.
She was dazzled and agitated by this sudden change of fortune,
anxious about her brother, now lying at the point of death, and,
above all, troubled and grieved at her separation from her
lover--so she could only make a pretence of dining, and played
languidly with the food on her plate.
"You are eating nothing, my dear comtesse," said the prince, who
had been furtively watching her; "I pray you try to do better
with this bit of partridge I am sending you.
At this title of comtesse, spoken as a matter of course, and in
such a kind, tender tone, Isabelle looked up at the prince with
astonishment written in her beautiful, deep blue eyes, which
seemed to plead timidly for an explanation.
"Yes, Comtesse de Lineuil; it is the title which goes with an
estate I have settled on you, my dear child, and which has long
been destined for you. The name of Isabelle alone, charming
though it be, is not suitable for my daughter."
Isabelle, yielding to the impulse of the moment--as the servants
had retired and she was alone with her father--rose, and going to
his side, knelt down and kissed his hand, in token of gratitude
for his delicacy and generosity.
"Rise, my child," said he, very tenderly, and much moved, "and
return to your place. What I have done is only just. It calls for
no thanks. I should have done it long ago if it had been in my
power. In the terrible circumstances that have reunited us, my
dear daughter, I can see the finger of Providence, and through
them I have learned your worth. To your virtue alone it is due
that a horrible crime was not committed, and I love and honour
you for it; even though it may cost me the loss of my only son.
But God will be merciful and preserve his life, so that he may
repent of having so persecuted and outraged the purest innocence.
Maitre Laurent, in whom I have every confidence, gives me some
hope this morning; and when I looked at Vallombreuse--from the
threshold of his room only--I could see that the seal of death
was no longer upon his face."
They were interrupted by the servants, bringing in water to wash
their fingers, in a magnificent golden bowl, and this ceremony
having been duly gone through with, the prince threw down his
napkin and led the way into the adjoining salon, signing to
Isabelle to follow him. He seated himself in a large arm-chair in
front of the blazing wood fire, and bidding Isabelle place
herself close beside him, took her hand tenderly between both of
his, and looked long and searchingly at this lovely young
daughter, so strangely restored to him. There was much of sadness
mingled with the joy that shone in his eyes, for he was still
very anxious about his son, whose life was in such jeopardy; but
as he gazed upon Isabelle's sweet face the joy predominated, and
he smiled very lovingly upon the new comtesse, as he began to
talk to her of long past days.
"Doubtless, my beloved child, in the midst of the strange events
that have brought us together, in such an odd, romantic, almost
supernatural manner, the thought has suggested itself to your
mind, that during all the years that have passed since your
infancy I have not sought you out, and that chance alone has at
last restored the long-lost child to her neglectful father. But
you are so good and noble that I know you would not dwell upon
such an idea, and I hope that you do not so misjudge me as to
think me capable of such culpable neglect, now that you are
getting a little better acquainted with me. As you must know,
your mother, Cornelia, was excessively proud and high-spirited.
She resented every affront, whether intended as such or not, with
extraordinary violence, and when I was obliged, in spite of my
most heartfelt wishes, to separate myself from her, and
reluctantly submit to a marriage that I could not avoid, she
obstinately refused to allow me to provide for her maintenance in
comfort and luxury, as well as for you and your education.
All that I gave her, and settled on her, she sent back to me with
the most exaggerated disdain, and inexorably refused to receive
again. I could not but admire, though I so deplored, her lofty
spirit, and proud rejection of every benefit which I desired to
confer upon her, and I left in the hands of a trusty agent, for
her, the deeds of all the landed property and houses I had
destined for her, as well as the money and jewels--so that she
could at any time reclaim them, if she would--hoping that she
might see fit to change her mind when the first flush of anger
was over. But, to my great chagrin, she persisted in her refusal
of everything, and changing her name, fled from Paris into the
provinces; where she was said to have joined a roving band of
comedians. Soon after that I was sent by my sovereign on several
foreign missions that kept me long away from France, and I lost
all trace of her and you. In vain were all my efforts to find you
both, until at last I heard that she was dead. Then I redoubled
my diligence in the search for my little motherless daughter,
whom I had so tenderly loved; but all in vain. No trace of her
could I find. I heard, indeed, of many children among these
strolling companies, and carefully investigated each case that
came to my knowledge; but it always ended in disappointment.
Several women, indeed, tried to palm off their little girls upon
me as my child, and I had to be on my guard against fraud; but I
never failed to sift the matter thoroughly, even though I knew
that deceit was intended, lest I should unawares reject the dear
little one I was so anxiously seeking. At last I was almost
forced to conclude that you too had perished; yet a secret
intuition always told me that you were still in the land of the
living. I used to sit for hours and think of how sweet and lovely
you were in infancy; how your little rosy fingers used to play
with and pull my long mustache--which was black then, my
dear--when I leaned over to kiss you in your cradle--recalling
all your pretty, engaging little baby tricks, remembering how
fond and proud I was of you, and grieving over the loss that I
seemed to feel more and more acutely as the years went on. The
birth of my son only made me long still more intensely for
you, instead of consoling me for your loss, or banishing you from
my memory, and when I saw him decked with rich laces and ribbons,
like a royal babe, and playing with his jewelled rattle, I would
think with an aching heart that perhaps at that very moment my
dear little daughter was suffering from cold and hunger, or the
unkind treatment of those who had her in charge. Then I regretted
deeply that I had not taken you away from your mother in the very
beginning, and had you brought up as my daughter should be--but
when you were born I did not dream of our parting. As years
rolled on new anxieties tortured me. I knew that you would be
beautiful, and how much you would have to suffer from the
dissolute men who hover about all young and pretty actresses--my
blood would boil as I thought of the insults and affronts to
which you might be subjected, and from which I was powerless to
shield you--no words can tell what I suffered. Affecting a taste
for the theatre that I did not possess, I never let an
opportunity pass to see every company of players that I could
hear of--hoping to find you at last among them. But although I
saw numberless young actresses, about your age, not one of them
could have been you, my dear child--of that I was sure. So at
last
I abandoned the hope of finding my longlost daughter, though it
was a bitter trial to feel that I must do so. The princess, my
wife, had died three years after our marriage, leaving me only
one child--Vallombreuse--whose ungovernable disposition has
always given me much trouble and anxiety. A few days ago, at
Saint Germain, I heard some of the courtiers speak in terms of
high praise of Herode's troupe, and what they said made me
determine to go and see one of their representations without
delay, while my heart beat high with a new hope--for they
especially lauded a young actress, called Isabelle; whose
graceful, modest, high-bred air they declared to be irresistible,
and her acting everything that could be desired--adding that she
was as virtuous as she was beautiful, and that the boldest
libertines respected her immaculate purity. Deeply agitated by a
secret presentiment, I hastened back to Paris, and went to
the theatre that very night. There I saw you, my darling, and
though it would seem to be impossible for even a father's eye to
recognise, in the beautiful young woman of twenty, the babe that
he had kissed in its cradle, and had never beheld since, still I
knew you instantly--the very moment you came in sight--and I
perceived, with a heart swelling with happiness and thankfulness,
that you were all that I could wish. Moreover, I recognised the
face of an old actor, who had been I knew in the troupe that
Cornelia joined when she fled from Paris, and I resolved to
address myself first to him; so as not to startle you by too
abrupt a disclosure of my claims upon you. But when I sent the
next morning to the hotel in the Rue Dauphine, I learned that
Herode's troupe had just gone to give a representation at a
chateau in the environs of Paris, and would be absent three days.
I should have endeavoured to wait patiently for their return, had
not a brave fellow, who used to be in my service, and has my
interest at heart, come to inform me that the Duke of
Vallombreuse, being madly in love with a young actress named
Isabelle, who resisted his suit with the utmost firmness and
determination, had arranged to gain forcible possession of her in
the course of the day's journey--the expedition into the country
being gotten up for that express purpose--that he had a band of
hired ruffians engaged to carry out his nefarious purpose and
bring his unhappy victim to this chateau--and that he had come to
warn me, fearing lest serious consequences should ensue to my
son, as the young actress would be accompanied by brave and
faithful friends, who were armed, and would defend her to the
death. This terrible news threw me into a frightful state of
anxiety and excitement. Feeling sure, as I did, that you were my
own daughter, I shuddered at the thought of the horrible crime
that I might not be in time to prevent, and without one moment's
delay set out for this place-- suffering such agony by the way as
I do not like even to think of. You were already delivered from
danger when I arrived, as you know, and without having suffered
anything beyond the alarm and dread--which must have been
terrible indeed, my poor child! And then, the amethyst ring on
your finger confirmed, past any possibility of doubt, what my
heart had told me, when first my eyes beheld you in the theatre."
"I pray you to believe, dear lord and father," answered Isabelle,
"that I have never accused you of anything, nor considered myself
neglected. Accustomed from my infancy to the roving life of the
troupe I was with, I neither knew nor dreamed of any other. The
little knowledge that I had of the world made me realize that I
should be wrong in wishing to force myself upon an illustrious
family, obliged doubtless by powerful reasons, of which I knew
nothing, to leave me in obscurity. The confused remembrance I had
of my origin sometimes inspired me--when I was very young--with a
certain pride, and I would say to myself, when I noticed the
disdainful air with which great ladies looked down upon us poor
actresses, I also am of noble birth. But I outgrew those fancies,
and only preserved an invincible self-respect, which I have
always cherished. Nothing in the world would have induced me to
dishonour the illustrious blood that flows in my veins. The
disgraceful license of the coulisses, and the loathsome
gallantries lavished upon all actresses, even those who are not
comely, disgusted me from the first, and I have lived in the
theatre almost as if in a convent. The good old pedant has been
like a watchful father to me, and as for Herode, he would have
severely chastised any one who dared to touch me with the tip of
his finger, or even to pronounce a vulgar word in my presence.
Although they are only obscure actors, they are very honourable,
worthy men, and I trust you will he good enough to help them if
they ever find themselves in need of assistance. I owe it partly
to them that I can lift my forehead for your kiss without a blush
of shame, and proudly declare myself worthy, so far as purity is
concerned, to be your daughter. My only regret is to have been
the innocent cause of the misfortune that has overtaken the duke,
your son. I could have wished to enter your family, my dear
father, under more favourable auspices."
"You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my sweet child, for
you could not divine these mysteries, which have been suddenly
disclosed by a combination of circumstances that would be
considered romantic and improbable, even in a novel; and my joy
at finding you as worthy in every way to be my beloved and
honoured daughter, as if you had not lived amid all the dangers
of such a career, makes up for the pain and anxiety caused by the
illness and danger of my son. Whether he lives or dies, I shall
never for one moment blame you for anything in connection with
his misfortune. In any event, it was your virtue and courage that
saved him from being guilty of a crime that I shudder to
contemplate. And now, tell me, who was the handsome young man
among your liberators who seemed to direct the attack, and who
wounded Vallombreuse? An actor doubtless, though it appeared to
me that he had a very noble bearing, and magnificent courage."
"Yes, my dear father," Isabelle replied, with a most lovely and
becoming blush, "he is an actor, a member of our troupe; but if I
may venture to betray his secret, which is already known to the
Duke of Vallombreuse, I will tell you that the so-called Captain
Fracasse conceals under his mask a noble countenance, as indeed
you already know, and under his theatrical pseudonym, the name of
an illustrious family."
"True!" rejoined the prince, "I have heard something about that
already. It would certainly have been astonishing if an ordinary,
low-born actor had ventured upon so bold and rash a course as
running counter to a Duke of Vallombreuse, and actually entering
into a combat with him; it needs noble blood for such daring
acts. Only a gentleman can conquer a gentleman, just as a diamond
can only be cut by a diamond."
The lofty pride of the aged prince found much consolation in the
knowledge that his son had not been attacked and wounded by an
adversary of low origin; there was nothing compromising in a duel
between equals, and he drew a deep breath of relief at thought of
it.
"And pray, what is the real name of this valiant champion?"
smilingly asked the prince, with a roguish twinkle in his dark
eyes--"this dauntless knight, and brave defender of innocence and
purity!"
"He is the Baron de Sigognac," Isabelle replied blushingly, with
a slight trembling perceptible in her sweet, low voice. "I reveal
his name fearlessly to you, my dear father, for you are both too
just and too generous to visit upon his head the disastrous
consequences of a victory that he deplores."
"De Sigognac?" said the prince. "I thought that ancient and
illustrious family was extinct. Is he not from Gascony?"
"Yes; his home is in the neighbourhood of Dax."
"Exactly--and the de Sigognacs have an appropriate coat of arms--
three golden storks on an azure field. Yes, it is as I said, an
ancient and illustrious family--one of the oldest and most
honourable in France. Paramede de Sigognac figured gloriously in
the first crusade. A Raimbaud de Sigognac, the father of this
young man without doubt, was the devoted friend and companion of
Henri IV, in his youth, but was not often seen at court in later
years. it was said that he was embarrassed financially, I
remember."
"So much so, that when our troupe sought refuge of a stormy night
under his roof, we found his son living in a half ruined chateau,
haunted by bats and owls, where his youth was passing in sadness
and misery. We persuaded him to come away with us, fearing that
he would die there of starvation and melancholy--but I never saw
misfortune so bravely borne."
"Poverty is no disgrace," said the prince, "and any noble house
that has preserved its honour unstained may rise again from its
ruins to its ancient height of glory and renown. But why did not
the young baron apply to some of his father's old friends in his
distress? or lay his case before the king, who is the natural
refuge of all loyal gentlemen under such circumstances?"
"Misfortunes such as his are apt to breed timidity, even with the
bravest," Isabelle replied, "and pride deters many a man from
betraying his misery to the world. When the Baron de Sigognac
consented to accompany us to Paris, he hoped to find some
opportunity there to retrieve his fallen fortunes; but it has not
presented itself. In order not to be an expense to the troupe, he
generously and nobly insisted upon taking the place of one of the
actors, who died on the way, and who was a great loss to us. As
he could appear upon the stage always masked, he surely did not
compromise his dignity by it."
"Under this theatrical disguise, I think that, without being a
sorcerer, I can detect a little bit of romance, eh?" said the
prince, with a mischievous smile. "But I will not inquire too
closely; I know how good and true you are well enough not to take
alarm at any respectful tribute paid to your charms. I have not
been with you long enough yet as a father, my sweet child, to
venture upon sermonizing."
As he paused, Isabelle raised her lovely eyes, in which shone the
purest innocence and the most perfect loyalty, to his, and met
his questioning gaze unflinchingly. The rosy flush which the
first mention of de Sigognac's name had called up was gone, and
her countenance showed no faintest sign of embarrassment or
shame. In her pure heart the most searching looks of a father, of
God himself, could have found nothing to condemn. Just at this
point the doctor's assistant was announced, who brought a most
favourable report from the sick-room. He was charged to tell the
prince that his son's condition was eminently satisfactory--a
marked change for the better having taken place; and that Maitre
Laurent considered the danger past--believing that his recovery
was now only a question of time.
A few days later, Vallombreuse, propped up on his pillows,
received a visit from his faithful and devoted friend, the
Chevalier de Vidalinc, whom he had not been permitted to see
earlier. The, prince was sitting by the bedside, affectionately
watching every flitting expression on his son's face, which was
pathetically thin and pale, but handsomer than ever; because the
old haughty, fierce look had vanished, and a soft light, that had
never been in them before, shone in his beautiful eyes, whereat
his father's heart rejoiced exceedingly. Isabelle stood at the
other side of the bed, and the young duke had clasped his thin,
startlingly white fingers round her hand. As he was forbidden to
speak, save in monosyllables--because of his injured lung--he
took this means of testifying his sympathy with her, who had been
the involuntary cause of his being wounded and in danger of
losing his life, and thus made her understand that he cherished
no resentments. The affectionate brother had replaced the fiery
lover, and his illness, in calming his ardent passion, had
contributed not a little to make the transition a less difficult
one than it could possibly have been otherwise. Isabelle was now
for him really and only the Comtesse de Lineuil, his dear sister.
He nodded in a friendly way to Vidalinc, and disengaged his hand
for a moment from Isabelle's to give it to him--it was all that
the doctor would allow--but his eyes were eloquent enough to make
up for his enforced silence.
In the course of a few weeks, Vallombreuse, who had gained
strength rapidly, was able to leave his bed and recline upon a
lounge near the open window; so as to enjoy the mild, delightful
air of spring, that brought colour to his cheeks and light to his
eyes. Isabelle was often with him, and read aloud for hours
together to entertain him; as Maitre Laurent's orders were strict
that he should not talk, even yet, any more than was actually
necessary. One day, when Isabelle had finished a chapter in the
volume from which she was reading to him, and was about to begin
another, he interrupted her, and said, "My dear sister, that book
is certainly very amusing, and the author a man of remarkable wit
and talent; but I must confess that I prefer your charming
conversation to your delightful reading. Do you know, I would not
have believed it possible to gain so much, in losing all hope of
what I desired more ardently than I had ever done anything in my
whole life before. The brother is very much more kindly treated
than the suitor--are you aware of that? You are as sweet and
amiable to the one as you were severe and unapproachable to the
other. I find in this calm, peaceful affection, charms that I had
never dreamed of, and you reveal to me a new side of the feminine
character, hitherto utterly unknown to me. Carried away by
fiery passions, and irritated to madness by any opposition, I was
like the wild huntsman of the ancient legend, who stopped for no
obstacle, but rode recklessly over everything in his path. I
looked upon whatever beautiful woman I was in pursuit of as my
legitimate prey. I scouted the very idea of failure, and deemed
myself irresistible. At the mention of virtue, I only shrugged my
shoulders, and I think I may say, without too much conceit, to
the only woman I ever pursued who did not yield to me, that I had
reason not to put much faith in it. My mother died when I was a
mere baby; you, my sweet sister, were not near me, and I have
never known, until now, all the purity, tenderness, and sublime
courage of which your sex is capable. I chanced to see you. An
irresistible attraction, in which, perhaps, the unknown tie of
blood had its influence, drew me to you, and for the first time
in my life a feeling of respect and esteem mingled with my
passion. Your character delighted me, even when you drove me to
despair. I could not but secretly approve and admire the modest
and courteous firmness with which you rejected my homage. The
more decidedly you repulsed me, the more I felt that you were
worthy of my adoration. Anger and admiration succeeded each other
in my heart, and even in my most violent paroxysms of rage I
always respected you. I descried the angel in the woman, and
bowed to the ascendency of a celestial purity. Now I am happy and
blessed indeed; for I have in you precisely what I needed,
without knowing it--this pure affection, free from all earthly
taint--unalterable--eternal. I possess at last the love of a
soul."
"Yes, my dear brother, it is yours," Isabelle replied; "and it is
a great source of happiness to me that I am able to assure you of
it. You have in me a devoted sister and friend, who will love you
doubly to make up for the years we have lost--above all, now that
you have promised me to correct the faults that have so grieved
and alarmed our dear father, and to exhibit only the good
qualities of which YOU have plenty."
"Oh! you little preacher," cried Vallombreuse, with a bright,
admiring smile; "how you take advantage of my weakness. However,
it is perfectly true that I have been a dreadful monster, but I
really do mean to do better in future--if not for love of virtue
itself, at least to avoid seeing my charming sister put on a
severe, disapproving air, at some atrocious escapade of mine.
Still, I fear that I shall always be Folly, as you will be
Reason."
"If you will persist in paying me such high-flown compliments,"
said Isabelle, with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders, "I
shall certainly resume the reading, and you will have to listen
to a long story that the corsair is just about to relate to the
beautiful princess, his captive, in the cabin of his galley."
"Oh, no! surely I do not deserve such a severe punishment as
that. Even at the risk of appearing garrulous, I do so want to
talk a little. That confounded doctor has kept me mute long
enough in all conscience, and I am tired to death of having the
seal of silence upon my lips, like a statue of Hippocrates."
"But I am afraid you may do yourself harm; remember that your
wound is scarcely healed yet, and the injured lung is still very
irritable. Maitre Laurent laid such stress upon my reading to
you, so that you should keep quiet, and give your chest a good
chance to get strong and well again."
"Maitre Laurent doesn't know what he's talking about, and only
wants to prolong his own importance to me. My lungs work as well
as ever they did. I feel perfectly myself again, and I've a great
mind to order my horse and go for a canter in the forest."
"You had better talk than do such a wildly imprudent thing as
that; it is certainly less dangerous."
"I shall very soon be about again, my sweet little sister, and
then I shall have the pleasure of introducing you into the
society suitable to your rank--where your incomparable grace and
beauty will create a sensation, and bring crowds of adorers to
your feet. From among them you will be able to select a husband,
eh?" "I can have no desire to do anything of that kind,
Vallombreuse, and pray do not think this the foolish declaration
of a girl who would be very sorry to be taken at her word. I am
entirely in earnest, I do assure you. I have bestowed my hand so
often in the last act of the pieces I have played that I am in no
hurry to do it in reality. I do not wish for anything better than
to remain quietly here with the prince and yourself."
"But, my dear girl, a father and brother will not always content
you--do not think it! Such affection cannot satisfy the demands
of the heart forever."
"It will be enough for me, however, and if some day they fail me,
I can take refuge in a convent."
"Heaven forbid! that would be carrying austerity too far
indeed. I pray you never to mention it again, if you have any
regard for my peace of mind. And now tell me, my sweet little
sister, what do you think of my dear friend, the Chevalier de
Vidalinc? does not he seem to be possessed of every qualification
necessary to make a good husband?"
"Doubtless, and the woman that he marries will have a right to
consider herself fortunate but however charming and desirable
your friend may be, my dear Vallombreuse, _I_ shall never be that
woman."
"Well, let him pass, then--but tell me what you think of the
Marquis de l'Estang, who came to see me the other day, and gazed
spell-bound at my lovely sister all the time he was here. He was
so overwhelmed by your surpassing grace, so dazzled by your
exquisite beauty, that he was struck dumb, and when he tried to
pay you pretty compliments, did nothing but stammer and blush.
Aside from this timidity, which made him appear to great
disadvantage, and which your ladyship should readily excuse,
since you yourself were the cause of it, the marquis is an
accomplished and estimable gentleman. He is handsome, young, of
high birth and great wealth. He would do capitally for my fair
sister, and is sure to address himself to the prince--if indeed
be has not already done so--as an aspirant to the honour of an
alliance with her."
"As I have the honour of belonging to this illustrious family,"
said Isabelle a little impatiently, for she was exceedingly
annoyed by this banter, "too much humility would not become me,
therefore I will not say that I consider myself unworthy of such
an alliance; but if the Marquis de l'Estang should ask my hand of
my father, I would refuse him. I have told you, my dear brother,
more than once, that I do not wish to marry--and you know it
too--so pray don't tease me any more about it."
"Oh! what a fierce, determined little woman is this fair sister
of mine. Diana herself was not more inaccessible, in the forests
and valleys of Haemus--yet, if the naughty mythological stories
may be believed, she did at last smile upon a certain Endymion.
You are vexed, because I casually propose some suitable
candidates for the honour of your hand; but you need not be, for,
if THEY do not please you, we will hunt up one who will."
"I am not vexed, my dear brother, but you are certainly talking
far too much for an invalid, and I shall tell Maitre, Laurent to
reprimand you, or not permit you to have the promised bit of fowl
for your supper."
"Oh! if that's the case I will desist at once," said
Vallombreuse, with a droll air of submission, "for I'm as hungry
as an ogre--but rest assured of one thing, my charming sister: No
one shall select your husband but myself."
To put an end to this teasing, Isabelle began to read the
corsair's long story, without paying any attention to the
indignant protests that were made, and Vallombreuse, to revenge
himself, finally closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep;
which feigned slumber soon became real, and Isabelle, perceiving
that it was so, put aside her book and quietly stole away.
This conversation, in which, under all his mischievous banter,
the duke seemed to have a definite and serious purpose in view,
worried Isabelle very much, in spite of her efforts to banish it
from her mind. Could it be that Vallombreuse was nursing a secret
resentment against de Sigognac? He had never once spoken his
name, or referred to him in any way, since he was wounded by him;
and was he trying to place an insurmountable barrier between his
sister and the baron, by bringing about her marriage with
another? or was he simply trying to find out whether the actress
transformed to a countess, had changed in sentiments as well as
in rank? Isabelle could not answer these questions satisfactorily
to herself. As she was the duke's sister, of course the rivalry
between him and de Sigognac could no longer exist; but, on the
other hand, it was difficult to imagine that such a haughty,
vindictive character as the young duke's could have forgotten, or
forgiven, the ignominy of his first defeat at the baron's hands,
and still less of the second more disastrous encounter. Although
their relative positions were changed, Vallombreuse, in his
heart, would doubtless always hate de Sigognac--even if he had
magnanimity enough to forgive him, it could scarcely be expected
that he should also love him, and be willing to welcome him as a
member of his family. No, all hope of such a reconciliation must
be abandoned. Besides, she feared that the prince, her father,
would never be able to regard with favour the man who had
imperilled the life of his only son. These sad thoughts threw
poor Isabelle into a profound melancholy, which she in vain
endeavoured to shake off. As long as she considered that her
position as an actress would be an obstacle to de Sigognac, she
had resolutely repelled the idea of a marriage with him, but now
that an unhoped-for, undreamed-of stroke of destiny had heaped
upon her all the good things that heart could desire, she would
have loved to reward, with the gift of her hand and fortune, the
faithful lover who had addressed her when she was poor and
lowly--it seemed an actual meanness, to her generous spirit, not
to share her prosperity with the devoted companion of her misery.
But all that she could do was to be faithful to him--for she
dared not say a word in his favour, either to the prince or to
Vallombreuse.
Very soon the young duke was well enough to join his father and
sister at meals, and he manifested such respectful and
affectionate deference to the prince, and such an ingenuous and
delicate tenderness towards Isabelle, that it was evident he
had, in spite of his apparent frivolity, a mind and character
very superior to what one would have expected to find in such a
licentious, ungovernable youth as he had been, and which gave
promise of an honourable and useful manhood. Isabelle took her
part modestly--but with a very sweet dignity, that sat well upon
her--in the conversation at the table, and in the salon, and her
remarks were so to the point, so witty, and so apropos, that the
prince was astonished as well as charmed, and grew daily more
proud of and devoted to his new treasure; finding a happiness and
satisfaction he had longed for all his life in the affection and
devotion of his children.
At last Vallombreuse was pronounced well enough to mount his
horse, and go for a ride in the forest--which he had long been
sighing for--and Isabelle gladly consented to bear him company.
They looked a wonderfully handsome pair, as they rode leisurely
through the leafy arcades. But there was one very marked
difference between them.
The young man's countenance was radiant with happiness and
smiles, but the girl's face was clouded over with an abiding
melancholy. Occasionally her brother's lively sallies would bring
a faint smile to her sweet lips, but they fell back immediately
into the mournful droop that had become habitual with them.
Vallombreuse apparently did not perceive it--though in reality he
was well aware of it, and of its cause--and was full of fun and
frolic.
"Oh! what a delicious thing it is to live," he cried, "yet how
seldom we think of the exquisite enjoyment there is in the simple
act of breathing," and he drew a long, deep breath, as if he
never could get enough of the soft, balmy air. "The trees surely
were never so green before, the sky so blue, or the flowers so
fragrant. I feet as if I had been born into the world only
yesterday, and was looking upon nature for the first time to-day.
I never appreciated it before. When I remember that I might even
now be lying, stiff and stark, under a fine marble monument, and
that instead of that I am riding through an elysium, beside my
darling sister, who has really learned to love me, I am too
divinely happy. I do not even feel my wound any more. I don't
believe that I ever was wounded. And now for a gallop, for
I'm sure that our good father is wearying for us at home."
In spite of Isabelle's remonstrances he put spurs to his horse,
and she could not restrain hers when its companion bounded
forward, so off they went at a swift pace, and never drew rein
until they reached the chateau. As he lifted his sister down from
her saddle, Vallombreuse said, "Now, after to-day's achievement,
I can surely be treated like a big boy, and get permission to go
out by myself."
"What! you want to go away and leave us already? and scarcely
well yet, you bad boy!"
"Even so, my sweet sister; I want to make a little journey that
will take several days," said Vallombreuse negligently.
Accordingly, the very next morning he departed, after having
taken an affectionate leave of the prince, his father; who did
not oppose his going, as Isabelle had confidently expected, but
seemed, on the contrary, to approve of it heartily. After
receiving many charges to be careful and prudent, from his
sister, which he dutifully promised to remember and obey, the
young duke bade her good-bye also, and said, in a mysterious, yet
most significant way,
"Au revoir, my sweet little sister, you will be pleased with what
I am about to do." And Isabelle sought in vain for the key to the
enigma.
CHAPTER XIX. NETTLES AND COBWEBS
The worthy tyrant's advice was sensible and good, and de Sigognac
resolved to follow it without delay. Since Isabelle's departure,
no attraction existed for him in the troupe, and he was very glad
of a valid pretext for quitting it; though he could not leave his
humble friends without some regrets. It was necessary that he
should disappear for a while--plunge into obscurity, until the
excitement consequent upon the violent death of the young Duke of
Vallombreuse should be forgotten in some new tragedy in real
life.
So, after bidding farewell to the worthy comedians, who had shown
him so much kindness, he departed from the gay capital--mounted
on a stout pony, and with a tolerably well-filled purse--his
share of the receipts of the troupe, which he had fairly earned.
By easy stages he travelled slowly towards his own ruined
chateau. After the storm the bird flies home to its nest, no
matter how ragged and torn it may be. It was the only refuge open
to him, and in the midst of his despondency he felt a sort of sad
pleasure at the thought of returning to his ancestral home--
desolate and forlorn as it was--where it would have been better,
perhaps, for him to have quietly remained--for his fortunes were
not improved, and this last crowning disaster had been ruinous to
all his hopes and prospects of happiness.
"Ah, well!" said he to himself, sorrowfully, as he jogged slowly
on," it was predestined that I should die of hunger and ennui
within those crumbling walls, and under my poor, dilapidated, old
roof, that lets the rain run through it like a huge sieve. No one
can escape his destiny, and I shall accomplish mine. I am
doomed to be the last de Sigognac."
Then came visions of what might have been, that made the sad
present seem even darker by contrast; and his burden was
well-nigh too heavy for him to bear, when he remembered all
Isabelle's goodness and loveliness--now lost to him forever. No
wonder that his eyes were often wet with tears, and that there
was no brightness even in the sunshine for him.
It is needless to describe in detail a journey that lasted twenty
days, and was not marked by any remarkable incidents or
adventures. It is enough to say that one fine evening de Sigognac
saw from afar the lofty towers of his ancient chateau,
illuminated by the setting sun, and shining out in bold relief
against the soft purple of the evening sky; whilst one of the few
remaining casements had caught the fiery sunset glow, and looked
like a great carbuncle set in the fine facade of the stately old
castle. This sight aroused a strange tenderness and agitation in
the young baron's breast. It was true that he had suffered long
and acutely in that dreary mansion, yet after all it was very
dear to him--far more than he knew before he had quitted it--and
he was deeply moved at seeing it again. In a few moments more the
glorious god of day had sunk behind the western horizon, and the
chateau seemed to retreat, until it became scarcely perceptible
as the light faded, forming only a vague, gray blot in the
distance as the gloaming succeeded to the glow. But de Sigognac
knew every step of the way perfectly, and soon turned from the
highway into the neglected, grass-grown road that led to the
chateau. In the profound stillness, which seemed wonderfully
peaceful and pleasant to him, he fancied that he could
distinguish the distant barking of a dog, and that it sounded
like Miraut. He stopped to listen; yes, there could be no doubt
about it, and it was approaching. The baron gave a clear,
melodious whistle--a signal well known of old to Miraut-and in a
few moments the faithful dog, running as fast as his poor old
legs could carry him, burst through a break in the
hedge--panting, barking, almost sobbing for joy. He strove to
jump up on the horse's neck to get at his beloved master; he was
beside himself with delight, and manifested it in the most
frantic manner, whilst de Sigognac bent down to pat his head and
try to quiet his wild transports. After bearing his master
company a little way, Miraut set off again at full speed, to
announce the good news to the others at the chateau--that is to
say, to Pierre, Bayard, and Beelzebub--and bounding into the
kitchen where the old servant ,was sitting, lost in sad thoughts,
he barked in such a significant way that Pierre knew at once that
something unusual had happened.
"Can it be possible that the young master is coming? said he
aloud, rising, in compliance with Miraut's wishes, who was
pulling at the skirts of his coat, and imploring him ,with his
eyes to bestir himself and follow him. As it was quite dark by
this time, Pierre lighted a pine torch, which he carried with
him, and as he turned into the road its ruddy light suddenly
flashed upon de Sigognac and his horse.
"Is it really you, my lord?" cried Pierre, joyfully, as he caught
sight of his young master; "Miraut had tried to tell me of your
arrival in his own way before I left the house, but as I had not
heard anything about your even thinking of coming, I feared that
he might be mistaken. Welcome home to your own domain, my beloved
master! We are overjoyed to see you."
"Yes, my good Pierre, it is really I, and not my wraith. Miraut
was not mistaken. Here I am again, if not richer than when I went
away, at least all safe and sound. Come now, lead the way with
your torch, and we will go into the chateau."
Pierre, not without considerable difficulty, opened the great
door, and the Baron de Sigognac rode slowly through the ancient
portico, fantastically illuminated by the flaring torchlight, in
which the three sculptured storks overhead seemed to be flapping
their wings, as if in joyful salutation to the last
representative of the family they had symbolized for so many
centuries. Then a loud, impatient whinny, like the blast of a
trumpet, was heard ringing out on the still night air, as
Bayard, in his stable, caught the welcome sound of his master's
voice.
"Yes, yes, I hear you, my poor old Bayard," cried de Sigognac, as
he dismounted in the court, and threw the bridle to Pierre; "I am
coming to say how d'you do," and as he turned he stumbled over
Beelzebub, who was trying to rub himself against his master's
legs, purring and mewing alternately to attract his attention.
The baron stooped down, took the old black cat up in his arms,
and tenderly caressed him as he advanced towards the stables;
then put him down gently as he reached Bayard's stall, and
another touching scene of affectionate greeting was enacted. The
poor old pony laid his head lovingly on his master's shoulder,
and actually tried to kick up his hind legs in a frisky way in
honour of the great event; also, he received the horse that de
Sigognac had ridden all the way from Paris, and which was put in
the stall beside his own, very politely, and seemed pleased to
have a companion in his solitary grandeur.
"And now that I have responded to the endearments of my dumb
friends," said the baron to Pierre, " we will go into the
kitchen, and examine into the condition of your larder. I had but
a poor breakfast this morning, and no dinner at all, being
anxious to push on and reach my journey's end before nightfall. I
am as hungry as a bear, and will be glad of anything, no matter
what."
"I have not much to put before you, my lord, and I fear that you
will find it but sorry fare after the delicacies you must have
been accustomed to in Paris; but though it will not be tempting,
nor over savoury, it will at least satisfy your hunger."
"That is all that can be required of any food," answered de
Sigognac, "and I am not as ungrateful as you seem to think, my
good Pierre, to the frugal fare of my youth, which has certainly
made me healthy, vigorous, and strong. Bring out what you have,
and serve it as proudly as if it were of the choicest and
daintiest; I will promise to do honour to it, for I am
desperately hungry."
The old servant bustled about joyously, and quickly had the
table ready for his master; then stood behind his chair, while he
ate and drank with a traveller's appetite, as proudly erect as if
he had been a grand major-domo waiting on a prince. According to
the old custom, Miraut and Beelzebub, stationed on the right and
on the left, watched their master's every motion, and received a
share of everything that was on the table. The great kitchen was
lighted, not very brilliantly, by a torch, stuck in an iron
bracket just inside the broad, open chimney, so that the smoke
should escape through it and not fill the room, and the scene was
so exactly a counterpart of the one described at the beginning of
this narrative, that the baron, struck with the perfect
resemblance, fancied that he must have been dreaming, and had
never quitted his ancient chateau at all. Everything was
precisely as he had left it, excepting that the nettles and weeds
had grown a little taller, and the cobweb draperies a little more
voluminous; all else was unchanged. Unconsciously lapsing into
the old ways, de Sigognac fell into a deep reverie after he had
finished his simple repast, which Pierre, as of old, respected,
and even Miraut and Beelzebub did not venture to intrude upon.
All that had occurred since he last sat at his own table passed
in review before him, but seemed like adventures that he had read
of, not actually participated in himself. It had all passed into
the background. Captain Fracasse, already nearly obliterated,
appeared like a pale spectre in the far distance; his combats
with the Duke of Vallombreuse seemed equally unreal. In fine,
everything that he had seen, done, and suffered, had sunk into
shadowy vagueness; but his love for Isabelle had undergone no
change; it had neither diminished nor grown cold; it was as
passionate and all-absorbing as ever; it was his very life; yet
rather like an aspiration of the soul than a real passion, since
with it all he knew that the angelic being who was its object,
and whom he worshipped from afar, could never, never be his. The
wheels of his chariot, which for a brief space had turned aside
into a new track, were back in the old rut again, and realizing
that there could be no further escape from it possible for him,
he gave way sullenly to a despairing, stolid sort of resignation,
that he had no heart to struggle against, but yielded to it
passively; blaming himself the while for having presumed to
indulge in a season of bright hopes and delicious dreams. Why the
devil should such an unlucky fellow as he had always been venture
to aspire to happiness? It was all foolishness, and sure to end
in bitter disappointment; but he had had his lesson now, and
would be wiser for the future.
He sat perfectly motionless for a long time, plunged in a sad
reverie--sunk in a species of torpor; but he roused himself at
last, and perceiving that his faithful old follower's eyes were
fixed upon him, full of timid questioning that he did not venture
to put into words, briefly related to him the principal incidents
of his journey up to the capital, and his short stay there. When
he graphically described his two duels with the Duke of
Vallombreuse--the old man, filled with pride and delight at the
proficiency of his beloved pupil, could not restrain his
enthusiasm, and snatching up a stick gave vigorous illustrations
of all the most salient points of the encounters as the baron
delineated them, ending up with a wild flourish and a shout of
triumph.
"Alas! my good Pierre," said he, with a sigh, when quiet was
restored, "you taught me how to use my sword only too well. My
unfortunate victory has been my ruin, and has sent me back,
hopeless and bereaved, to this poor old crumbling chateau of
mine, where I am doomed to drag out the weary remainder of my
days in sorrow and misery. I am peculiarly unhappy, in that my
very triumphs have only made matters worse for me--it would have
been better far for me, and for all, if I had been wounded, or
even killed, in this last disastrous encounter, instead of my
rival and enemy, the young Duke of Vallombreuse."
"The de Sigognacs are never beaten," said the old retainer
loftily. "No matter what may come of it, I am glad, my dear young
master, that you killed that insolent duke. The whole thing was
conducted in strict accordance with the code of honour--what more
could be desired? How could any valiant gentleman object to die
gloriously, sword in hand, of a good, honest wound, fairly
given? He should consider himself most fortunate."
"Ah well! perhaps you are right--I will not dispute you," said de
Sigognac, smiling secretly at the old man's philosophy. "But I am
very tired, and would like to go to my own room now--will you
light the lamp, my good Pierre, and lead the way?"
Pierre obeyed, and the baron, preceded by his old servant and
followed by his old dog and cat, slowly ascended the ancient
staircase. The quaint frescoes were gradually fading, growing
ever paler and more indistinct, and there were new stains on the
dull blue sky of the vaulted ceiling, where the rain and melting
snow of winter storms had filtered through from the dilapidated
roof. The ruinous condition of everything in and about the
crumbling old chateau, to which de Sigognac had been perfectly
accustomed before he quitted it, and taken as a matter of course,
now struck him forcibly, and increased his dejection. He saw in
it the sad and inevitable decadence of his race, and said to
himself, "If these ancient walls had any pity for the last
forlorn remnant of the family they have sheltered for centuries,
they would fall in and bury me in their ruins."
When he reached the landing at the head of the stairs he took the
lamp from Pierre's hand, bade him good-night and dismissed
him--not willing that even his faithful old servant, who had
cared for him ever since his birth, should witness his
overpowering emotion. He walked slowly through the great
banqueting hall, where the comedians had supped on that memorable
night, and the remembrance of that gay scene rendered the present
dreary solitude and silence more terrible than they had ever
seemed to him before. The death-like stillness was only broken by
the horrid gnawing of a rat somewhere in the wall, and the old
family portraits glared down at him reproachfully, as he passed
on below them with listless step and downcast eyes, oblivious of
everything but his own deep misery, and his yearning for his lost
Isabelle. As he came under the last portrait of all, that of his
own sweet young mother, he suddenly looked up, and as his eyes
rested on the calm, beautiful countenance--which had always
worn such a pathetic, mournful expression that it used to make
his heart ache to look at it in his boyish days--it seemed to
smile upon him. He was startled for an instant, and then,
thrilling with a strange, exquisite delight, and inspired with
new hope and courage, he said in a low, earnest tone, "I accept
my dear dead mother's smile as a good omen--perhaps all may not
be lost even yet--I will try to believe so."
After a moment of silent thought, he went on into his own
chamber, and put down the small lamp he carried, upon the little
table, where still lay the stray volume of Ronsard's poems that
he had been reading--or rather trying to read--on that
tempestuous night when the old pedant knocked at his door. And
there was his bed, where Isabelle had slept--the very pillow
upon which her dear head had rested. He trembled as he stood and
gazed at it, and saw, as in a vision, the perfect form lying
there again in his place, and the sweetest face in all the world
turned towards him, with a tender smile parting the ripe red
lips, a rosy flush mantling in the delicate cheeks, and warm
lovelight shining in the deep blue eyes. He stood
spell-bound--afraid to move or breathe--and worshipped the
beautiful vision with all his soul and strength, as if it had
been indeed divine--but alas! it faded as suddenly as it had
appeared, and he felt as if the doors of heaven had been shut
upon him. He hastily undressed, and threw himself down in the
place where Isabelle had actually reposed; passionately kissed
the pillow that had been hallowed by the touch of her head, and
bedewed it with his tears. He lay long awake, thinking of the
angelic being who loved him and whom he adored, whilst Beelzebub,
rolled up in a ball, slept at his feet, and snored like the
traditional cat of Mahomet, that lay and slumbered upon the
prophet's sleeve.
When morning came, de Sigognac was more impressed than ever with
the dilapidated, crumbling condition of his ancient mansion.
Daylight has no mercy upon old age and ruins; it reveals with
cruel distinctness the wrinkles, gray hairs, poverty, misery,
stains, fissures, dust and mould in which they abound; but
more kindly night softens or conceals all defects, with its
friendly shade, spreading over them its mantle of darkness. The
rooms that used to seem so vast to their youthful owner had
shrunken, and looked almost small and insignificant to him now,
to his extreme surprise and mortification; but he soon regained
the feeling of being really at home, and resumed his former way
of life completely; just as one goes back to an old garment, that
has for a time been laid aside, and replaced by a new one. His
days were spent thus: early in the morning he went to say a short
prayer in the half-ruined chapel where his ancestors lay, ere he
repaired to the kitchen where his simple breakfast awaited him;
that disposed of, he and old Pierre fetched their swords, and
fought their friendly duels; after which he mounted Bayard, or
the pony he had brought home with him, and went off for long,
solitary rides over the desolate Landes. Returning late in the
afternoon he sat, sad and silent as of old, until his frugal
supper was prepared, partook of it, also in silence, and then
retired to his lonely chamber, where he tried to read some musty
old volume which he knew by heart already, or else flung himself
on his bed--never without kissing the sacred pillow that had
supported Isabelle's beloved head--and lay there a prey to
mournful and bitter meditations, until at last he could forget
his troubles and grief in sleep. There was not a vestige left of
the brilliant Captain Fracasse, nor of the high-spirited rival of
the haughty Duke of Vallombreuse; the unfortunate young Baron de
Sigognac had relapsed entirely into the sad-eyed, dejected master
of Castle Misery.
One morning he sauntered listlessly down into the garden, which
was wilder and more overgrown than ever--a tangled mass of weeds
and brambles. He mechanically directed his steps towards the
straggling eglantine that had had a little rose ready for each of
the fair visitors that accompanied him when last he was there,
and was surprised and delighted to see that it again held forth,
as if for his acceptance, two lovely little blossoms that had
come out to greet him, and upon each of which a dewdrop sparkled
amid the frail, delicately tinted petals. He was strangely
moved and touched by the sight of these tiny wild roses, which
awoke such tender, precious memories, and he repeated to himself,
as he had often done before, the words in which Isabelle had
confessed to him that she had furtively kissed the little flower,
his offering, and dropped a tear upon it, and then secretly given
him her own heart in exchange for it--surely the sweetest words
ever spoken on this earth. He gently plucked one of the dainty
little roses, passionately inhaled its delicate fragrance and
pressed a kiss upon it, as if it had been her lips, which were
not less sweet, and soft, and fresh. He had done nothing but
think of Isabelle ever since their separation, and he fully
realized now, if he had not before, how indispensable she was to
his happiness. She was never out of his mind, waking or sleeping,
for he dreamed of her every night, and his love grew fonder, if
that were possible, as the weary days went on. She was so good
and true, so pure and sweet, so beautiful, so everything that was
lovely and desirable, "made of all creatures' best," a veritable
angel in human guise. Ah! how passionately he loved her--how
could he live without her? Yet he feared--he was almost forced to
believe--that he had lost her irreparably, and that for him hope
was dead. Those were terrible days for the poor, grief-stricken
young baron, and he felt that he could not long endure such
misery and live. Two or three months passed away thus, and one
day when de Sigognac chanced to be in his own room, finishing a
sonnet addressed to Isabelle, Pierre entered, and announced to
his master that there was a gentleman without who wished to speak
with him.
"A gentleman, who wants to see me!" exclaimed the astonished
baron. "You must be either romancing or mad, my good Pierre!
There is no gentleman in the world who can have anything to say
to me. However, for the rarity of the thing, you may bring in
this extraordinary mortal--if such there really be, and you are
not dreaming, as I shrewdly suspect. But tell me his name first,
or hasn't he got any?"
"He declined to give it, saying that it would not afford your
lordship any information," Pierre made answer, as he turned back
and opened wide both leaves of the door.
Upon the threshold appeared a handsome young man, dressed in a
rich and elegant travelling costume of chestnut brown cloth
trimmed with green, and holding in his hand a broad felt hat with
a long green plume; leaving his well shaped, proudly carried head
fully exposed to view, as well as the delicate, regular features
of a face worthy of an ancient Greek statue. The sight of this
fine cavalier did not seem to make an agreeable impression upon
de Sigognac, who turned very pale, and rushing to where his
trusty sword was suspended, over the head of his bed, drew it
from the scabbard, and turned to face the new-comer with the
naked blade in his hand.
"By heaven, my lord duke, I believed that I had killed you!" he
cried in excited tones. "Is it really you--your very self--or
your wraith that stands before me?"
"It is really I--my very self--Hannibal de Vallombreuse, in the
flesh, and no wraith; as far from being dead as possible,"
answered the young duke, with a radiant smile. "But put up that
sword I pray you, my dear baron! We have fought twice already,
you know, and surely that is enough. I do not come as an enemy,
and if I have to reproach myself with some little sins against
you, you have certainly had your revenge for them, so we are
quits. To prove that my intentions are not hostile, but of the
most friendly nature if you will so allow, I have brought
credentials, in the shape of this commission, signed by the king,
which gives you command of a regiment. My good father and I have
reminded his majesty of the devotion of your illustrious
ancestors to his royal ones, and I have ventured to bring you
this good news in person. And now, as I am your guest, I pray you
have something or other killed, I don't care what, and put on the
spit to roast as quickly as may be--for the love of God give me
something to eat--I am starving. The inns are so far apart and so
abominably bad down here that there might almost as well be none
at all, and my baggage-wagon, stocked with edibles, is stuck
fast in a quagmire a long way from this. So you see the
necessities of the case."
"I am very much afraid, my lord duke, that the fare I can offer
will seem to you only another form of revenge on my part," said
de Sigognac with playful courtesy; "but do not, I beseech you,
attribute to resentment the meagre repast for which I shall be
obliged to claim your indulgence. You must know how gladly I
would put before you a sumptuous meal if I could; and what we can
give you will at least, as my good Pierre says, satisfy hunger,
though it may not gratify the palate. And let me now say that
your frank and cordial words touch me deeply, and find an echo in
my inmost heart. I am both proud and happy to call you my
friend--henceforth you will not have one more loyal and devoted
than myself--and though you may not often have need of my
services, they will be, none the less, always at your
disposition. Halloa! Pierre! do you go, without a moment's delay,
and hunt up some fowls, eggs, meat, whatever you can find, and
try to serve a substantial meal to this gentleman, my friend, who
is nearly dying with hunger, and is not used to it like you and
I."
Pierre put in his pocket some of the money his master had sent
him from Paris--which he had never touched before--mounted the
pony, and galloped off to the nearest village in search of
provisions. He found several fowls--such as they were--a splendid
Bayonne ham, a few bottles of fine old wine, and by great good
luck, discovered, at the priest's house, a grand big pate of
ducks' livers--a delicacy worthy of a bishop's or a prince's
table--and which he had much difficulty to obtain from his
reverence, who was a bit of a gourmand, at an almost fabulous
price. But this was evidently a great occasion, and the faithful
old servant would spare no pains to do it honour. In less than an
hour he was at home again, and leaving the charge of the cooking
to a capable woman he had found and sent out to the chateau, he
immediately proceeded to set the table, in the ancient banqueting
hall--gathering together all the fine porcelain and dainty glass
that yet remained intact in the two tall buffets--evidences of
former splendour. But the profusion of gold and silver plate
that used to adorn the festive board of the de Sigognacs had all
been converted into coin of the realm long ago.
When at last the old servant announced that dinner was ready, the
two young men took their places opposite to each other at table,
and Vallombreuse, who was in the gayest, most jovial mood,
attacked the viands with an eagerness and ferocity immensely
diverting to his host. After devouring almost the whole of a
chicken, which, it is true, seemed to have died of a consumption,
there was so little flesh on its bones, he fell back upon the
tempting, rosy slices of the delicate Bayonne ham, and then
passed to the pate of ducks' livers, which he declared to be
supremely delicious, exquisite, ambrosial--food fit for the gods;
and he found the sharp cheese, made of goat's milk, which
followed, an excellent relish. He praised the wine, too-- which
was really very old and fine and drank it with great gusto, out
of his delicate Venetian wine-glass. Once, when he caught sight
of Pierre's bewildered, terrified look, as he heard his master
address his merry guest as the Duke of Vallombreuse--who ought to
be dead, if he was not--he fairly roared with laughter, and was
as full of fun and frolic as a school-boy out for a holiday;
Meantime de Sigognac, whilst he endeavoured to play the attentive
host, and to respond as well as he could to the young duke's
lively sallies, could not recover from his surprise at seeing him
sitting there opposite to himself, as a guest at his own
table--making himself very much at home, too, in the most
charming, genial, easy way imaginable--and yet he was the
haughty, overbearing, insolent young nobleman, who had been his
hated rival; whom he had twice encountered and defeated, in
fierce combat, and who had several times tried to compass his
death by means of hired ruffians. What could be the explanation
of it all?
The Duke of Vallombreuse divined his companion's thoughts, and
when the old servant had retired, after placing a bottle of
especially choice wine and two small glasses on the table, he
looked up at de Sigognac and said, with the most amicable
frankness, "I can plainly perceive, my dear baron, in spite
of your admirable courtesy, that this unexpected step of mine
appears very strange and inexplicable to you. You have been
saying to yourself, How in the world has it come about, that the
arrogant, imperious Vallombreuse has been transformed, from the
unscrupulous, cruel, blood-thirsty tiger that he was, into the
peaceable, playful lamb he seems to be now--which a 'gentle
shepherdess' might lead about with a ribbon round its neck!--I
will tell you. During the six weeks that I was confined to my
bed, I made various reflections, which the thoughtless might
pronounce cowardly, but which are permitted to the bravest and
most valiant when death stares them in the face. I realized then,
for the first time, the relative value of many things, and also
how wrong and wicked my own course had been; and I promised
myself to do very differently for the future, if I recovered. As
the passionate love that Isabelle inspired in my heart had been
replaced by a pure and sacred fraternal affection--which is the
greatest blessing of my life--I had no further reason to dislike
you. You were no longer my rival; a brother cannot be jealous in
that way of his own sister; and then, I was deeply grateful to
you, for the respectful tenderness and deference I knew you had
never failed to manifest towards her, when she was in a position
that authorized great license. You were the first to recognise
her pure, exalted soul, while she was still only an obscure
actress. When she was poor, and despised by those who will cringe
to her now, you offered to her--lowly as was her station--the
most
precious treasure that a nobleman can possess: the time-honoured
name of his ancestors. You would have made her your wife
then--now that she is rich, and of high rank, she belongs to you
of right. The true, faithful lover of Isabelle, the actress,
should be the honoured husband of the Comtesse de Lineuil."
"But you forget," cried de Sigognac, in much agitation, "that she
always absolutely refused me, though she knew that I was
perfectly disinterested."
"It was because of her supreme delicacy, her angelic
susceptibility, and her noble spirit of self-sacrifice that she
said that. She feared that she would necessarily be a
disadvantage to you--an obstacle in the way of your advancement.
But the situation is entirely changed now."
"Yes, now it is I who would be a disadvantage to her; have I then
a right to be less generous and magnanimous than she was?"
"Do you still love my sister?" said Vallombreuse, in a grave
tone. "As her brother, I have the right to ask this question."
"I love her with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my
strength," de Sigognac replied fervently, "as much and more than
ever man loved woman on this earth--where nothing is
perfect--save Isabelle."
"Such being the case, my dear Captain of Mousquetaires, and
governor of a province--soon to be--have your horse saddled, and
come with me to the Chateau of Vallombreuse, so that I may
formally present you to the prince, my father, as the favoured
suitor of the Comtesse de Lineuil, my sister. Isabelle has
refused even to think of the Chevalier de Vidalinc, or the
Marquis de l'Estang, as aspirants to her hand--both right
handsome, attractive, eligible young fellows, by Jove!--but I am
of opinion that she will accept, without very much persuasion,
the Baron de Sigognac."
The next day the duke and the baron were riding gaily forward,
side by side, on the road to Paris.
CHAPTER XX. CHIQUITA'S DECLARATION OF LOVE
A compact crowd filled the Place de Greve, despite the early hour
indicated by the clock of the Hotel de Ville.
The tall buildings on the eastern side of the square threw their
shadows more than half-way across it, and upon a sinister-looking
wooden framework, which rose several feet above the heads of the
populace, and bore a number of ominous, dull red stains. At the
windows of the houses surrounding the crowded square, a few heads
were to be seen looking out from time to time, but quickly drawn
back again as they perceived that the interesting performance,
for which all were waiting, had not yet begun. Clinging to the
transverse piece of the tall stone cross, which stood at that
side of the open square nearest the river, was a forlorn, little,
ragged boy, who had climbed up to it with the greatest
difficulty, and was holding on with all his might, his arms
clasped round the cross-piece and his legs round the upright, in
a most painful and precarious position. But nothing would have
induced him to abandon it, so long as he could possibly maintain
himself there, no matter at what cost of discomfort, or even
actual distress, for from it he had a capital view of the
scaffold, and all its horribly fascinating details--the wheel
upon which the criminal was to revolve, the coil of rope to bind
him to it, and the heavy bar to break his bones.
If any one among the anxious crowd of spectators, however, had
carefully studied the small, thin countenance of the child
perched up on the tall stone cross, he would have discovered that
its expression was by no means that of vulgar curiosity. It was
not simply the fierce attractions of an execution that had
drawn thither this wild, weird-looking young creature, with his
sun-burned complexion, great, flashing, dark eyes, brilliant
white teeth, unkempt masses of thick, black hair, and slender
brown hands--which were convulsively clinging to the rough, cold
stone. The delicacy of the features would seem to indicate a
different sex from the dress--but nobody paid any attention to
the child, And all eyes were turned towards the scaffold, or the
direction from which the cart bearing the condemned criminal was
to come. Among the groups close around the scaffold were several
faces we have seen before; notably, the chalky countenance and
fiery red nose of Malartic, and the bold profile of Jacquemin
Lampourde, also several of the ruffians engaged in the abduction
of Isabelle, as well as various other habitues of the Crowned
Radish. The Place de Greve, to which sooner or later they were
all pretty sure to come and expiate their crimes with their
lives, seemed to exercise a singular fascination over murderers,
thieves, and criminals of all sorts, who invariably gathered in
force to witness an execution. They evidently could not resist
it, and appeared to find a fierce satisfaction in watching the
terrible spectacle that they themselves would some day probably
furnish to the gaping multitude. Then the victim himself always
expected his friends' attendance--he would be hurt and
disappointed if his comrades did not rally round him at the last.
A criminal in that position likes to see familiar faces in the
throng that hems him in. It gives him courage, steadies his
nerves.
He cannot exhibit any signs of cowardice before those who
appreciate true merit and bravery, according to his way of
thinking, and pride comes to his aid. A man will meet death like
a Roman under such circumstances, who would be weak as a woman if
he were despatched in private.
The criminal to be executed on that occasion was a thief, already
notorious in Paris for his daring and dexterity, though he had
only been there a few months. But, unfortunately for
himself--though very much the reverse for the well-to-do citizens
of the capital in general--he had not confined himself to his
legitimate business. In his last enterprise--breaking into a
private dwelling to gain possession of a large sum of money that
was to be kept there for a single night--he had killed the master
of the house, who was aroused by his entrance; and, not content
to stop there, had also brutally murdered his wife, as she lay
quietly sleeping in her bed--like a tiger, that has tasted blood
and is wild for more. So atrocious a crime had roused the
indignation of even his own unscrupulous, hardened companions,
and it was not long ere his hiding-place was mysteriously
revealed, and he was arrested, tried, and condemned to death. Now
he was to pay the penalty of his guilt.
As the fatal hour approached, a carriage drove down along the
quay, turned into the Place de Greve, and attempted to cross it;
but, becoming immediately entangled in the crowd, could make
little or no progress, despite the utmost exertions of the
majestic coachman and attendant lackeys to induce the people to
make way for it, and let it pass.
But for the grand coat of arms and ducal coronet emblazoned on
the panels, which inspired a certain awe as well as respect in
the motley throng of pedestrians, the equipage would undoubtedly
have been roughly dealt with-but as it was, they contented
themselves with resolutely and obstinately barring its passage,
after it had reached the middle of the square. The indignant
coachman did not dare to urge his spirited horses forward at all
hazards, ruthlessly trampling down the unlucky individuals who
happened to be directly in his way, as he would certainly have
done in any ordinary crowd, for the canaille, that filled the
Place de Greve to overflowing, was out in too great force to be
trifled with--so there was nothing for it but patience.
"These rascals are waiting for an execution, and will not stir,
nor let us stir, until it is over," said a remarkably handsome
young man, magnificently dressed, to his equally fine looking,
though more modestly attired friend, who was seated beside him in
the luxurious carriage. "The devil take the unlucky dog who must
needs be broken on the wheel just when we want to cross the Place
de Greve. Why couldn't he have put it off until to-morrow
morning, I should like to know!"
"You may be sure that the poor wretch would be only too glad to
do so if he could," answered the other, "for the occasion is a
far more serious matter to him than to us."
"The best thing we can do under the circumstances, my dear de
Sigognac, is to turn our heads away if the spectacle is too
revolting--though it is by no means easy, when something horrible
is taking place close at hand. Even Saint Augustine opened his
eyes in the arena at a loud cheer from the people, though he had
vowed to himself beforehand to keep them closed."
"At all events, we shall not be detained here long," rejoined de
Sigognac, "for there comes the prisoner. See, Vallombreuse, how
the crowd gives way before him, though it will not let us move an
inch."
A rickety cart, drawn by a miserable old skeleton of a horse, and
surrounded by mounted guards, was slowly advancing through the
dense throng towards the scaffold. In it were a venerable priest,
with a long white beard, who was holding a crucifix to the lips
of the condemned man, seated beside him, the executioner, placed
behind his victim, and holding the end of the rope that bound
him, and an assistant, who was driving the poor old horse. The
criminal, whom every one turned to gaze at, was no other than our
old acquaintance, Agostino, the brigand.
"Why, what is this!" cried de Sigognac, in great surprise. "I
know that man--he is the fellow who stopped us on the highway,
and tried to frighten us with his band of scarecrows, as poor
Matamore called them. I told you all about it when we came by the
place where it happened."
"Yes, I remember perfectly," said Vallombreuse; "it was a capital
story, and I had a good laugh over it. But it would seem that the
ingenious rascal has been up to something more serious since
then--his ambition has probably been his ruin. He certainly is no
coward--only look what a good face he puts on it."
Agostino, holding his head proudly erect, but a trifle paler than
usual perhaps, seemed to be searching for some one in the crowd.
When the cart passed slowly in front of the stone cross, he
caught sight of the little boy, who had not budged from his
excessively uncomfortable and wearisome position, and a flash of
joy shone in the brigand's eyes, a slight smile parted his lips,
as he made an almost imperceptible sign with his head, and said,
in a low tone, "Chiquita!"
"My son, what was that strange word you spoke?" asked the priest.
"It sounded like an outlandish woman's name. Dismiss all such
subjects from your mind, and fix your thoughts on your own hopes
of salvation, for you stand on the threshold of eternity."
"Yes, my father, I know it but too well, and though my hair is
black and my form erect, whilst you are bowed with age, and your
long beard is white as snow, you are younger now than I--every
turn of the wheels, towards that scaffold yonder, ages me by ten
years."
During this brief colloquy the cart had made steady progress, and
in a moment more had stopped at the foot of the rude wooden steps
that led up to the scaffold, which Agostino ascended slowly but
unfalteringly--preceded by the assistant, supported by the
priest, and followed by the executioner. In less than a minute he
was firmly bound upon the wheel, and the executioner, having
thrown off his showy scarlet cloak, braided with white, and
rolled up his sleeves, stooped to pick up the terrible bar that
lay at his feet. It was a moment of intense horror and
excitement. An anxious curiosity, largely mixed with dread,
oppressed the hearts of the spectators, who stood motionless,
breathless, with pale faces, and straining eyes fixed upon the
tragic group on the fatal scaffold. Suddenly a strange stir ran
through the crowd--the child, who was perched up on the cross,
had slipped quickly down to the ground, and gliding like a
serpent through the closely packed throng, reached the scaffold,
cleared the steps at a bound, and appeared beside the astonished
executioner, who was just in the act of raising the ponderous bar
to strike, with such a wild, ghastly, yet inspired and noble
countenance--lighted up by a strength of will and purpose that
made it actually sublime--that the grim dealer of death paused
involuntarily, and withheld the murderous blow about to fall.
"Get out of my way, thou puppet!" he roared in angry tones, as he
recovered his sang-froid, "or thou wilt get thy accursed head
smashed."
But Chiquita paid no attention to him--she did not care whether
she was killed too, or not. Bending over Agostino, she
passionately kissed his forehead, whispered "I love thee!"--and
then, with a blow as swift as lightning, plunged into his heart
the knife she had reclaimed from Isabelle. It was dealt with so
firm a hand, and unerring an aim, that death was almost
instantaneous--scarcely had Agostino time to murmur "Thanks."
With a wild burst of hysterical laughter the child sprang down
from the scaffold, while the executioner, stupefied at her bold
deed, lowered his now useless club; uncertain whether or not he
should proceed to break the bones of the man already dead, and
beyond his power to torture.
"Well done, Chiquita, well done, and bravely!" cried Malartic--
who had recognised her in spite of her boy's clothes--losing his
self-restraint in his admiration. The other ruffians, who had
seen Chiquita at the Crowned Radish, and wondered at and admired
her courage when she stood against the door and let Agostino
fling his terrible navaja at her without moving a muscle, now
grouped themselves closely together so as to effectually prevent
the soldiers from pursuing her. The fracas that ensued gave
Chiquita time to reach the carriage of the Duke of
Vallombreuse--which, taking advantage of the stir and shifting in
the throng, was slowly making its way out of the Place de Greve.
She climbed up on the step, and catching sight of de Sigognac
within, appealed to him, in scarcely audible words, as she panted
and trembled--"I saved your Isabelle, now save me!"
Vallombreuse, who had been very much interested by this strange
and exciting scene, cried to the coachman, "Get on as fast as you
can, even if you have to drive over the people."
But there was no need--the crowd opened as if by magic before
the carriage, and closed again compactly after it had passed, so
that Chiquita's pursuers could not penetrate it, or make any
progress--they were completely baffled, whichever way they
turned. Meanwhile the fugitive was being rapidly carried beyond
their reach. As soon as the open street was gained, the coachman
had urged his horses forward, and in a very few minutes they
reached the Porte Saint Antoine. As the report of what had
occurred in the Place de Greve could not have preceded them,
Vallombreuse thought it better to proceed at a more moderate
pace--fearing that their very speed might arouse suspicion--and
gave orders accordingly; as soon as they were fairly beyond the
gate he took Chiquita into the carriage-- where she seated
herself, without a word, opposite to de Sigognac. Under the
calmest exterior she was filled with a preternatural
excitement--not a muscle of her face moved; but a bright flush
glowed on her usually pale cheeks, which gave to her magnificent
dark eyes--now fixed upon vacancy, and seeing nothing that was
before them--a marvellous brilliancy. A complete transformation
had taken place in Chiquita--this violent shock had torn asunder
the childish chrysalis in which the young maiden had lain
dormant--as she plunged her knife into Agostino's heart she
opened her own. Her love was born of that murder--the strange,
almost sexless being, half child, half goblin, that she had been
until then, existed no longer--Chiquita was a woman from the
moment of that heroic act of sublime devotion. Her passion, that
had bloomed out in one instant, was destined to be eternal--a
kiss and a stab, that was Chiquita's love story.
The carriage rolled smoothly and swiftly on its way towards
Vallombreuse, and when the high, steep roof of the chateau came
in sight the young duke said to de Sigognac, "You must go with me
to my room first, where you can get rid of the dust, and freshen
up a bit before I present you to my sister--who knows nothing
whatever of my journey, or its motive. I have prepared a surprise
for her, and I want it to be complete--so please draw down the
curtain on your side, while I do the same on mine, in order that
we may not be seen, as we drive into the court, from any of the
windows that command a view of it. But what are we to do with
this little wretch here?"
Chiquita, who was roused from her deep reverie by the duke's
question, looked gravely up at him, and said, "Let some one take
me to Mlle. Isabelle--she will decide what is to be done with
me."
With all the curtains carefully drawn down the carriage drove
over the drawbridge and into the court. Vallombreuse alighted,
took de Sigognac's arm, and led him silently to his own
apartment, after having ordered a servant to conduct Chiquita to
the presence of the Comtesse de Lineuil. At sight of her Isabelle
was greatly astonished, and, laying down the book she was
reading, fixed upon the poor child a look full of interest,
affection, and questioning.
Chiquita stood silent and motionless until the servant had
retired, then, with a strange solemnity, which was entirely new
in her, she went up to Isabelle, and timidly taking her hand,
said:
"My knife is in Agostino's heart. I have no master now, and I
must devote myself to somebody. Next to him who is dead I love
you best of all the world. You gave me the pearl necklace I
wished for, and you kissed me. Will you have me for your servant,
your slave, your dog? Only give me a black dress, so that I may
wear mourning for my lost love--it is all I ask. I will sleep on
the floor outside your door, so that I shall not be in your way.
When you want me, whistle for me, like this,"--and she whistled
shrilly--"and I will come instantly. Will you have me?"
In answer Isabelle drew Chiquita into her arms, pressed her lips
to the girl's forehead warmly, and thankfully accepted this soul,
that dedicated itself to her.
CHAPTER XXI. HYMEN! OH HYMEN!
Isabelle, accustomed to Chiquita's odd, enigmatical ways, had
refrained from questioning her--waiting to ask for explanations
until the poor girl should have become more quiet, and able to
give them. She could see that some terrible catastrophe must have
occurred, which had left all her nerves quivering, and caused the
strong shudders that passed over her in rapid succession; but the
child had rendered her such good service, in her own hour of
need, that she felt the least she could do was to receive and
care for the poor little waif tenderly, without making any
inquiries as to her evidently desperate situation. After giving
her in charge to her own maid, with orders that she should be
properly clothed, and made thoroughly comfortable in every way,
Isabelle resumed her reading--or rather tried to resume it; but
her thoughts would wander, and after mechanically turning over a
few pages in a listless way, she laid the book down, beside her
neglected embroidery, on a little table at her elbow. Leaning her
head on her hand, and closing her eyes, she lapsed into a
sorrowful reverie--as, indeed, she had done of late many times
every day.
"Oh! what has become of de Sigognac?" she said to herself. "Where
can he be? and does he still think of me, and love me as of old?
Yes, I am sure he does; he will be true and faithful to me so
long as he lives, my brave, devoted knight! I fear that he has
gone back to his desolate, old chateau, and, believing that my
brother is dead, does not dare to approach me. It must be that
chimerical obstacle that stands in his way--otherwise he
would surely have tried to see me again--or at least have written
to me. Perhaps I ought to have sent him word that Vallombreuse
had recovered; yet how could I do that? A modest woman shrinks
from even seeming to wish to entice her absent lover back to her
side. How often I think that I should be far happier if I could
have remained as I was--an obscure actress; then I could at least
have had the bliss of seeing him every day, and of enjoying in
peace the sweetness of being loved by such a noble, tender heart
as his. Despite the touching affection and devotion that my
princely father lavishes upon me, I feel sad and lonely in this
magnificent chateau. If Vallombreuse were only here his society
would help to pass the time; but he is staying away so long--and
I try in vain to make out what he meant when he told me, with
such a significant smile, as he bade me adieu, that I would be
pleased with what he was about to do. Sometimes I fancy that I do
understand; but I dare not indulge myself with such blissful
thoughts for an instant. If I did, and were mistaken after all,
the disappointment would be too cruel--too heart-rending. But, if
it only could be true! ah! if it only might! I fear I should go
mad with excess of joy."
The young Comtesse de Lineuil was still absorbed in sad thoughts
when a tall lackey appeared, and asked if she would receive his
lordship, the Duke of Vallombreuse who had just arrived, at the
chateau and desired to speak with her.
"Certainly, I shall be delighted to see him," she said in glad
surprise; "ask him to come to me at once."
In a few minutes--which had seemed like hours to Isabelle--the
young duke made his appearance, with beaming eyes, rosy cheeks,
light, elastic step, and that air of glorious health and vigour
which had distinguished him before his illness. He threw down his
broad felt hat as he came in, and, hastening to his sister's
side, took her pretty white hands and raised them to his lips.
"Dearest Isabelle," he cried, "I am so rejoiced to see you again!
I was obliged to stay away from you much longer than I wished,
for it is a great deprivation to me now not to be with you
every day--I have gotten so thoroughly into the habit of
depending upon your sweet society. But I have been occupied
entirely with your interests during my absence, and the hope of
pleasing my darling sister, and adding to her happiness, has
helped me to endure the long separation from her."
"The way to please me most, as you ought to have known," Isabelle
replied, "was to stay here at home quietly with your father and
me, and let us take care of you, instead of rushing off so
rashly--with your wound scarcely healed, or your health fully
re-established--on some foolish errand or other, that you were
not willing to acknowledge."
"Was I ever really wounded, or ill?" said Vallombreuse, laughing.
"Upon my word I had forgotten all about it. Never in my life was
I in better health than at this moment, and my little expedition
has done me no end of good. But you, my sweet sister, are not
looking as well as when I left you; you have grown thin and pale.
What is the matter? I fear that you find your life here at the
chateau very dull. Solitude and seclusion are not at all the
thing for a beautiful young woman, I know. Reading and embroidery
are but melancholy pastimes at best and there must be moments
when even the gravest, most sedate of maidens grows weary of
gazing out upon the stagnant waters of the moat, and longs to
look upon the face of a handsome young knight."
"Oh! what an unmerciful tease you are, Vallombreuse, and how you
do love to torment me with these strange fancies of yours. You
forget that I have had the society of the prince, who is so kind
and devoted to me, and who abounds in wise and instructive
discourse."
"Yes, there is no doubt that our worthy father is a most learned
and accomplished gentleman, honoured and admired at home and
abroad; but his pursuits and occupations are too grave and
weighty for you to share, my dear little sister, and I don't want
to see your youth passed altogether in such a solemn way. As you
would not smile upon my friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc, nor
condescend to listen to the suit of the Marquis de l'Estang, I
concluded to go in search of somebody that would be more
likely to please your fastidious taste, and, my dear, I have
found him. Such a charming, perfect, ideal husband he will make!
I am convinced that you will dote upon him."
"It is downright cruelty, Vallombreuse, to persecute me as you
do, with such unfeeling jests. You know perfectly well that I do
not wish to marry; I cannot give my hand without my heart, and my
heart is not mine to give."
"But you will talk very differently, I do assure you, my dear
little sister, when you see the husband I have chosen for you."
"Never! never!" cried Isabelle, whose voice betrayed her
distress. "I shall always be faithful to a memory that is
infinitely dear and precious to me; for I cannot think that you
intend to force me to act against my will."
"Oh, no! I am not quite such a tyrant as that; I only ask you not
to reject my protege before you have seen him."
Without waiting for her reply, Vallombreuse abruptly left the
room, and returned in a moment with de Sigognac, whose heart was
throbbing as if it would burst out of his breast. The two young
men, hand in hand, paused on the threshold, hoping that Isabelle
would turn her eyes towards them; but she modestly cast them down
and kept them fixed upon the floor, while her thoughts flew far
away, to hover about the beloved being who she little dreamed was
so near her. Vallombreuse, seeing that she took no notice of
them, and had fallen into a reverie, advanced towards her, still
holding de Sigognac by the hand, and made a ceremonious bow, as
did also his companion; but while the young duke was smiling and
gay, de Sigognac was deeply agitated, and very pale. Brave as a
lion when he had to do with men, he was timid with women--as are
all generous, manly hearts.
"Comtesse de Lineuil," said Vallombreuse, in an emphatic tone of
voice, "permit me to present to you one of my dearest friends,
for whom I entreat your favour--the Baron de Sigognac."
As he pronounced this name, which she at first believed to be
a jest on her brother's part, Isabelle started, trembled
violently, and then glanced up timidly at the newcomer.
When she saw that Vallombreuse had not deceived her, that it was
really he, her own true lover, standing there before her, she
turned deathly pale, and had nearly fallen from her chair; then
the quick reaction came, and a most lovely blush spread itself
all over her fair face, and even her snowy neck, as far as it
could be seen. Without a word, she sprang up, and throwing her
arms round her brother's neck hid her face on his shoulder, while
two or three convulsive sobs shook her slender frame and a little
shower of tears fell from her eyes. By this instinctive movement,
so exquisitely modest and truly feminine, Isabelle manifested all
the exceeding delicacy and purity of her nature. Thus were her
warm thanks to Vallombreuse, whose kindness and generosity
overcame her, mutely expressed; and as she could not follow the
dictates of her heart, and throw herself into her lover's arms,
she took refuge in her transport of joy with her brother, who had
restored him to her.
Vallombreuse supported her tenderly for a few moments, until he
found she was growing calmer, when he gently disengaged himself
from her clasping arms, and drawing down the hands with which she
had covered her face, to hide its tears and blushes, said, "My
sweet sister, do not, I pray you, hide your lovely face from us;
I fear my protege will be driven to believe that you entertain
such
an invincible dislike to him you will not even look at him."
Isabelle raised her drooping head, and turning full upon de
Sigognac her glorious eyes, shining with a celestial joy, in
spite of the sparkling tear-drops that still hung upon their long
lashes, held out to him her beautiful white hand, which he took
reverentially in both his own, and bending down pressed fervently
to his lips. The passionate kiss he imprinted upon it thrilled
through Isabelle's whole being, and for a second she turned faint
and giddy; but the delicious ecstasy, which is almost anguish, of
such emotion as hers, is never hurtful, and she presently looked
up and smiled reassuringly upon her anxious lover, as the colour
returned to her lips and cheeks, and the warm light to her eyes.
"And now tell me, my sweet little sister," began Vallombreuse,
with an air of triumph, and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes,
"wasn't I right when I declared that you would smile upon the
husband I had chosen for you? and would not be discouraged,
though you were so obstinate? If I had not been equally so, this
dear de Sigognac would have gone back to his far-away chateau,
without even having seen you; and that would have been a pity, as
you must admit."
"Yes, I do admit it, my dearest brother, and also that you have
been adorably kind and good to me. You were the only one who,
under the circumstances, could bring about this reunion, and we
both know how to appreciate what you have so nobly and generously
done for us."
"Yes, indeed," said de Sigognac warmly; "your brother has given
us ample proof of the nobility and generosity of his nature--he
magnanimously put aside the resentment that might seem
legitimate, and came to me with his hand outstretched, and his
heart in it. He revenges himself nobly for the harm I was obliged
to do him, by imposing an eternal gratitude upon me--a light
burden, that I shall bear joyfully so long as I live."
"Say nothing more about that, my dear baron!" Vallombreuse
exclaimed. "You would have done as much in my place. The
differences of two valiant adversaries are very apt to end in a
warm mutual attachment--we were destined from the beginning to
become, sooner or later, a devoted pair of friends; like Theseus
and Pirithous, Nisus and Euryalus, or Damon and Pythias. But
never mind about me now, and tell my sister how you were thinking
of her, and longing for her, in that lonely chateau of yours;
where, by the way, I made one of the best meals I ever had in my
life, though you do pretend that starvation is the rule down
there."
"And _I_ had a charming supper there too," said Isabelle with a
smile, "which I look back upon with the greatest pleasure."
"Nevertheless," rejoined de Sigognac, "plenty does not abound
there--but I cannot regret the blessed poverty that was the means
of first winning me your regard, my precious darling! I am
thankful for it--I owe everything to it."
"_I_ am of opinion," interrupted Vallombreuse, with a significant
smile, "that it would be well for me to go and report myself to
my father. I want to announce your arrival to him myself, de
Sigognac! Not that he will need to be specially prepared to
receive you, for I am bound to confess--what may surprise my
little sister here--that he knew such a thing might come about,
and was equally implicated with my graceless self in this little
conspiracy. But one thing yet--tell me before I go, Isabelle,
Comtesse de Lineuil, whether you really do intend to accept the
Baron de Sigognac as your husband--I don't want to run any risk
of making a blunder at this stage of the proceedings, you
understand, after having conducted the negotiations successfully
up to this point. You do definitely and finally accept him,
eh?--that is well--and now I will go to the prince. Engaged
lovers sometimes have matters to discuss that even a brother may
not hear, so I will leave you together, feeling sure that you
will both thank me for it in your hearts. Adieu!--make the most
of
your time, for I shall soon return to conduct de Sigognac to the
prince."
With a laughing nod the young duke picked up his hat and went
away, leaving the two happy lovers alone together, and--however
agreeable his company may have been to them, it must be admitted
that his absence was, as he had predicted, very welcome to both.
The Baron de Sigognac eagerly approached Isabelle, and--again
possessed himself of her fair hand, which she did not withdraw
from his warm, loving clasp. Neither spoke, and for a few minutes
the fond lovers stood side by side and gazed into each other's
eyes. Such silence is more eloquent than any words. At last de
Sigognac said softly, "I can scarcely believe even yet in the
reality of so much bliss. Oh! what a strange, contradictory
destiny is mine. You loved me, my darling, because I was poor and
unhappy--and thus my past misery was the direct cause of my
present felicity. A troupe of strolling actors, who chanced to
seek refuge under my crumbling roof, held in reserve for me an
angel of purity and goodness--a hostile encounter has given me a
devoted friend--and, most wonderful of all, your forcible
abduction led to your meeting the fond father who had been
seeking you so many years in vain. And all this because a
Thespian chariot went astray one stormy night in the Landes."
"We were destined for each other--it was all arranged for us in
heaven above. Twin souls are sure to come together at last, if
they can only have patience to wait for the meeting. I felt
instinctively, when we met at the Chateau de Sigognac, that you
were my fate. At sight of you my heart, which had always lain
dormant before, and never responded to any appeal, thrilled
within me, and, unasked, yielded to you all its love and
allegiance. Your very timidity won more for you than the greatest
boldness and assurance could have done, and from the first moment
of our acquaintance I resolved never to give myself to any one
but you, or God."
"And yet, cruel, hard-hearted child that you were--though so
divinely good and lovely--you refused your hand to me, when I
sued for it on my knees. I know well that it was all through
generosity, and that of the noblest--but, my darling, it was a
very cruel generosity too."
"I will do my best to atone for it now, my dearest de Sigognac,
in giving you this hand you wished for, together with my heart,
which has long been all your own. The Comtesse de Lineuil is not
bound to be governed by the scruples of Isabelle, the actress. I
have had only one fear--that your pride might keep you from ever
seeking me again as I am now. But, even if you had given me up,
you would never have loved another woman, would you, de Sigognac?
You would have been faithful to me always, even though you had
renounced me--I felt so sure of that. Were you thinking of me
down there in your ancient chateau, when Vallombreuse broke in
upon your solitude?"
"My dearest Isabelle, by day I had only one thought--of
you--and at night, when I kissed the sacred pillow on which your
lovely head had rested, before laying my own down upon it, I
besought the god of dreams to show me your adored image while I
slept."
"And were your prayers sometimes answered?"
"Always--not once was I disappointed--and only when morning came
did you leave me, vanishing through 'the ivory gates.' Oh I how
interminable the sad, lonely days seemed to me, and how I wished
that I could sleep, and dream of you, my angel, all the weary
time."
"I saw you also in my dreams, many nights in succession. Our
souls must have met, de Sigognac, while our bodies lay wrapped in
slumber. But now, thanks be to God, we are reunited--and forever.
The prince, my father, knew and approved of your being brought
here, Vallombreuse said, so we can have no opposition to our
wishes to fear from him. He has spoken to me of you several times
of late in very flattering terms; looking at me searchingly, the
while, in a way that greatly agitated and troubled me, for I did
not know what might be in his mind, as Vallombreuse had not then
told me that he no longer hated you, and I feared that he would
always do so after his double defeat at your hands. But all the
terrible anxiety is over now, my beloved, and blessed peace and
happiness lie before us."
At this moment the door opened, and the young duke announced to
de Sigognac that his father was waiting to receive him. The baron
immediately rose from his seat beside Isabelle, bowed low to her,
and followed Vallombreuse to the prince's presence. The aged
nobleman, dressed entirely in black, and with his breast covered
with orders, was sitting in a large arm-chair at a table heaped
up with books and papers, with which he had evidently been
occupied. His attitude was stately and dignified, and the
expression of his noble, benevolent countenance affable in the
extreme. He rose to receive de Sigognac, gave him a cordial
greeting, and politely bade him be seated.
"My dear father," said Vallombreuse, "I present to you the Baron
de Sigognac; formerly my rival, now my friend, and soon to be my
brother, if you consent. Any improvement that you may see in me
is due to his influence, and it is no light obligation that I owe
to him--though he will not admit that there is any. The baron
comes to ask a favour of you, which I shall rejoice to see
accorded to him."
The prince made a gesture of acquiescence, and looked
reassuringly at de Sigognac, as if inviting him to speak
fearlessly for himself. Encouraged by the expression of his eyes,
the baron rose, and, with a low bow, said, in clear, distinct
tones, "Prince, I am here to ask of you the hand of Mlle. la
Comtesse Isabelle de Lineuil, your daughter."
The old nobleman looked at him steadily and searchingly for a
moment, and then, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, answered:
"Baron de Sigognac, I accede to your request, and consent to this
alliance, with great pleasure--so far, that is, as my paternal
will accords with the wishes of my beloved daughter--whom I
should
never attempt to coerce in anything. The Comtesse de Lineuil must
be consulted in this matter, and herself decide the question
which is of such vital importance to her. I cannot undertake to
answer for her--the whims and fancies of young ladies are
sometimes so odd and unexpected."
The prince said this with a mischievous smile--as if he had not
long known that Isabelle loved de Sigognac with all her heart,
and was pining for him. After a brief pause, he added:
"Vallombreuse, go and fetch your sister, for, without her, I
cannot give a definite answer to the Baron de Sigognac."
The young duke accordingly went for Isabelle, who was greatly
alarmed at this summons, and obeyed it in fear and trembling.
Despite her brother's assurances, she could not bring herself to
believe in the reality of such great happiness. Her breast heaved
tumultuously, her face was very pale, at each step her knees
threatened to give way under her, and when her father drew her
fondly to his side she was forced to grasp the arm of his chair
tightly, to save herself from falling.
"My daughter," said the prince gravely, "here is a gentleman who
does you the honour to sue for your hand. For my own part, I
should hail this union with joy--for he is of an ancient and
illustrious family, of stainless reputation and tried courage,
and appears to me to possess every qualification that heart could
desire. I am perfectly satisfied with him--but has he succeeded
in
pleasing you, my child? Young heads do not always agree with gray
ones. Examine your own heart carefully, and tell me if you are
willing to accept the Baron de Sigognac as your husband. Take
plenty of time to consider--you shall not be hurried, my dear
child, in so grave a matter as this."
The prince's kindly, cordial smile gave evidence that he was in a
playful mood, and Isabelle, plucking up courage, threw her arms
round her father's neck, and said in the softest tones, "There is
no need for me to consider or hesitate, my dear lord and father!
Since the Baron de Sigognac is so happy as to please you, I
confess, freely and frankly, that I have loved him ever since we
first met, and have never wished for any other alliance. To obey,
you in this will be my highest happiness."
"And now clasp hands, my children, and exchange the kiss of
betrothal," cried the Duke of Vallombreuse gaily. "Verily, the
romance ends more happily than could have been expected after
such a stormy beginning. And now the next question is, when shall
the wedding be?"
"It will take a little time to make due preparation," said the
prince. "So many people must be set to work, in order that the
marriage of my only daughter may be worthily celebrated.
Meanwhile, Isabelle, here is your dowry, the deed of the estate
of Lineuil--from which you derive your title, and which yields
you an income of fifty thousand crowns per annum--together with
rent-rolls, and all the various documents appertaining thereto"--
and he handed a formidable roll of papers to her. "As to you, my
dear de Sigognac, I have here for you a royal ordinance, which
constitutes you governor of a province; and no one, I venture to
say, could be more worthy of this distinguished honour than
yourself."
Vallombreuse, who had gone out of the room while his father
was speaking, now made his appearance, followed by a servant
carrying a box covered with crimson velvet.
He took it from the lackey at the door, and advancing, placed it
upon the table in front of Isabelle.
"My dear little sister," said he, "will you accept this from me
as a wedding gift?"
On the cover was inscribed "For Isabelle," in golden letters, and
it contained the very casket which the Duke of Vallombreuse had
offered at Poitiers to the young actress, and which she had so
indignantly refused to receive, or even look at.
"You will accept it this time?" he pleaded, with a radiant smile;
"and honour these diamonds of finest water, and these pearls of
richest lustre, by wearing them, for my sake. They are not more
pure and beautiful than yourself."
Isabelle smilingly took up a magnificent necklace and clasped it
round her fair neck, to show that she harboured no resentment;
then put the exquisite bracelets on her round, white arms, and
decked herself with the various superb ornaments that the
beautiful casket contained.
And now we have only to add, that a week later Isabelle and de
Sigognac were united in marriage in the chapel at Vallombreuse,
which was brilliantly lighted, and filled with fragrance from the
profusion of flowers that converted it into a very bower. The
music was heavenly, the fair bride adorably beautiful, with her
long white veil floating about her, and the Baron de Sigognac
radiant with happiness. The Marquis de Bruyeres was one of his
witnesses, and a most brilliant and aristocratic assemblage
"assisted" at this notable wedding in high life. No one, who had
not been previously informed of it, could ever have suspected
that the lovely bride--at once so noble and modest, so dignified
and graceful, so gentle and refined, yet with as lofty a bearing
as a princess of the blood royal--had only a short time before
been one of a band of strolling players, nightly fulfilling her
duties as an actress. While de Sigognac, governor of a province,
captain of mousquetaires, superbly dressed, dignified, stately
and affable, the very beau-ideal of a distinguished young
nobleman, had nothing about him to recall the poor, shabby,
disconsolate youth, almost starving in his dreary, half-ruined
chateau, whose misery was described at the beginning of this
tale.
After a splendid collation, graced by the presence of the bride
and groom, the happy pair vanished; but we will not attempt to
follow them, or intrude upon their privacy--turning away at the
very threshold of the nuptial chamber, singing, in low tones,
after the fashion of the ancients, "Hymen! oh Hymen!"
The mysteries of such sacred happiness as theirs should be
respected; and besides, sweet, modest Isabelle would have died of
shame if so much as a single one of the pins that held her bodice
were indiscreetly drawn out.
CHAPTER XXII. THE CASTLE OF HAPPINESS
EPILOGUE
It will be readily believed that our sweet Isabelle had not
forgotten, in her exceeding happiness as Mme. la Baronne de
Sigognac, her former companions of Herode's troupe. As she could
not invite them to her wedding because they would have been so
much out of place there--she had, in commemoration of that
auspicious occasion, sent handsome and appropriate gifts to them
all; offered with a grace so charming that it redoubled their
value. So long as the company remained in Paris, she went often
to see them play; applauding her old friends heartily, and
judiciously as well, knowing just where the applause should be
given. The young baronne did not attempt to conceal the fact that
she had formerly been an actress herself--not parading it, but
referring to it quietly, if necessary, as a matter of course; an
excellent method to disarm ill-natured tongues, which would
surely have wagged vigorously had any mystery been made about it.
In addition, her illustrious birth and exalted position imposed
silence upon those around her, and her sweet dignity and modesty
had soon won all hearts--even those of her own sex--until it was
universally conceded that there was not a greater or truer lady
in court circles than the beautiful young Baronne de Sigognac.
The king, Louis XIII, having heard Isabelle's eventful history,
praised her highly for her virtuous conduct, and evinced great
interest in de Sigognac, whom he heartily commended for his
respectful, honourable gallantry, under circumstances that,
according to general opinion, would authorize all manner of
license. His deference to defenceless virtue peculiarly pleased
the chaste, reserved monarch, who had no sympathy with, or
indulgence for the wild, unbridled excesses of the licentious
youth of his capital and court. As to Vallombreuse, he had
entirely changed and amended his way of life, and seemed to find
unfailing pleasure and satisfaction, as well as benefit, in the
companionship of his new friend and brother, to whom he was
devoted, and who fully reciprocated his warm affection; while the
prince, his father, joyfully dwelt in the bosom of his reunited
family, and found in it the happiness he had vainly sought
before. The young husband and wife led a charming life, more and
more in love with and devoted to each other, and never
experiencing that satiety of bliss which is ruinous to the most
perfect happiness. Although Isabelle had no concealments from her
husband, and shared even her inmost thoughts with him, yet for a
time she seemed very much occupied with some mysterious
business--
apparently exclusively her own.
She had secret conferences with her steward, with an architect,
and also with certain sculptors and painters--all without de
Sigognac's knowledge, and by the connivance of Vallombreuse, who
seemed to be her confidant, aider and abettor.
One fine morning, several months after their marriage, Isabelle
said to de Sigognac, as if a sudden thought had struck her: "My
dear lord, do you never think of your poor, deserted, old
chateau? and have you no desire to return to the birthplace of
our love?"
"I am not so unfeeling as that, my darling, and I have thought of
it longingly many times of late. But I did not like to propose
the journey to you without being sure that it would please you. I
did not like to tear you away from the delights of the court--of
which you are the chief ornament--and take you to that poor, old,
half-ruined mansion, the haunt of rats and owls, where I could
not hope to make you even comfortable, yet, which I prefer,
miserable as it is, to the most luxurious palaces; for it was the
home of my ancestors, and the place where I first saw you, my
heart's delight!--spot ever sacred and dear to me, upon which I
should like to erect an altar."
"And I," rejoined Isabelle, "often wonder whether the eglantine
in the garden still blooms, as it did for me."
"It does," said de Sigognac, "I am sure of it--having once been
blessed by your touch, it must be always blooming--even though
there be none to see."
"Ah! my lord, unlike husbands in general, you are more gallant
after marriage than before," Isabelle said, laughingly, yet
deeply touched by his tender words, "and you pay your wife
compliments as if she were your ladylove. And now, since I have
ascertained that your wishes accord with my whim, will it please
your lordship to set out for the Chateau de Sigognac this week?
The weather is fine. The great heat of summer is over, and we can
really enjoy the journey. Vallombreuse will go with us, and I
shall take Chiquita. She will be glad to see her own country
again."
The needful preparations were soon made, and the travelling party
set off in high spirits. The journey was rapid and delightful.
Relays of horses had been sent on in advance by Vallombreuse, so
that in a few days they reached the point where the road leading
to the Chateau de Sigognac branched off from the great post-road.
It was about two o'clock of a bright, warm afternoon when the
carriage turned off the highway, and as they got, at the same
moment, their first view of the chateau, de Sigognac could not
believe the testimony of his own eyes--he was bewildered,
dazzled, overwhelmed--he no longer recognised the familiar
details
which had been so deeply impressed upon his memory. All was
changed, as if by magic. The road, smooth, free from grass and
weeds, and freshly gravelled, had no more ruts; the hedges,
neatly trimmed and properly tended, no longer reached out long,
straggling arms to catch the rare passer-by; the tall trees on
either side had been carefully pruned, so that their branches met
in an arch overhead, and framed in a most astonishing picture.
Instead of the dreary ruin, slowly crumbling into dust, a fine
new chateau rose before them--resembling the old one as a son
resembles his father. It was an exact reproduction--nothing had
been changed, only renewed--it was simply the ancient mansion
rejuvenated. The walls were smooth and unbroken, the lofty towers
intact, rising proudly at the four angles of the building, with
their freshly gilded weathercocks gleaming in the sunlight. A
handsome new roof, tastefully ornamented with a pretty design in
different coloured slates, had replaced the broken,
weather-stained tiles, through which the rain used to find its
way down into the frescoed hall, and the long suite of deserted
rooms. Every window had bright large panes of clear glass shining
in its casement, and a magnificent great door, turning smoothly
and noiselessly upon its huge hinges, had superseded the old,
worm-eaten one, that used to groan and creak piteously when
opened ever so little. Above it shone the de Sigognac arms--three
golden storks upon an azure field, with this noble motto-
-entirely obliterated of old--"Alta petunt."
For a few moments de Sigognac gazed at it all in silence,
overcome by astonishment and emotion. Then he suddenly turned to
Isabelle, with joyful surprise written in every line of his
speaking countenance, and seizing her hands passionately, and
holding them firmly clasped in his, said: "It is to you, my kind,
generous fairy, that I owe this marvellous transformation of my
poor, dilapidated, old chateau. You have touched it with your
wand and restored its ancient splendour, majesty and youth. I
cannot tell you how enchanted, how gratified I am by this
wonderful surprise. It is unspeakably charming and delightful,
like everything that emanates from my good angel.
Without a word or hint from me, you have divined, and carried
out, the secret and most earnest wish of my heart."
"You must also thank a certain sorcerer, who has greatly aided me
in all this," said Isabelle softly, touched by her husband's
emotion and delight, and pointing to Vallombreuse, who was
sitting opposite to her. The two young men clasped hands for a
moment, and smiled at each other in friendly fashion. There was a
perfect under standing between these kindred spirits now, and no
words were needed on either side.
By this time the carriage had reached the chateau, where Pierre,
in a fine new livery--and a tremor of delight--was waiting to
receive them. After an affectionate, as well as respectful,
greeting from the faithful old servant, they entered the grand
portico, which had been, like all the rest, admirably restored,
and, alighting from the carriage, paused a moment to admire its
magnificent proportions ere they passed on into the frescoed
hall, where eight or ten tall lackeys were drawn up in line, and
bowed profoundly to their new master and mistress. Skilful
artists had retouched the ancient frescoes, and made them glow
with all their original brilliant tints. The colossal figures of
Hercules were still supporting the heavy cornice, and the busts
of the Roman emperors looked out majestically from their niches.
Higher up, the vine climbing on its trellis was as luxuriant as
in the olden time, and there were no unsightly stains on the
bright blue sky of the vaulted roof to mar its beauty. A like
metamorphosis had been worked everywhere--the worm-eaten woodwork
had been renewed, the uneven floors relaid, the tarnished gilding
restored to its original splendour--and the new furniture
throughout had been made exactly like the old that it replaced.
The fine old tapestry in de Sigognac's own room had been minutely
copied, down to the smallest detail, and the hangings of the bed
were of green and white brocade, in precisely the same delicate
tint and graceful pattern as the old.
Isabelle, with her innate delicacy and perfect taste, had not
aimed at producing a sensation, by any overwhelming magnificence
or dazzling splendour in renovating the intrinsically fine old
Chateau de Sigognac, but had simply wished to gratify and delight
the heart of her husband, so tenderly loved, in giving back to
him the impressions and surroundings of his childhood and youth,
robbed of their misery and sadness. All was bright and gay now in
this lordly mansion, erst so dreary and melancholy; even the
sombre old family portraits, cleansed, retouched and revarnished
by skilful hands, smiled down upon them, as if pleased with the
new order of things; especially their own handsome, richly gilt
frames.
After looking through the interior of the chateau, de Sigognac
and Isabelle went out into the court, where no weeds or nettles
were to be seen, no grass growing up between the paving stones,
no heaps of rubbish in the corners, and through the clear glass
panes of the numerous windows looking into it were visible the
folds of the rich curtains in the chambers that were formerly the
favourite haunt of owls and bats. They went on down into the
garden, by a noble flight of broad stone steps, no longer
tottering and moss-grown, and turned first to seek the wild
eglantine which had offered its delicate little rose to the young
actress, on the memorable morning when the baron had decided to
go forth from his ruined castle for love of her. It had another
dainty blossom ready for her now, which Isabelle received from de
Sigognac's hand, with tears, that told of a happiness too deep
for words, welling up into her eyes, and exchanged with her
adored and adoring husband a long, fond look, that seemed to give
to each a glimpse of heaven.
The gardeners had been busy too, and had converted the neglected
wilderness we made acquaintance with long ago into a veritable
little paradise. At the end of the wellordered and exquisitely
arranged garden, Pomona still stood in her cool grotto, restored
to all the beauty of her youth, while a stream of pure, sparkling
water poured from the lion's mouth, and fell with a musical
murmur into the marble basin. Even in their best and most
glorious days the garden and the chateau had never known greater
beauty and luxury than now. The baron, ever more and more
astonished and enchanted, as he rambled slowly through it all,
like one in a delicious dream, kept Isabelle's arm pressed
tenderly to his heart, and was not ashamed to let her see the
tears that at last he could no longer restrain, and which came
from a very full heart.
"Now," said Isabelle, "that we have seen everything here, we must
go and inspect the different pieces of property we have been able
to buy back, so as to reconstruct, as nearly as possible, the
ancient barony of Sigognac. I will leave you for a few moments,
to go and put on my riding habit; I shall not be long, for I
learned to make changes of that sort very rapidly in my old
profession, you know. Will you, meantime, go and select our
horses, and order that they should be made ready?"
Vallombreuse accompanied de Sigognac to the stables, where they
found ten splendid horses contentedly munching their oats in
their oaken stalls. Everything was in perfect order, but ere the
baron had time to admire and praise, as he wished to do, a loud
whinnying that was almost deafening suddenly burst forth, as good
old Bayard peremptorily claimed his attention. Isabelle had long
ago sent orders to the chateau that the superannuated pony should
always have the best place in the stable, and be tenderly cared
for. His manger was full of ground oats, which he seemed to be
enjoying with great gusto, and he evidently approved highly of
the new regime. In his stall Miraut lay sleeping, but the sound
of his master's voice aroused him, and he joyfully jumped up and
came to lick his hand, and claim the accustomed caress. As to
Beelzebub, though he had not yet made his appearance, it must not
be attributed to a want of affection on his part, but rather to
an excess of timidity. The poor old cat had been so unsettled and
alarmed at the invasion of the quiet chateau by an army of noisy
workmen, and all the confusion and changes that had followed,
that he had fled from his usual haunts, and taken up his abode in
a remote attic; where he lay in concealment, impatiently waiting
for darkness to come, so that he might venture out to pay his
respects to his beloved master.
The baron, after petting Bayard and Miraut until they were in
ecstasies of delight, chose from among the horses a beautiful,
spirited chestnut for himself, the duke selected a Spanish
jennet, with proudly arched neck and flowing mane, which was
worthy to carry an Infanta, and an exquisite white palfrey, whose
skin shone like satin, was brought out for the baronne. In a few
moments Isabelle came down, attired in a superb riding habit,
which consisted of a dark blue velvet basque, richly braided
with silver, over a long, ample skirt of silver-gray satin, and
her broad hat of white felt, like a cavalier's, was trimmed with
a floating, dark blue feather. Her beautiful hair was confined in
the most coquettish little blue and silver net, and as she came
forward, radiant with smiles, she was a vision of loveliness,
that drew forth fervent exclamations of delight from her two
devoted and adoring knights. The Baronne de Sigognac certainly
was enchantingly beautiful in her rich equestrian costume, which
displayed the perfection of her slender, well-rounded figure to
the greatest advantage, and there was a high-bred, dainty look
about her which bore silent witness to her illustrious origin.
She was still the sweet, modest Isabelle of old, but she was also
the daughter of a mighty prince, the sister of a proud young
duke, and the honoured wife of a valiant gentleman, whose race
had been noble since before the crusades. Vallombreuse, remarking
it, could not forbear to say: "My dearest sister, how magnificent
you look to-day! Hippolyte, queen of the Amazons, was never more
superb, or more triumphantly beautiful, than you are in this most
becoming costume."
Isabelle smiled in reply, as she put her pretty little foot into
de Sigognac's hand, and sprang lightly into her saddle.
Her husband and brother mounted also, and the little cavalcade
set forth in high glee, making the vaulted portico ring with
their merry laughter, as they rode through it. Just in front of
the chateau they met the Marquis de Bruyeres, and several other
gentlemen of the neighbourhood, coming to pay their respects.
They wished to go back into the chateau and receive their guests
properly, saying that they could ride out at any time, but the
visitors would not listen to such a thing, and turning their
horses' heads proposed to ride with them. The party, increased by
six or eight cavaliers in gala dress--for the provincial
lordlings had made themselves as fine as possible to do honour to
their new neighbours--was really very imposing; a cortege worthy
of a princess. They rode on between broad green fields, through
woods and groves and highly cultivated farms, all of which had
now been restored to the estate they had originally belonged to;
and the grateful, adoring glances that the Baron de Sigognac
found opportunity to bestow upon his lovely baronne, made her
heart beat high with a happiness almost too perfect for this
weary world of trials and sorrows.
As they were riding through a little pine wood, near the boundary
line of the estate, the barking of hounds was heard, and
presently the party met the beautiful Yolande de Foix, followed
by her old uncle, and one or two attendant cavaliers. The road
was very narrow, and there was scarcely room to pass, though each
party endeavoured to make way for the other. Yolande's horse was
prancing about restively, and the skirt of her long riding-habit
brushed Isabelle's as she passed her. She was furiously angry,
and sorely tempted to address some cutting words to the
"Bohemienne" she had once so cruelly insulted; but Isabelle, who
had a soul above such petty malice, and had long ago forgiven
Yolande for her unprovoked insolence, felt how much her own
triumph must wound the other's proud spirit, and with perfect
dignity and grace bowed to Mlle. de Foix, who could not do less
than respond by a slight inclination of her haughty head, though
her heart was filled with rage, and she had much ado to control
herself. The Baron de Sigognac, with a quiet, unembarrassed air,
had bowed respectfully to the fair huntress, who looked eagerly,
but in vain, into the eyes of her former adorer for a spark of
the old flame that used to blaze up in them at sight of her.
Angry and disappointed, she gave her horse a sharp cut with the
whip, and swept away at a gallop.
"Now, by Venus and all the Loves," said Vallombreuse to the
Marquis de Bruyeres, beside whom he was riding, "that girl is a
beauty, but she looked deucedly savage and cross. How she did
glare at my sister, eh! as if she wanted to stab her."
"When one has long been the acknowledged queen of a
neighbourhood," the marquis replied, "it is not pleasant to be
dethroned, you know, and every one must admit that Mme. la
Baronne de Sigognac bears off the palm."
The gay cavalcade, after a long ride, returned to the chateau, to
find a sumptuous repast awaiting them in the magnificent
banqueting hall, where the poor young baron had once supped with
the wandering comedians, upon their own provisions. What a
transformation had been effected! now a superb service of silver,
bearing the family arms, shone upon the fine damask that covered
the table, in which also the three storks were apparent, while
beautiful porcelain and dainty glass, lovely flowers and luscious
fruits contributed to the attractions of the bountifully
furnished board. Isabelle sat in the same place she had occupied
on the eventful night that had changed the destiny of the young
lord of the chateau, and she could not but think of, and live
over, that widely different occasion, as did also the baron, and
the married lovers exchanged furtive smiles and glances, in which
tender memories and bright hopes were happily mingled.
Near one of the tall buffets stood a large, fine-looking man with
a thick black beard, dressed in black velvet, and wearing a
massive chain of silver round his neck, who kept a watchful eye
upon the numerous lackeys waiting on the guests, and from time to
time gave an order, with a most majestic air. Presiding over
another buffet, on which were neatly arranged numerous
wine-bottles of different forms and dimensions, was another
elderly man, of short, corpulent figure, and with a jolly red
face, who stepped about actively and lightly, despite his age and
weight, dispensing the wine to the servants as it was needed. At
first de Sigognac did not notice them, but chancing to glance in
their direction, was astonished to recognise in the first the
tragic Herode, and in the second the grotesque Blazius. Isabelle,
seeing that her husband had become aware of their presence,
whispered to him, that in order to provide for the old age of
those two devoted and faithful friends she had thought it well to
give them superior positions in their household; in which they
would have only easy duties to perform, as they had to direct
others in their work, not to do any themselves; and the baron
heartily approved and commended what his sweet young wife, ever
considerate for others, had been pleased to do.
Course succeeded to course, and bottle to bottle--there was much
laughing and talking around the convivial board, and the host was
exerting himself to do honour to the festive occasion, when he
felt a head laid on his knee, and a tattoo vigorously played by a
pair of paws on his leg that was well known to him of old.
Miraut and Beelzebub, who had slipped into the room, and under
the table, without being detected, thus announced their presence
to their indulgent master. He did not repulse them, but managed,
without attracting notice, to give them a share of everything on
his plate, and was especially amused at the almost insatiable
voracity of the old black cat--who had evidently been fasting in
his hiding-place in the attic. He actually seemed to enjoy, like
an epicure, the rich and dainty viands that had replaced the
frugal fare of long ago, and ate so much that when the meal was
over he could scarcely stand, and made his way with difficulty
into his master's bed-chamber, where he curled himself up in a
luxurious arm-chair and settled down comfortably for the night.
Vallombreuse kept pace with the Marquis de Bruyeres, and the
other guests, in disposing of the choice wines, that did credit
to the pedant's selection; but de Sigognac, who had not lost his
temperate habits, only touched his lips to the edge of his
wine-glass, and made a pretence of keeping them company.
Isabelle, under pretext of fatigue, had withdrawn when the
dessert was placed upon the table. She really was very tired, and
sent at once for Chiquita, now promoted to the dignity of first
lady's maid, to come and perform her nightly duties. The wild,
untutored child had--under Isabelle's judicious, tender and
careful training--developed into a quiet, industrious and very
beautiful young girl. She still wore mourning for Agostino, and
around her neck was the famous string of pearl beads--it was a
sacred treasure to Chiquita, and she was never seen without it.
She attended to her duties quickly and deftly--evidently taking
great delight in waiting upon the mistress she adored--and kissed
her hand passionately, as she never failed to do, when all was
finished and she bade her good-night.
When, an hour later, de Sigognac entered the room in which he had
spent so many weary, lonely nights--listening to the wind as it
shrieked and moaned round the outside of the desolate chateau,
and wailed along the corridors- feeling that life was a hard and
bitter thing, and fancying that it would never bring anything but
trials and misery to him--he saw, by the subdued light from the
shaded lamp, the face to him most beautiful in all the world
smiling lovingly to greet him from under the green and white
silken curtains that hung round his own bed, where it lay resting
upon the pillow he had so often kissed, and moistened with his
tears. His eyes were moist now--but from excess of happiness, not
sorrow--as he saw before him the blessed, blissful realization of
his vision.
Towards morning Beelzebub, who had been excessively uneasy and
restless all night, managed, with great difficulty, to clamber up
on the bed, where he rubbed his nose against his master's
hand--trying at the same time to purr in the old way, but failing
lamentably. The baron woke instantly, and saw poor Beelzebub
looking at him appealingly, with his great green eyes unnaturally
dilated, and momentarily growing dim; he was trembling violently,
and as his master's kind hand was stretched out to stroke his
head, fell over on his side, and with one half-stifled cry, one
convulsive shudder, breathed his last.
"Poor Beelzebub!" softly said Isabelle, who had been roused from
her sweet slumber by his dying groan, "he has lived through all
the misery of the old time, but will not be here to share and
enjoy the prosperity of the new."
Beelzebub, it must be confessed, fell a victim to his own
intemperance--a severe fit of indigestion, consequent upon the
enormous supper he had eaten, was the cause of his death--his
long-famished stomach was not accustomed to, nor proof against,
such excesses. This death, even though it was only that of a dumb
beast, touched de Sigognac deeply; for poor Beelzebub had been
his faithful companion, night and day, through many long, weary
years of sadness and poverty, and had always shown the warmest,
most devoted affection for him. He carefully wrapped the body in
a piece of fine, soft cloth, and waited, until evening should
come, to bury it himself; when he would be safe from observation
and possible ridicule. Accordingly, after nightfall, he took a
spade, a lantern, and poor Beelzebub's body, which was stiff and
stark by that time, and went down into the garden, where he set
to work to dig the grave, under the sacred eglantine, in what
seemed to him like hallowed ground. He wanted to make it deep
enough to insure its not being disturbed by any roaming beast of
prey, and worked away diligently, until his spade struck sharply
against some hard substance, that he at first thought must be a
large stone, or piece of rock perhaps. He attempted, in various
ways, to dislodge it, but all in vain, and it gave out such a
peculiar, hollow sound at every blow, that at last he threw down
his spade and took the lantern to see what the strange obstacle
might be.
He was greatly surprised at finding the corner of a stout oaken
chest, strengthened with iron bands, much rusted, but still
intact. He dug all round it, and then, using his spade as a
lever, succeeded in raising it, though it was very heavy, to the
edge of the hole, and sliding it out on the grass beside it; then
he put poor Beelzebub into the place it had occupied, and filled
up the grave. He carefully smoothed it over, replaced the sod,
and when all was finished to his satisfaction, went in search of
his faithful old Pierre, upon whose discretion and secrecy he
knew that he could rely. Together they carried the mysterious
strong box into the chateau, but not without great difficulty and
frequent pauses to rest, because of its immense weight. Pierre
broke open the chest with an axe, and the cover sprang back,
disclosing to view a mass of gold coins--all ancient, and many of
them foreign. Upon examination, a quantity of valuable jewelry,
set with precious stones, was found mingled with the gold, and,
under all, a piece of parchment, with a huge seal attached,
bearing the three storks of the de Sigognacs, still in a good
state of preservation; but the writing was almost entirely
obliterated by dampness and mould. The signature, however, was
still visible, and letter by letter the baron spelled it
out--"Raymond de Sigognac." It was the name of one of his
ancestors, who had gone to serve his king and country in the war
then raging, and never returned; leaving the mystery of his
death, or disappearance, unsolved. He had only one child, an
infant son, and when he left home--in those troublous times--must
have buried all his treasures for safety, and they had remained
undiscovered until this late day. Doubtless, he had confided the
secret of their whereabouts to some trusty friend or retainer,
who, perhaps, had died suddenly before he could disclose it to
the rightful heir. From the time of that Raymond began the
decadence of the de Sigognacs, who, previous to that epoch, had
always been wealthy and powerful.
Of course, the mystery about this treasure--so strangely brought
to light--could never be cleared up now; but one thing was
certain, beyond a question or a doubt, that the strong box and
its contents belonged of right to the present Baron de
Sigognac--the only living representative of the family. His first
move was to seek his generous, devoted wife, so that he might
show her the mysterious treasure he had found, and claim her
sweet sympathy in his joy, which would be incomplete without it.
After relating to her all the surprising incidents of the
evening, he finished by saying, "Decidedly, Beelzebub was the
good genius of the de Sigognacs--through his means I have become
rich--and now that my blessed angel has come to me he has taken
his departure; for there is nothing else left for him to do,
since you, my love, have given me perfect happiness."