The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II
by Jules Lermina · English · Gutenberg #22086 · 483,649 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II
Author: Jules Lermina
Release date: July 16, 2007 [eBook #22086]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22086
Credits: E-text prepared by Juergen Lohnert, Martin Pettit, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, VOLUME II ***
E-text prepared by Juergen Lohnert, Martin Pettit, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected, and
inconsistent spelling has been made consistent.
This volume does not have any illustrations.
The Works of Alexandre Dumas in Thirty Volumes
THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO
VOLUME TWO
Illustrated with Drawings on Wood by
Eminent French and American Artists
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
New York
P. F. Collier and Son
MCMIV
CONTENTS
I. FANFARO'S ADVENTURES 3
II. THE GOLDEN SUN 7
III. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES 16
IV. BROTHER AND SISTER 23
V. MASTER AND SERVANT 31
VI. THE PERFORMANCE 41
VII. PIERRE LABARRE 49
VIII. A MEETING 59
IX. THE GRATITUDE OF A NOBLEMAN 64
X. ESCAPED 73
XI. IN PARIS 79
XII. THE "MARQUIS" 92
XIII. THE PURSUIT 113
XIV. LOUISE 123
XV. SWINDLED 128
XVI. MACHIAVELLI AND COMPANY 134
XVII. LOUISON 139
XVIII. THE CANAL 143
XIX. SPLENDOR 147
XX. IN LEIGOUTTE 154
XXI. EXCITED 163
XXII. THE TRIAL 177
XXIII. THE CRISIS 180
XXIV. THE AUTOPSY 192
XXV. FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS 198
XXVI. MISTAKEN 204
XXVII. FREEDOM--BENEDETTO'S REVENGE 207
XXVIII. SPERO 215
XXIX. FORWARD, MARCH 221
XXX. JANE ZILD 228
XXXI. A THUNDERBOLT 240
XXXII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES 246
XXXIII. THE CATASTROPHE 252
XXXIV. A SHOT 262
XXXV. WILL SHE LIVE? 267
XXXVI. MELOSAN'S SECRET 271
XXXVII. CARMEN 287
XXXVIII. RECOLLECTIONS 297
XXXIX. DISAPPEARED 302
XL. A CONFESSION 311
XLI. ON THE TRAIL 318
XLII. THE TRAP 323
XLIII. THE PATH OF THORNS 326
XLIV. THE PASHA 330
XLV. HOW CARMEN KEEPS HER WORD 333
XLVI. IN COURBEVOIE 338
XLVII. THE DEVOTED 341
XLVIII. UNITED IN DEATH 344
XLIX. THE SPECTRE 347
L. 349
EPILOGUE--THE ABBE DANTES 351
THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO
CHAPTER I
FANFARO'S ADVENTURES
Spero, the son of Monte-Cristo, was peacefully sleeping in another room,
while, gathered around the table in the dining-room of Fanfaro's house,
were Monte-Cristo, Miss Clary, Madame Caraman, Coucou, and Albert de
Morcerf, ready to listen to the story of Fanfaro's adventures, which, as
narrated at the close of the preceding volume, he was about to begin.
The following is Fanfaro's narrative:
It was about the middle of December, 1813, that a solitary horseman was
pursuing the road which leads through the Black Forest from Breisach to
Freiburg. The rider was a man in the prime of life. He wore a long brown
overcoat, reaching to his knees, and shoes fastened with steel buckles.
His powdered hair was combed back and tied with a black band, while his
head was covered with a cap that had a projecting peak. The evening
came, and darkness spread over the valley: the Black Forest had not
received its name in vain. A few miles from Freiburg there stands a
lonely hill, named the Emperor's Chair. Dark masses of basalt form the
steps of this natural throne; tall evergreens stretch their branches
protectingly over the hill. A fresh mountain air is cast about by the
big trees, and the north wind is in eternal battle with this giant,
which it bends but can never break.
Pierre Labarre, the solitary horseman, was the confidential servant of
the Marquis de Fougereuse, and the darker the road became the more
uncomfortable he felt. He continually spurred on his horse, but the
tired animal at every stride struck against tree roots which lined the
narrow path.
"Quick, Margotte," said Pierre to the animal, "you know how anxiously we
are awaited, and besides we are the bearers of good news."
The animal appeared to understand the words, began to trot again at a
smart pace, and for a time all went well.
Darker and darker grew the night, the storm raged fiercer and fiercer,
and the roar of the distant river sounded like the tolling of
church-bells.
Pierre had now reached a hill, upon which century-old lindens stretched
their leafless branches toward heaven; the road parted at this point,
and the rider suddenly reined in his horse. One of the paths led to
Breisach, the other to Gundebfingen. Pierre rose in the stirrups and
cautiously glanced about, but then he shook his head and muttered:
"Curious, I can discover nothing, and yet I thought I heard the clatter
of a horse's hoofs."
He mechanically put his hand in his breast-pocket and nodded his head in
a satisfied way.
"The portfolio is still in the right place," he whispered. "Forward,
Margotte--we must get under shelter."
But just as the steed was about to start, the rider again heard the
sound of a horse's hoofs on the frozen ground, and in a twinkling a
horse bounded past Pierre like the wind. It was the second rider who had
rushed past the servant at such a rapid gait.
Pierre was not superstitious, yet he felt his heart move quickly when
the horseman galloped past him, and old legends about spectres rose up
in his mind. Perhaps the rider was the wild huntsman of whom he had
heard so much, or what was more likely, it was no spectre, but a robber.
This last possibility frightened Pierre very much. He bent down and took
a pistol out of the saddle-bag. He cocked the trigger and continued on
his way, while he muttered to himself:
"Courage, old boy; if it should come to the worst you will kill your
man."
Pierre rode on unembarrassed, and had reached a road which would bring
him to Freiburg in less than half an hour. Suddenly a report was heard,
and Pierre uttered a hollow groan. A bullet had struck his breast.
Bending with pain over his horse's neck he looked about. The bushes
parted and a man enveloped in a long cloak sprung forth and rushed upon
the servant. The moment he put his hand on the horse's rein, Pierre
raised himself and in an angry voice exclaimed:
"Not so quickly, bandits!"
At the same moment he aimed his pistol and fired. The bandit uttered a
moan and recoiled. But he did not sink to the ground as Pierre had
expected. He disappeared in the darkness. A second shot fired after him
struck in the nearest tree, and Pierre swore roundly.
"Confound the Black Forest," he growled as he rode along; "if I had not
fortunately had my leather portfolio in my breast-pocket, I would be a
dead man now! The scoundrel must have eyes like an owl: he aimed as well
as if he had been on a rifle range. Hurry along, Margotte, or else a
second highwayman may come and conclude what the other began."
The horse trotted along, and Pierre heard anew the gallop of a second
animal. The bandit evidently desired to keep his identity unknown.
"Curious," muttered Pierre, "I did not see his face, but his voice
seemed familiar."
CHAPTER II
THE GOLDEN SUN
Mr. Schwan, the host of the Golden Sun at Sainte-Ame, a market town in
the Vosges, was very busy. Although the month of February was not an
inviting one, three travellers had arrived that morning at the Golden
Sun, and six more were expected.
Schwan had that morning made an onslaught on his chicken coop, and,
while his servants were robbing the murdered hens of their feathers, the
host walked to the door of the inn and looked at the sky.
A loud laugh, which shook the windows of the inn, made Schwan turn round
hurriedly: at the same moment two muscular arms were placed upon his
shoulders, and a resounding kiss was pressed upon his brown cheek.
"What is the meaning of this?" stammered the host, trying in vain to
shake off the arms which held him. "The devil take me, but these arms
must belong to my old friend Firejaws," exclaimed Schwan, now laughing;
and hardly had he spoken the words than the possessor of the arms, a
giant seven feet tall, cheerfully said:
"Well guessed, Father Schwan. Firejaws in _propria persona_."
While the host was cordially welcoming the new arrival, several
servants hurried from the kitchen, and soon a bottle of wine and two
glasses stood upon the cleanly scoured inn table.
"Make yourself at home, my boy," said Schwan, gayly, as he filled the
glasses.
The giant, whose figure was draped in a fantastical costume, grinned
broadly, and did justice to the host's invitation. The sharply curved
nose and the large mouth with dazzling teeth, the full blond hair, and
the broad, muscular shoulders, were on a colossal scale. The
tight-fitting coat of the athlete was dark red, the trousers were of
black velvet, and richly embroidered shirt-sleeves made up the wonderful
appearance of the man.
"Father Schwan, I must embrace you once more," said the giant after a
pause, as he stretched out his arms.
"Go ahead, but do not crush me," laughed the host.
"Are you glad to see me again?"
"I should say so. How are you getting along?"
"Splendidly, as usual; my breast is as firm still as if it were made of
iron," replied the giant, striking a powerful blow upon his breast.
"Has business been good?"
"Oh, I am satisfied."
"Where are your people?"
"On their way here. The coach was too slow for me, so I left them behind
and went on in advance."
"Well, and--your wife?" asked the host, hesitatingly.
The giant closed his eyes and was silent; Schwan looked down at his
feet, and after a pause continued:
"Things don't go as they should, I suppose?"
"Let me tell you something," replied the giant, firmly; "if it is just
the same to you, I would rather not talk on that subject."
"Ah, really? Poor fellow! Yes, these women!"
"Not so quickly, cousin--my deceased wife was a model of a woman."
"True; when she died I knew you would never find another one to equal
her."
"My little Caillette is just like her."
"Undoubtedly. When I saw the little one last, about six years ago, she
was as pretty as a picture."
"She is seventeen now, and still very handsome."
"What are the relations between your wife and you?"
"They couldn't be better; Rolla cannot bear the little one."
The host nodded.
"Girdel," he said, softly, "when you told me that day that you were
going to marry the 'Cannon Queen,' I was frightened. The woman's look
displeased me. Does she treat Caillette badly?"
"She dare not touch a hair of the child's head," hissed the giant,
"or--"
"Do not get angry; but tell me rather whether Bobichel is still with
you?"
"Of course."
"And Robeckal?"
"His time is about up."
"That would be no harm; and the little one?"
"The little one?" laughed Girdel. "Well, he is about six feet."
"You do not say so! Is he still so useful?"
"Cousin," said the giant, slowly, "Fanfaro is a treasure! Do you know,
he is of a different breed from us; no, do not contradict me, I know
what I am speaking about. I am an athlete; I have arms like logs and
hands like claws, therefore it is no wonder that I perform difficult
exercises; but Fanfaro is tender and fine; he has arms and hands like a
girl, and skin like velvet, yet he can stand more than I can. He can
down two of me, yet he is soft and shrewd, and has a heart of gold."
"Then you love him as much as you used to do?" laughed the host, in a
satisfied way.
"Much more if it is possible; I--"
The giant stopped short, and when Schwan followed the direction of his
eye, he saw that the wagon which carried the fortune of Cesar Girdel had
rolled into the courtyard.
Upon four high wheels a large open box swung to and fro; on its four
sides were various colored posts, which served to carry the curtains,
which shut out the interior of the box from the eyes of the curious
world. The red and white curtains were now cast aside, and one could see
a mass of iron poles, rags, weights, empty barrels, hoops with and
without purple silk paper, the use of which was not clear to profane
eyes.
The driver was dressed in yellow woollen cloth, and could at once be
seen to be a clown; he wore a high pasteboard cap adorned with bells,
and while he swung the whip with his right hand he held a trumpet in his
left, which he occasionally put to his lips and blew a blast loud enough
to wake the very stones. The man's face was terribly thin, his nose was
long and straight, and small dark eyes sparkled maliciously from under
his bushy eyebrows.
Behind Bobichel, for this was the clown's name, Caillette, the giant's
daughter, was seated. Her father had not overpraised his daughter: the
tender, rosy face of the young girl had wonderfully refined features;
deep blue soulful eyes lay half hidden under long, dark eyelashes, and
gold-blond locks fell over her white neck. Caillette appeared to be
enjoying herself, for her silvery laugh sounded continually, while she
was conversing with Bobichel.
At the rear of the wagon upon a heap of bedding sat a woman whose
dimensions were fabulous. She was about forty-five years of age; her
face looked as if it had been chopped with an axe; the small eyes almost
disappeared beneath the puffed cheeks, and the broad breast as well as
the thick, red arms and claw-like hands were repulsive in the extreme.
Bushy hair of a dirty yellow color hung in a confused mass over the
shoulders of the virago, and her blue cloth jacket and woollen dress
were full of grease spots.
Robeckal walked beside the wagon. He was of small stature, but nervous
and muscular. The small face lighted up by shrewd eyes had a yellowish
color; the long, thin arms would have done honor to a gorilla, and the
elasticity of his bones was monkeyish in the extreme. He wore a suit of
faded blue velvet, reddish brown hair only half covered his head, and a
mocking laugh lurked about the corners of his lips while he was softly
speaking to Rolla.
Bobichel now jumped from the wagon. Girdel hurried from the house and
cordially exclaimed:
"Welcome, children; you have remained out long and are not hungry, are
you?"
"I could eat pebblestones," replied Bobichel, laughing. "Ah, there is
Schwan too. Well, old boy, how have you been getting along?"
While the host and the clown were holding a conversation, Girdel went to
the wagon and stretched out his arms.
"Jump, daughter," he laughingly said.
Caillette did not hesitate long; she rose on her pretty toes and swung
herself over the edge of the wagon into her father's arms. The latter
kissed her heartily on both cheeks, and then placed her on the ground.
He then glanced around, and anxiously asked:
"Where is Fanfaro?"
"Here, Papa Firejaws," came cheerfully from the interior of the wagon,
and at the same moment a dark head appeared in sight above a large box.
The head was followed by a beautifully formed body, and placing his hand
lightly on the edge of the wagon, Fanfaro swung gracefully to the
ground.
"Madcap, can't you stop turning?" scolded Girdel, laughingly; "go into
the house and get your breakfast!"
Caillette, Fanfaro, and Bobichel went away; Girdel turned to his wife
and pleasantly said:
"Rolla, I will now help you down."
Rolla looked at him sharply, and then said in a rough, rasping voice:
"Didn't I call you, Robeckal? Come and help me down!"
Robeckal, who had been observing the chickens in the courtyard, slowly
approached the wagon.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Help me down," repeated Rolla.
Girdel remained perfectly calm, but a careful observer might have
noticed the veins on his forehead swell. He measured Rolla and Robeckal
with a peculiar look, and before his look Rolla's eyes fell.
"Robeckal, are you coming?" cried the virago, impatiently.
"What do you wish here?" asked Girdel, coolly, as Robeckal turned to
Rolla.
"What do I wish here?" replied Robeckal; "Madame Girdel has done me the
honor to call me, and--"
"And you are thinking rather long about it," interrupted Rolla, gruffly.
"I am here," growled Robeckal, laying his hand upon the edge of the
wagon.
"No further!" commanded Girdel, in a threatening voice.
"Ha! who is going to prevent me?"
"I, wretch!" thundered Firejaws, in whose eyes a warning glance shone.
"Bah! you are getting angry about nothing," said Robeckal, mockingly,
placing his other hand on the edge of the wagon.
"Strike him, Robeckal!" cried Rolla, urgingly.
Robeckal raised his right hand, but at the same moment the athlete
stretched him on the ground with a blow of his fist; he could thank his
stars that Girdel had not struck him with his full force, or else
Robeckal would never have got up again. With a cry of rage he sprung up
and threw himself upon the giant, who waited calmly for him with his
arms quietly folded over his breast; a sword shone in Robeckal's hand,
and how it happened neither he nor Rolla knew, but immediately after he
lay on top of the wagon, close to the Cannon Queen.
"Enough of your rascality, Robeckal," said the voice of him who had
thrown the angry man upon the wagon.
"I thought the wretched boy would come between us again," hissed Rolla;
and without waiting for any further help she sprung from the wagon and
rushed upon Fanfaro, for he it was who had come to Girdel's assistance.
"Back, Rolla!" exclaimed Firejaws, hoarsely, as he laid his iron fist
upon his wife's shoulder. Schwan came to the door and cordially said:
"Where are your comrades? The soup is waiting."
Robeckal hurriedly glided from the wagon, and approaching close to
Rolla, he whispered a few words in her ear.
"Let me go, Girdel," said the giantess. "Who would take such a stupid
joke in earnest? Come, I am hungry."
Firejaws looked at his wife in amazement. Her face, which had been
purple with anger, was now overspread by a broad grin, and shrugging his
shoulders, Girdel walked toward the house. Fanfaro followed, and
Robeckal and Rolla remained alone.
"We must make an end of it, Rolla," grumbled Robeckal.
"I am satisfied. The sooner the better!"
"Good. I shall do it to-night. See that you take a little walk afterward
on the country road. I will meet you there and tell you my plan."
"Do so. Let us go to dinner now, I am hungry."
When Rolla and Robeckal entered the dining-room, Girdel, Caillette,
Bobichel, and Fanfaro were already sitting at table, and Schwan was just
bringing in a hot, steaming dish.
CHAPTER III
OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES
While the hungry guests were eating, the door at the back of the large
dining-room was very softly opened. None of the strangers observed this,
but the host, whose eyes were all over, went toward the door, at the
threshold of which stood a man about forty years of age. The man was
small and lean, and wore a brown overcoat trimmed with fur; the coat was
cut out at the bosom and allowed a yellow vest and sky-blue tie to be
seen. Trousers of dark-blue cloth reached to the knee, and his
riding-boots, with spurs, completed the wonderfully made toilet.
The man's face had a disagreeable expression. He had deep squinting
eyes, a large mouth, a broad nose, and long, bony fingers.
When the host approached the stranger he bowed and respectfully asked:
"How can I serve you, sir?"
The stranger did not reply; his gaze was directed toward the table and
the guests, and the host, who had observed his look, again repeated the
question.
The stranger walked into the middle of the room, and, seating himself at
a table, said:
"Bring me a glass of brandy."
"I thought--I believed--" began the host.
"Do as I told you. I am expecting some one. Get a good dinner ready, and
as soon as--the other one arrives, you can serve it."
"It shall be attended to," nodded Schwan, who thought the man was the
steward of some big lord.
Just as the host was about to leave the room, the door was opened again
and two more travellers entered. The first comer threw a look at the new
arrivals, and a frown crossed his ugly face.
The last two who entered were entirely dissimilar. One of them, to judge
from his upright bearing, must have formerly been a soldier. He was
dressed plainly in civilian's clothes, and his bushy white mustache gave
his face a threatening look; the deep blue eyes, however, served to
soften the features. The other man was evidently a carman; he wore a
blue linen blouse, leathern shoes, knee-breeches and a large round hat.
When the host praised his kitchen to the new-comers, his words fell on
fertile ground, for when he asked the first guest whether he would like
to have some ham and eggs, the proposition was at once accepted.
"Where shall I serve the gentlemen?"
For a moment there was deep silence. The guests had just perceived the
first comer and did not seem to be impressed by his appearance.
Nevertheless, the man who looked like a soldier decided that they should
be served at one of the side tables. When he said this Girdel looked up,
and his features showed that the new-comers were not strangers to him.
The man in the brown overcoat laughed mockingly when he perceived that
the two strangers chose a table as far away from his as possible. He
looked fixedly at them, and when Schwan brought him the brandy he had
ordered, he filled his glass and emptied it at one gulp. He then took
some newspapers out of his pocket and began to read, holding the pages
in such a way as to conceal his face.
The host now brought the ham and eggs. As he placed them on the table,
the carman hastily asked:
"How far is it, sir, from here to Remiremont?"
"To Remiremont? Ah, I see the gentlemen do not belong to the vicinity.
To Remiremont is about two hours."
"So much the better; we can get there then in the course of the
afternoon."
"That is a question," remarked Schwan.
"How so? What do you mean?"
"The road is very bad," he replied.
"That won't be so very dangerous."
"Oh, but the floods!"
"What's the matter with the floods?" said the old soldier.
"The enormous rainfall of the last few weeks has swollen all the
mountain lakes," said the host, vivaciously, "and the road to Remiremont
is under water, so that it would be impossible for you to pass."
"That would be bad," exclaimed the carman, excitedly.
"It would be dangerous," remarked the old soldier.
"Oh, yes, sir; last year two travellers were drowned between Sainte-Ame
and Remiremont; to tell the truth, the gentlemen looked like you!"
"Thanks for the compliment!"
"The gentlemen probably had no guide," said the carman.
"No."
"Well, we shall take a guide along; can you get one for us?"
"To-morrow, but not to-day."
"Why not?"
"Because my people are busy; but to-morrow it can be done."
In the meantime, the acrobats had finished their meal. Girdel arose,
and, drawing close to the travellers, said:
"If the gentlemen desire, they can go with us to-morrow to Remiremont."
"Oh, that is a good idea," said the host gleefully; "accept, gentlemen.
If Girdel conducts you, you can risk it without any fear."
In spite of the uncommon appearance of the athlete, the strangers did
not hesitate to accept Girdel's offer; they exchanged glances, and the
soldier said:
"Accepted, sir. We are strangers here, and would have surely lost
ourselves. When do you expect to go?"
"To-morrow morning. To-night we give a performance here, and with the
dawn of day we start for Remiremont."
"Good. Can I invite you now to join us in a glass of wine?"
Girdel protested more politely than earnestly; Schwan brought a bottle
and glasses, and the giant sat down by the strangers.
While this was going on, the first comer appeared to be deeply immersed
in the paper, though he had not lost a word of the conversation, and as
Firejaws took a seat near the strangers, he began again to laugh
mockingly.
Robeckal and Rolla now left the dining-room, while Fanfaro, Caillette
and Bobichel still remained seated; a minute later Robeckal returned,
and drawing near to Girdel, softly said to him:
"Master."
"Well?"
"Do you need me?"
"What for?"
"To erect the booth?"
"No, Fanfaro and Bobichel will attend to it."
"Then good-by for the present."
Robeckal left. Hardly had the door closed behind him than the man in the
brown overcoat stopped reading his paper and left the room too.
"One word, friend," he said to Robeckal.
"Quick, what does it concern?"
"Twenty francs for you, if you answer me properly."
"Go ahead."
"What is this Firejaws?"
"Athlete, acrobat, wrestler--anything you please."
"What is his right name?"
"Girdel, Cesar Girdel."
"Do you know the men with whom he just spoke?"
"No."
"You hate Girdel?"
"Who told you so, and what is it your business?"
"Ah, a great deal. If you hate him we can make a common thing of it. You
belong to his troupe?"
"Yes, for the present."
"Bah, long enough to earn a few gold pieces."
"What is asked of me for that?"
"You? Not much. You shall have an opportunity to pay back the athlete
everything you owe him in the way of hate, and besides you will be well
rewarded."
Robeckal shrugged his shoulders.
"Humbug," he said, indifferently.
"No, I mean it seriously."
"I should like it to be done," replied Robeckal, dryly.
"Here are twenty francs in advance."
Robeckal stretched out his hand for the gold piece, let it fall into his
pocket, and disappeared without a word.
"You have come too late, my friend," he laughed to himself. "Girdel will
be a dead man before the morrow comes, as sure as my name is Robeckal."
In the meantime Girdel continued to converse with the two gentlemen;
Schwan went here and there, and Fanfaro, Caillette and Bobichel were
waiting for the athlete's orders for the evening performance.
"How goes it?" asked the carman, now softly.
"Good," replied Girdel, in the same tone.
"The peasants are prepared?"
"Yes. The seed is ripe. They are only waiting for the order to begin to
sow.
"We must speak about this matter at greater length, but not here. Did
you notice the man who was reading the paper over there a little while
ago?"
"Yes; he did not look as if he could instil confidence into any one; I
think he must be a lackey."
"He could be a spy too; when can we speak to one another undisturbed?"
"This evening after the performance, either in your room or in mine."
"Let it be in yours; we can wait until the others sleep; let your door
remain open, Girdel."
"I will not fail to do so."
"Then it is settled; keep mum. No one must know of our presence here."
"Not even Fanfaro?"
"No, not for any price."
"But you do not distrust him? He is a splendid fellow--"
"So much the better for him; nevertheless, he must not know anything. I
can tell you the reason; we wish to speak about him; we desire to
intrust certain things with him."
"You couldn't find a better person."
"I believe it. Good-by, now, until to-night."
"_Au revoir!_"
"Sir," said the carman, now aloud, "we accept your proposal with thanks,
and hope to reach Remiremont to-morrow with your help."
"You shall."
Girdel turned now to Fanfaro, and gayly cried:
"To work, my son; we must dazzle the inhabitants of Sainte-Ame! Cousin
Schwan, have we got permission to give our performance? You are the
acting mayor."
"I am," replied Schwan; "hand in your petition; here is some stamped
paper."
"Fanfaro, write what is necessary," ordered Girdel; "you know I'm not
much in that line."
"If you are not a man of the pen, you are a man of the heart," laughed
Fanfaro, as he quickly wrote a few lines on the paper.
"Flatterer," scolded Girdel. "Forward, Bobichel; bring me the work-box;
the people will find out to-night that they will see something."
CHAPTER IV
BROTHER AND SISTER
Half an hour later the inhabitants of Sainte-Ame crowded about the open
place in front of the Golden Sun. They seldom had an opportunity of
seeing anything like this, for very few travelling shows ever visited
the small Lorraine village; and with almost childish joy the spectators
gazed at Bobichel, Fanfaro, and Girdel, who were engaged in erecting the
booth. The work went on briskly. The posts which had been run into the
ground were covered with many-colored cloths, and a hurriedly arranged
wooden roof protected the interior of the tent from the weather. Four
wooden stairs led to the right of the entrance, where the box-office
was; this latter was made of a primitive wooden table, on which was a
faded velvet cover embroidered with golden arabesques and cabalistic
signs. All the outer walls of the booth were covered with yellow bills,
upon which could be read that "Signor Firejaws" would lift with his
teeth red-hot irons of fabulous weight, swallow burning lead, and
perform the most startling acrobatic tricks. Rolla, the Cannon Queen,
would catch cannon balls shot from a gun, and do other tricks; at the
same time the bill said she would eat pigeons alive, and with their
feathers on. Caillette, the "daughter of the air," as she was called,
would send the spectators into ecstasies by her performance on the tight
rope, and sing songs. Robeckal, the "descendant of the old Moorish
kings," would swallow swords, eat glass, shave kegs with his teeth; and
Fanfaro would perform on the trapeze, give his magic acts, and daze the
public with his extraordinary productions. A pyramid, formed of all the
members of the troupe, at the top of which Caillette shone with a rose
in her hand, stood at the bottom of the bills in red colors, and was
gazed upon by the peasants in open-mouthed wonder. The hammering which
went on in the interior of the booth sounded to them like music, and
they could hardly await the night, which was to bring them so many
magnificent things.
Girdel walked up and down in a dignified way and the crowd respectfully
made way for him, while the giant, in stentorian tones, gave the orders
to Fanfaro and Bobichel.
Bobichel's name was not on the bills; he was to surprise the public as a
clown, and therefore his name was never mentioned. He generally amused
the spectators in a comical way, and always made them laugh; even now,
when he had finished his work, he mingled with the peasants and
delighted them with his jokes.
Fanfaro and Caillette were still engaged constructing the booth. The
young man arranged the wooden seats and the giant's daughter hung the
colored curtains, which covered the bare walls, putting here and there
artificial flowers on them. Sometimes Caillette would pause in her work,
to look at Fanfaro with her deep blue eyes.
Fanfaro was now done with the seats and began to fasten two trapezes.
They hung to a centre log by iron hooks, and were about twelve feet from
the ground and about as far distant from each other.
Fanfaro lightly swung upon the centre log and hammered in the iron hooks
with powerful blows.
The wonderfully fine-shaped body was seen to advantage in this position,
and a sculptor would have enthusiastically observed the classical
outlines of the young man, whose dark tights fitted him like a glove.
Fanfaro's hands and feet were as small as those of a woman, but, as
Girdel had said, his muscles and veins were as hard as iron.
The iron hooks were fast now, and the young man swung himself upon a
plank; he then glided down one trapeze, and with a quick movement
grasped the other.
Like an arrow the slim body shot through the air, and then Fanfaro
sprung lightly to the ground, while the trapeze flew back.
At the very moment the young man let go of the trapeze a faint scream
was heard, and Caillette, deadly pale, stood next to Fanfaro.
"How you frightened me, you wicked fellow," said the young girl, drawing
a deep breath.
"Were you really frightened, Caillette? I thought you would have got
used to my exercises long ago."
"I ought to be so," pouted Caillette, pressing her hands to her
fast-beating heart, "but every time I see you fly, fear seizes hold of
me and I unconsciously cry aloud. Oh, Fanfaro, if an accident should
happen to you--I would not survive it."
"Little sister, you are needlessly alarming yourself."
Caillette held down her pretty little head and the hot blood rushed to
her velvety cheeks, while her hands nervously clutched each other.
"Caillette, what ails you?" asked Fanfaro.
"Oh--tell me, Fanfaro, why do you always call me 'little sister'?"
"Does the expression displease you, mademoiselle?" laughingly said the
young man; "is it the word 'little,' or the word 'sister'?"
"I did not say the expression displeased me."
"Should I call you my big sister?"
"Why do you call me sister at all?"
A cloud spread over the young man's face.
"Did we not grow up together like brother and sister?" he asked; "you
were six years old when your father took the deserted boy to his home."
"But you are not my brother," persisted Caillette.
"Perhaps not in the sense commonly associated with the term, but yet I
love you like a brother. Doesn't this explanation please you?"
"Yes and no. I wished--"
"What would you wish?"
"I had rather not say it," whispered Caillette, and hastily throwing her
arms about Fanfaro she kissed him heartily.
Fanfaro did not return the kiss; on the contrary he turned away and
worked at the trapeze cord. He divined what was going on in Caillette,
as many words hastily spoken had told the young man that the young girl
loved him not as the sister loves the brother, but with a more
passionate love. Caillette was still unaware of it, but every day, every
hour could explain her feelings to her, and Fanfaro feared that moment,
for he--did not love her.
How was this possible? He could hardly account for it himself. Caillette
was so charming, and yet he could not think of the lovely creature as
his wife; and as an honest man it did not enter his mind to deceive the
young girl as to his feelings.
"Caillette," he said, now trying to appear cheerful, "we must hurry up
with our preparations, or the performance will begin before we are
done."
Caillette nodded, and taking her artificial flowers again in her hand,
she began to separate them. At the same time the door opened and
Firejaws appeared in company with two ladies. Fanfaro and Caillette
glanced at the unexpected guests and heard the elderly lady say:
"Irene, what new caprice is it that brings you here, and what will the
countess say if she hears of it?"
"Madame Ursula, spare your curtain lectures," laughed the young lady;
"and if you cannot do so, you are free to return to the castle."
"God forbid," exclaimed Madame Ursula in affright.
She was a perfect type of the governess, with long thin features,
pointed nose, small lips, gray locks, and spectacles. She wore a hat
which fell to her neck, and a long colored shawl hung over her
shoulders.
The appearance of the young lady compared very favorably with that of
the duenna. A dark-blue riding costume sat tightly on a magnificent
form; a brown velvet hat with a long white feather sat coquettishly on
her dark locks; fresh red lips, sparkling black eyes, a classically
formed nose, and finely curved lips completed her charming appearance.
The young lady appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years old; a
proud smile hovered about her lips and the dark eyes looked curiously
about.
Fanfaro and Caillette paused at their work, and now the young girl
exclaimed in a clear bell-like voice:
"Monsieur Girdel, would it be possible for me to secure a few places for
this evening, that is, some that are hid from the rest of the
spectators?"
"H'm--that would be difficult," said Girdel, looking about.
"Of course I shall pay extra for the seats," continued the young lady.
"We have only one price for the front rows," said Firejaws, simply;
"they cost twenty sous and the rear seats ten sous."
The governess sighed sorrowfully; Irene took an elegant purse from her
pocket and pressed it in Girdel's hand.
"Take the money," she said, "and do what I say."
"I will try to get you the seats you desire, mademoiselle," he said
politely, "but only for the usual price. Fanfaro," he said, turning to
the young man, "can't we possibly fix up a box?"
Fanfaro drew near, and the young lady with open wonder gazed at the
beautiful youth.
"What's the trouble, Papa Girdel?" he said.
Before the giant could speak Irene said:
"I do not ask very much. I would like to look at the performance, but
naturally would not like to sit with the crowd. You know, peasants and
such common people--"
"H'm!" growled Girdel.
"It is impossible," said Fanfaro, coolly.
"Impossible?" repeated the young lady in amazement.
"But, Fanfaro," interrupted Girdel, "I should think we could do it. A
few boards, a carpet, and the thing is done."
"Perhaps, but I shall not touch a finger to it."
"You refuse?" exclaimed Irene. "Why, if I may ask?"
"Bravo, Fanfaro!" whispered Caillette, softly.
"Will you answer my question, monsieur---- I do not know your name?"
said Irene, impatiently.
"I am called Fanfaro," remarked the young man.
"Well then, Monsieur Fanfaro," began Irene, with a mocking laugh, "why
do you refuse to lend your master a helping hand?"
"His master?" replied Girdel, with flaming eyes; "excuse me,
mademoiselle, but you have been incorrectly informed."
"Come, Papa Girdel," laughed Fanfaro, "I will tell the young lady my
reasons, and I think you will approve of them. The public of 'peasants,'
and such 'common people,' who are so repulsive to you, mademoiselle,
that you do not desire to touch them with the seam of your dress, admire
us and provide us with our sustenance. The hands which applaud us are
coarse, I cannot deny it; but in spite of this, we regard their applause
just as highly as that given to us by people whose hands are incased in
fine kid gloves. To give you an especial box, mademoiselle, would be an
insult to the peasants, and why should we do such a thing? Am I right or
not?"
While Fanfaro was speaking, Irene looked steadily at his handsome face.
The governess muttered something about impertinence. When the young man
looked up, Irene softly said:
"That was a sharp lesson."
"No; I merely told you my opinion."
"Good. Now let me give you my answer; I will come this evening!"
"I thought so," replied Fanfaro simply.
CHAPTER V
MASTER AND SERVANT
When the young lady and her governess left the booth and wended their
way along the country road, the peasants respectfully made way for them
and even Bobichel paused in his tricks. Irene held her little head
sidewise as she walked through the crowd, while the governess marched
with proudly uplifted head.
"Thank God," said Madame Ursula, "there is the carriage."
An elegant equipage came in sight, and a groom led a beautiful racer by
the bridle.
"Step in, Madame Ursula," said Irene, laughing, as she vaulted into the
saddle.
"But you promised me--"
"To be at the castle the same time as you," added the young lady. "And I
shall keep my promise. Forward, Almanser!"
The horse flew along like an arrow, and Madame Ursula, sighing, got into
the carriage, which started off in the same direction.
"Who is the handsome lady?" asked Bobichel.
"The richest heiress in Alsace and Lorraine, Mademoiselle de Salves,"
was the answer.
"Ah, she suits me," said the clown.
"Bah, she is as proud as a peacock," growled an old peasant.
"It is all the same to me," said a second peasant; "she is going to be
married to a gentleman in Paris, and there she fits better."
A heavy mail-coach, which halted at the Golden Sun, interrupted the
conversation. Mr. Schwan ran to the door to receive the travellers, and
at the same moment the man in the brown overcoat appeared at the
threshold of the door. Hardly had he seen the mail-coach than he hurried
to open the door, and in a cringing voice said:
"Welcome, Monsieur le Marquis; my letter arrived, then, opportunely?"
The occupant of the coach nodded, and leaning on the other's arm, he got
out. It was the Marquis of Fougereuse. He looked like a man prematurely
old, whose bent back and wrinkled features made him look like a man of
seventy, while in reality he was hardly fifty.
In the marquis's company was a servant named Simon, who, in the course
of years, had advanced from the post of valet to that of steward.
"What does the gentleman desire?" asked the host, politely.
"Let the dinner be served in my room," ordered Simon; and, giving the
marquis a nod, he strode to the upper story in advance of him.
The door which Simon opened showed an elegantly furnished room according
to Schwan's ideas, yet the marquis appeared to pay no attention to his
surroundings, for he hardly gazed around, and in a state of exhaustion
sank into a chair. Simon stood at the window and looked out, while the
host hurriedly set the table; when this was finished, Simon winked to
Schwan and softly said:
"Leave the room now, and do not enter it until I call for you."
"If the gentlemen wish anything--"
"I know, I know," interrupted Simon, impatiently. "Listen to what I say.
You would do well to keep silent about the purpose of my master's visit
here. In case any one asks you, simply say you know nothing."
"Neither I do," remarked Schwan.
"So much the better, then you do not need to tell a lie; I advise you in
your own interest not to say anything."
The host went away and growled on the stairs:
"Confound big people and their servants. I prefer guests like Girdel and
his troupe."
As soon as the door had closed behind Schwan, Simon approached the
marquis.
"We are alone, master," he said timidly.
"Then speak; have you discovered Pierre Labarre's residence?"
"Yes, master."
"But you have not gone to see him yet?"
"No, I kept within your orders."
"You were right. I must daze the old scoundrel through my sudden
appearance; I hope to get the secret from him."
"Is everything better now, master?" asked Simon, after a pause.
"Better? What are you thinking of?" exclaimed the marquis, angrily.
"Every one has conspired against me, and ruin is near at hand."
"But the protection of his majesty--"
"Bah! the protection of the king is useless, if the cabinet hate me.
Besides, I have had the misfortune to anger Madame de Foucheres, and
since then everything has gone wrong."
"The king cannot have forgotten what you did for him," said Simon.
"A few weeks ago I was driven to the wall by my creditors, and I went to
the king and stated my case to him. Do you know what his answer was?
'Monsieur,' he said, earnestly, 'a Fougereuse should not demean himself
by begging,' and with that he gave me a draft for eighty thousand
francs! What are eighty thousand francs for a man in my position? A drop
of water on a hot stove."
Simon nodded.
"But the vicomte," he observed; "his majesty showers favors upon him--"
"I am much obliged for the favors! Yes, my son is spoken of, but in what
a way! The vicomte gambles, the vicomte is always in a scrape, the
vicomte is the hero of the worst adventures--and kind friends never fail
to tell me all about it! I hope his marriage will put a stop to all this
business. Have you heard anything further of the De Salves ladies?"
"Not much, but enough. The estate of the young heiress is the largest
for miles about, and she herself is a beauty of the first class."
"So much the better. Think of it, four millions! Oh, if this should be
lost to us!"
"That will hardly be the case, Monsieur le Marquis; the marriage has
been decided upon."
"Certainly, certainly, but then--if the old countess should find out
about our pecuniary embarrassments all would be lost. But no, I will not
despair; Pierre Labarre must talk, and then--"
"Suppose he won't? Old people are sometimes obstinate."
"Have no fear, Simon, my methods have subdued many wills."
"Yes, yes, you are right, sir," laughed Simon.
"I can rely on you, then?"
"Perfectly so, sir. If it were necessary I would pick it up with ten
Pierres!"
"You will find me grateful," said the marquis. "If Pierre Labarre gives
the fortune to the Fougereuse and the vicomte becomes the husband of the
countess, we will be saved."
"I know that you have brilliant prospects, my lord," replied Simon, "and
I hope to win your confidence. The last few weeks I had an opportunity
to do a favor to the family of my honored master."
"Really? You arouse my curiosity."
"My lord, Monsieur Franchet honored me with his confidence."
The marquis looked in amazement at his steward; Franchet was the
superintendent of police. Recommended by the Duke of Montmorency, he was
an especial favorite of the Society of Jesus. The Jesuits had spun their
nets over the whole of France, and the secret orders emanated from the
Rue de Vaugirard. Franchet had the reins of the police department in his
hands, and used his power for the furtherance of the Jesuits' plans. The
amazement which seized the marquis when he heard that his steward was
the confidant of Franchet, was only natural; that Simon would make a
good spy, Fougereuse knew very well.
"Go on," he softly said, when Simon paused.
"Thanks to the superintendent's confidence in me," said Simon, "I am
able to secure a much more influential position at court for Monsieur le
Marquis than he has at present."
"And how are you going to perform the miracle?" asked the marquis,
sceptically.
"By allowing Monsieur le Marquis to take part in my projects for the
good of the monarchy."
"Speak more clearly," ordered the marquis, briefly.
"Directly."
Simon went close to his master, and whispered:
"There exists a dangerous conspiracy against the state. People wish to
overturn the government and depose the king."
"Folly! that has been often desired."
"But this time it is serious. A republican society--"
"Do not speak to me about republicans!" exclaimed Fougereuse, angrily.
"Let me finish, Monsieur le Marquis. My news is authentic. The attempt
will perhaps be made in a few weeks, and then it will be a question of
_sauve qui peut_! Through a wonderful chain of circumstances the plans
of the secret society came into my hands. I could go to the king now and
name him all the conspirators who threaten his life, but what would be
my reward? With a servant little ado is made. His information is taken,
its truth secretly looked into and he is given a small sum of money with
a letter saying that he must have been deceived. If the Marquis of
Fougereuse, on the other hand, should come, he is immediately master of
the situation. The matter is investigated, the king calls him his
savior, and his fortune is made."
The marquis sprung up in excitement.
"And you are in a position to give me the plans of this society? You
know who the conspirators are?" he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
"You would allow me to reap the profit of your discovery?"
"Yes, my lord; I am in the first place a faithful servant."
"Simon, let us stop this talk with turned down cards. What do you wish
in return?"
"Nothing, my lord; I depend upon your generosity."
"You shall not have cause to regret it," said the marquis, drawing a
deep breath. "Should I succeed in securing an influential position at
court, you shall be the first to profit by it."
"Thanks, my lord. I know I can count on your word. To come back to
Pierre Labarre, I think we should hunt him up as soon as possible."
"I am ready; where does he live?"
"At Vagney, about three hours distant."
"It is now three o'clock," said the marquis, pulling out his watch. "If
we start now, we will be able to return to-night."
"Then I shall order horses at once!"
Simon went away, and the marquis remained behind thinking. No matter
where he looked, the past, present and future were alike blue to him.
The old marquis had died in 1817, and the vicomte had immediately set
about to have the death of his brother, which had taken place at
Leigoutte in 1814, confirmed. Both the wife and the children of Jules
Fougere had disappeared since that catastrophe, and so the Vicomte of
Talizac, now Marquis of Fougereuse, claimed possession of his father's
estate.
But, strange to say, the legacy was far less than the vicomte and
Madeleine had expected, and, as they both had contracted big debts on
the strength of it, nothing was left to them but to sell a portion of
the grounds.
Had the marquis and his wife not lived so extravagantly they would not
have tumbled from one difficulty into the other, but the desire to cut a
figure in the Faubourg St. Germain consumed vast sums, and what the
parents left over, the son gambled away and dissipated.
Petted and spoiled by his mother, the Vicomte de Talizac was a fast
youth before he had attained his fifteenth year. No greater pleasure
could be given his mother than to tell her, that her son was the leader
of the _jeunesse dorée_. He understood how to let the money fly, and
when the marquis, alarmed at his son's extravagance, reproached his
wife, the latter cut him short by saying:
"Once for all, Jean, my son was not made to save; he is the heir of the
Fougereuse, and must keep up his position."
"But in this way we shall soon be beggars," complained the marquis.
"Is that my fault?" asked Madame Madeleine, sharply. "What good is it
that you--put your brother out of the way? His portion of the fortune is
kept from you, and if you do not force Pierre Labarre to speak you will
have to go without it."
"Then you think Pierre Labarre knows where the major part of my father's
fortune is?" asked the marquis.
"Certainly. He and no one else has it in safe keeping, and if you do not
hurry up, the old man might die, and we can look on."
The marquis sighed. This was not the first time Madeleine provoked him
against Pierre Labarre, but the old man had disappeared since the death
of his master, and it required a long time before Simon, the worthy
assistant of the marquis, found out his residence.
In the meantime the position of the Fougereuses was getting worse and
worse. At court murmurs were heard about swindling speculations with
which the marquis's name was connected, and the vicomte did his best to
drag the proud old name in the dust. A rescue was at hand, in a marriage
of the vicomte with the young Countess of Salves, but this rescue rested
on a weak footing, as a new escapade of "The Talizac Buckle," as the
heir of the Fougereuse was mockingly called, might destroy the planned
union.
Talizac was the hero of all the scandals of Paris; he sought and found
his companions in very peculiar regions, and several duels he had fought
had made his name, if not celebrated, at least disreputable.
This was the position of the marquis's affairs when Simon found Pierre
Labarre; the marquis was determined not to return to Paris without first
having settled the affair, and as Simon now returned to the room with
the host, his master exclaimed:
"Are the horses ready?"
"No, my lord; the Cure has overflowed in consequence of the heavy
rains, and the road from here to Vagney is impassable."
"Can we not reach Vagney by any other way?"
"No, my lord."
"Bah! the peasants exaggerate the danger so as to get increased prices
for their services. Have you tried to get horses?"
"Yes, my lord; but unfortunately no one in the village except the host
owns any."
"Then buy the host's horses."
"He refuses to give me the animals. An acrobat who came here this
morning, and who owns two horses, refused to sell them to me."
"That looks almost like a conspiracy!" exclaimed the marquis.
"I think so too, and if I am permitted an advice--"
"Speak freely; what do you mean?"
"That the best thing we can do is to start at once on foot. If we hurry,
we can reach Vagney this evening, and the rest will take care of
itself."
"You are right," replied the marquis; "let us go."
Schwan was frightened when he heard of their intention, but the marquis
remained determined, and the two were soon on the road.
"If no accident happens," growled the host to himself, "the Cure is a
treacherous sheet of water; I wish they were already back again."
CHAPTER VI
THE PERFORMANCE
While the marquis and Simon were starting on their journey, Robeckal and
Rolla had met on the country road as appointed, and in a long whispered
conversation had made their plans. They both hated Girdel, Caillette,
Fanfaro and Bobichel, and their idea was to kill both Girdel and Fanfaro
that very evening. Caillette could be attended to afterward, and
Bobichel was of no importance. Rolla loved Robeckal, as far as it was
possible for a person like her to love any one, and desired to possess
him. Robeckal, on his side, thought it would not be a bad idea to
possess Girdel's business along with its stock, with which he
ungallantly reckoned Rolla and Caillette. Caillette especially he
admired, but he was smart enough not to say a word to Rolla.
"Enter, ladies and gentlemen, enter," exclaimed Bobichel, as he stood at
the box-office and cordially greeted the crowds of people.
"I wonder whether she will come?" muttered Caillette to herself.
"Everything is ready," whispered Robeckal to Rolla; the Cannon Queen
nodded and threw dark scowls at Girdel and Fanfaro.
The quick gallop of a horse was now heard, and the next minute Irene de
Salves stepped into the booth.
"Really, she has come," muttered Caillette in a daze, as she pressed her
hand to her heart and looked searchingly at Fanfaro.
The latter looked neither to the right nor left. He was busy arranging
Girdel's weights and iron poles, and Caillette, calmed by the sight,
turned around.
When Irene took her seat a murmur ran through the crowded house. The
Salves had always occupied an influential position in the country; the
great estate of the family insured them power and influence at court,
and they were closely attached to the monarchy.
Irene's grandfather, the old Count of Salves, had been guillotined in
1793; his son had served under Napoleon, and was killed in Russia when
his daughter had hardly reached her third year. The count's loss struck
the countess to the heart; she retired to her castle in the neighborhood
of Remiremont and attended to the education of her child.
Irene grew up, and when she often showed an obstinacy and wildness
strange in a girl, her mother would say, with tears in her eyes:
"Thank God, she is the picture of her father."
That nothing was done under the circumstances to curb Irene's
impetuosity is easily understood. Every caprice of the young heiress was
satisfied, and so it came about that the precocious child ruled the
castle. She thought with money anything could be done, and more than
once it happened that the young girl while hunting trod down the
peasants' fields, consoling herself with the thought:
"Mamma gives these people money, and therefore it is all right."
When Irene was about fifteen years old her mother became dangerously
ill, and remained several months in bed. She never recovered the use of
her limbs, and day after day she remained in her arm-chair, only living
in the sight of her daughter. When Irene entered the room the poor
mother thought the sun was rising, and she never grew tired of looking
in her daughter's clear eyes and listening to her silvery voice. The
most singular contradictions reigned in Irene's soul; she could have
cried bitterly one minute, and laughed aloud the next; for hours at a
time she would sit dreaming at the window, and look out at the autumnal
forest scenery, then spring up, hurry out, jump into the saddle and
bound over hill and valley. Sometimes she would chase a beggar from the
door, the next day overload him with presents; she spent nights at the
bedside of a sick village child, and carried an old woman at the risk of
her life, from a burning house; in short, she was an original.
A few months before, the lawyer who administered the countess's fortune
had appeared at the castle and had locked himself up with her mother.
When he left the castle the next day, the young lady was informed that
she was to be married off, and received the news with the greatest
unconcern. She did not know her future husband, the Vicomte de Talizac,
but thought she would be able to get along with him. That she would have
to leave her castle and her woods displeased her; she had never had the
slightest longing for Paris, and the crowded streets of the capital were
intolerable to her; but seeing that it must be she did not complain.
It was a wild caprice which had induced the young girl to attend
Girdel's performance; Fanfaro's lecture had angered her at first, but
later on, when she thought about it, she had to confess that he was
right. She was now looking expectantly at the young man, who was engaged
with Bobichel in lighting the few lamps, and when he drew near to her,
she whispered to him:
"Monsieur Fanfaro, are you satisfied with me?"
Fanfaro looked at her in amazement, but a cordial smile flew over his
lips, and Irene felt that she could stand many more insults if she could
see him smile oftener.
Madame Ursula, who sat next to her pupil, moved up and down uneasily in
her chair. Irene did not possess the least _savoir vivre_. How could she
think of addressing the young acrobat? and now--no, it surpassed
everything--he bent over her and whispered a few words in her ear. The
governess saw Irene blush, then let her head fall and nod. What could he
have said to her?
Caillette, too, had noticed the young lady address Fanfaro, and she
became violently jealous.
What business had the rich heiress with the young man, whom she was
accustomed to look upon as her own property?
For Caillette, as well as Madame Ursula, it was fortunate that they had
not heard Fanfaro's words, and yet it was only good advice which the
young man had given Irene.
"Mademoiselle, try to secure the love of those who surround you," he had
earnestly said. And Irene had, at first impatiently and with
astonishment, finally guiltily, listened to him. Really, when she
thought with what indifference her coming and going in the village was
looked upon, and with what hesitation she was greeted, she began to
think Fanfaro was right; the young man had been gone long, and yet his
words still sounded in her ears. Yes, she would try to secure love.
In the meantime the performance had begun. Girdel played with his
weights, Rolla swallowed stones and pigeons, Robeckal knives and swords,
and Caillette danced charmingly on the tight-rope. During all these
different productions, Fanfaro was continually assisting the performers;
he handed Girdel the weights and took them from him; he accompanied
Robeckal's sword exercise with hollow beats on a tambourine; he played
the violin while Caillette danced on the rope, and acted as Bobichel's
foil in his comic acts. Fanfaro himself was not to appear before the
second part; for the conclusion of the first part a climax was to be
given in which Girdel would perform a piece in which he had everywhere
appeared with thunders of applause; the necessary apparatus was being
prepared.
This apparatus consisted of a plank supported by two logs which stood
upright in the centre of the circus. In the centre of the plank was a
windlass, from which hung an iron chain with a large hook.
Fanfaro rolled an empty barrel under the plank and filled it with irons
and stones weighing about three thousand pounds. Thereupon the barrel
was nailed up and the chain wound about it; strong iron rings, through
which the chain was pulled, prevented it from slipping off.
Girdel now walked up. He wore a costume made of black tights, and a
chin-band from which an iron hook hung. He bowed to the spectators,
seized the barrel with his chin hook and laid himself upon his back.
Fanfaro stood next to his foster-father, and from time to time blew a
blast with his trumpet. At every tone the heavy cask rose a few inches
in the air, and breathlessly the crowd looked at Girdel's performance.
The cask had now reached a height on a level with Girdel; the spectators
cheered, but suddenly an ominous breaking was heard, and while a cry of
horror ran through the crowd, Fanfaro, quick as thought, sprung upon the
cask and caught it in his arms.
What had happened? Girdel lay motionless on the ground. Fanfaro let the
heavy cask glide gently to the floor and then stood pale as death near
the athlete. The chain had broken, and had it not been for Fanfaro's
timely assistance Girdel would have been crushed to pieces by the heavy
barrel.
The violent shock had thrown Girdel some distance away. For a moment all
were too frightened to stir, but soon spectators from all parts of the
house came running up and loud cries were heard.
Caillette had thrown herself sobbing at her father's feet; Bobichel and
Fanfaro busied themselves trying to raise the fallen man from the
ground, and Rolla uttered loud, roaring cries which no doubt were
intended to express her grief. Robeckal alone was not to be seen.
"Oh, Fanfaro, is he dead?" sobbed Caillette.
Fanfaro was silent and bent anxiously over Girdel; Rolla, on the other
hand, looked angrily at the young man and hissed in his ear:
"Do not touch him. I will restore him myself."
Instead of giving the virago an answer, Fanfaro looked sharply at her.
The wretched woman trembled and recoiled, while the young man, putting
his ear to Girdel's breast, exclaimed:
"Thank God, he lives!"
Caillette uttered a low moan and became unconscious; two soft hands were
laid tenderly on her shoulders, and when the tight-rope dancer opened
her eyes, she looked in Irene's face, who was bending anxiously over
her.
Girdel still remained motionless; the young countess handed Fanfaro an
elegantly carved bottle filled with smelling-salts, but even this was of
no avail.
"Wait, I know what will help him!" exclaimed Bobichel, suddenly, and
hurrying out he returned with a bottle of strong brandy.
With the point of a knife Fanfaro opened Girdel's tightly compressed
lips; the clown poured a few drops of the liquid down his throat, and in
a few moments Girdel slowly opened his eyes and a deep sigh came from
his breast. When Bobichel put the bottle to his mouth again, he drank a
deep draught.
"Hurrah, he is rescued!" exclaimed the clown, as he wiped the tears from
his eyes. He then walked to Rolla and mockingly whispered: "This time
you reckoned without your host."
Rolla shuddered, and a look flew from Bobichel to Fanfaro.
Robeckal now thought it proper to appear and come from behind a post. He
said in a whining voice:
"Thank God that our brave master lives. I dreaded the worst."
Schwan, who was crying like a child, threw a sharp look at Robeckal, and
Fanfaro now said:
"Is there no physician in the neighborhood?"
"No, there is no physician in Sainte-Ame, and Vagney is several miles
distant."
"No matter, I shall go to Vagney."
"Impossible, the floods have destroyed all the roads; you risk your
life, Fanfaro," said Schwan.
"And if that is so, I am only doing my duty," replied the young man. "I
owe it to my foster-father that I did not die of cold and starvation."
"You are an honest fellow. Take one of my horses and ride around the
hill. It is certainly an out-of-the-way road, but it is safe. Do not
spare the horse; it is old, but when driven hard it still does its
duty."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Irene, advancing, "take my riding horse; it
flies like the wind, and will carry you to Vagney in a short time."
"She is foolish," complained Madame Ursula, while Fanfaro accepted
Irene's offer without hesitating; "the riding horse is an English
thoroughbred and cost two thousand francs."
No one paid any attention to her. Fanfaro swung himself into the saddle,
and, throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he cordially said:
"Mademoiselle, I thank you."
"Don't mention it; I am following your advice," laughed Irene.
CHAPTER VII
PIERRE LABARRE
The marquis and his steward had likewise hurried along the road to
Vagney. They were often forced to halt to find the right direction, as
the overflowing Cure had flooded the road at different points, but yet
they reached the hill on which the city rests before night.
"The danger is behind us now," said Simon.
A quarter of an hour later they stopped before a small solitary house.
Simon shook the knocker, and then they both waited impatiently to get
in.
For a short time all was still, and Simon was about to strike again,
when a window was opened and a voice asked:
"Who is there?"
The two men exchanged quick glances; Pierre Labarre was at home, and, as
it seemed, alone.
"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse," said the marquis, finally.
No sooner had the words been spoken than the window was closed. The bolt
of the house door was shoved back in a few moments and a lean old man
appeared on the threshold.
Ten years had passed since Pierre Labarre rode alone through the Black
Forest, and saved himself from the bullet of the then Vicomte de Talizac
by his portfolio. Pierre's hair had grown gray now, but his eyes looked
as fearlessly on the world as if he had been thirty.
"Come in, vicomte," said the old man, earnestly.
The marquis and Simon followed Pierre into a small, plainly furnished
room; the only decoration was a black piece of mourning almost covering
one of the walls. While the old man turned up the small lamp, Simon,
without being noticed, closed the door. Pierre pointed to a straw chair
and calmly said:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, will you please take a seat?"
The marquis angrily said:
"Pierre Labarre, it surprises me that in the nine years which have
passed since the death of my father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, you
should have forgotten what a servant's duties are! Since seven years I
bear the title of my father; why do you persist in calling me Monsieur
le Vicomte?"
Pierre Labarre stroked the white hair from his forehead with his long
bony hand and slowly said:
"I know only one Marquis of Fougereuse."
"And who should bear this title if not I?" cried the marquis, angrily.
"The son of the man who was murdered at Leigoutte in the year 1805,"
replied Pierre.
"Murdered?" exclaimed the marquis, mockingly: "that man fell fighting
against the legitimate masters of the country."
"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was the victim of a well-laid plan;
those persons who were interested in his death made their preparations
with wonderful foresight."
The marquis frothed with anger, and it did not require very much more
until he would have had the old man by the throat. He restrained
himself, though; what good would it do him if he strangled Pierre before
he knew the secret?
"Let us not discuss that matter," he hastily said; "other matters have
brought me here--"
As Pierre remained silent, the marquis continued:
"I know perfectly well that that affair disturbed you. As the old
servitor of my father you naturally were attached to the dead man. Yet,
who could avert the catastrophe? The father, the mother and the two
children were all slain at the same hour by the Cossacks, and--"
"You are mistaken, vicomte," interrupted Pierre, sharply; "the father
fell in a struggle with paid assassins, the mother was burned to death,
but the children escaped."
"You are fooling, old man," exclaimed the marquis, growing pale;
"Jules's two children are dead."
The old man crossed his arms over his breast, and, looking steadily at
the marquis, he firmly said:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, the children live."
The marquis could no longer restrain himself.
"You know where they are?" he excitedly exclaimed.
"No, vicomte, but it cheers me to hear from your words that you yourself
do not believe the children are dead."
The marquis bit his lips. He had betrayed himself. Simon shrugged his
shoulders and thought in his heart that the marquis was not the proper
person to intrust with diplomatic missions for the Society of Jesus.
"Monsieur le Marquis," he hurriedly said, "what is the use of these long
discussions? Put the question which concerns you most to the obstinate
old man, and if he does not answer, I will make him speak."
"You are right," nodded the marquis; and turning to Pierre again he
threateningly said:
"Listen, Pierre Labarre; I will tell you the object of my visit. It is a
question of the honor of the Fougereuse."
A sarcastic laugh played about the old man's lips, and half muttering to
himself, he repeated:
"The honor of the Fougereuse--I am really curious to know what I shall
hear."
The marquis trembled, and, casting a timid look at Simon, he said:
"Simon, leave us to ourselves."
"What, Monsieur le Marquis?" asked Simon in amazement.
"You should leave us alone," repeated the marquis, adding in a whisper:
"Go, I have my reasons."
"But, Monsieur le Marquis!"
"Do not say anything; go!"
Simon went growlingly away, and opening the door he had so carefully
locked, he strode into the hall; taking care, however, to overhear the
conversation.
As soon as the nobleman was alone with Pierre, his demeanor changed. He
approached close to the old man, took his hand and cordially shook it.
Pierre looked at the marquis in amazement, and quickly withdrawing his
hand, he dryly said:
"To business, vicomte."
"Pierre," the marquis began, in a voice he tried to render as soft and
moving as possible, "you were the confidant of my father; you knew all
his secrets, and were aware that he did not love me. Do not interrupt
me--I know my conduct was not such as he had a right to expect from a
son. Pierre, I was not wicked, I was weak and could not withstand any
temptation, and my father often had cause to be dissatisfied with me.
Pierre, what I am telling you no human ear has ever heard; I look upon
you as my father confessor and implore you not to judge too harshly."
Pierre held his eyes down, and even the marquis paused--he did not look
up.
"Pierre, have you no mercy?" exclaimed the nobleman, in a trembling
voice.
"Speak further, my lord," said Pierre; "I am listening."
The marquis felt like stamping with his foot. He saw, however, that he
had to control himself.
"If you let me implore hopelessly to-day, Pierre," he whispered,
gritting his teeth, "the name of Fougereuse will be eternally
dishonored."
"The name of Fougereuse?" asked Pierre, with faint malice; "thank God,
my lord, that it is not in your power to stain it; you are only the
Vicomte de Talizac."
The marquis stamped his foot angrily when he heard the old man's cutting
words; it almost surpassed his strength to continue the conversation to
an end, and yet it must be if he wished to gain his point.
"I see, I must explain myself more clearly," he said after a pause.
"Pierre, I am standing on the brink of a precipice. My fortune and my
influence are gone; neither my wife nor my son imagines how I am
situated, but if help does not come soon--"
"Well, what will happen?" asked Pierre, indifferently.
"Then I will not be able to keep my coat of arms, which dates from the
Crusades, clean and spotless."
"I do not understand you, vicomte. Is it only a question of your
fortune?"
"No, Pierre, it is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse. Oh, God!
You do not desire to understand me; you want me to disclose my shame.
Listen then," continued the marquis, placing his lips to the old man's
ears: "to rescue myself from going under, I committed an act of despair,
and if assistance does not come to me, the name of the Fougereuse will
be exposed to the world, with the brand of the forger upon it."
The old man's face showed no traces of surprise. He kept silent for a
moment, and then asked in cold tones:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, what do you wish of me?"
"I will tell you," said the marquis, hastily, while a gleam of hope
strayed over his pale face; "I know that my father, to have the major
part of his fortune go to his eldest son, made a will and gave it to
you--"
"Go on," said Pierre, as the marquis paused.
"The will contains many clauses," continued the nobleman. "My father hid
a portion of his wealth, and in his last will named the spot where it
lies buried, providing that it should be given to his eldest son or his
descendants! Pierre, Jules is dead, his children have disappeared, and
therefore nothing hinders you from giving up this wealth. It must be at
least two millions. Can you hesitate to give me the money which will
save the name of Fougereuse from shame and exposure?"
The marquis hesitated; Pierre rose slowly and, turning to a side wall,
grasped the mourning cloth and shoved it aside.
The nobleman wonderingly observed the old man, who now took a lamp and
solemnly said:
"Vicomte, look here!"
The marquis approached the wall, and in the dim light of the lamp he saw
a tavern sign, upon which a few letters could be seen. The sign had
evidently been burned.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, do you know what that is?" asked Pierre,
threateningly.
"No," replied the marquis.
"Then I will tell you, vicomte," replied Pierre. "The inscription on
this sign once read, 'To the Welfare of France.' Do you still wish me to
give you the will and the fortune?"
"I do not understand you," stammered the nobleman, in a trembling voice.
"Really, vicomte, you have a short memory, but I, the old servant of
your father, am able to refresh it! This sign hung over the door of the
tavern at Leigoutte; your brother, the rightful heir of Fougereuse, was
the landlord and the bravest man for miles around. In the year 1805
Jules Fougere, as he called himself, fell. The world said Cossacks had
murdered him. I, though, vicomte, I cry it aloud in your ear--his
murderer was--you!"
"Silence, miserable lackey!" exclaimed the marquis, enraged, "you lie!"
"No, Cain, the miserable lackey does not lie," replied Pierre, calmly;
"he even knows more! In the year 1807 the old Marquis of Fougereuse
died; in his last hours his son, the Vicomte of Talizac, sneaked into
the chamber of death and, sinking on his knees beside the bedside of the
dying man, implored his father to make him his sole heir. The marquis
hardly had strength enough to breathe, but his eyes looked threateningly
at the scoundrel who dared to imbitter his last hours, and with his last
gasp he hurled at the kneeling man these words: 'May you be eternally
damned, miserable fratricide!'
"The vicomte, as if pursued by the furies, escaped; the dying man gave
one more gasp and then passed away, and I, who was behind the curtains,
a witness of this terrible scene--I shall so far forget myself as to
deliver to the man who did not spare his father the inheritance of his
brother? No, vicomte, Pierre Labarre knows his duty, and if to-morrow
the name of the Fougereuse should be trampled in the dust and the
present bearer of the name be placed in the pillory as a forger and
swindler, then I will stand up and say:
"'He is not a Fougereuse, he is only a Talizac. He murdered the heir,
and let no honest man ever touch his blood-stained hand!' Get out of
here, Vicomte Talizac, my house has no room for murderers!"
Pale as death, with quaking knees, the marquis leaned against the wall.
When Pierre was silent he hissed in a low voice:
"Then you refuse to help me?"
"Yes, a thousand times, yes."
"You persist in keeping the fortune of the Fougereuse for Jules's son,
who has been dead a long time?"
"I keep the fortune for the living."
"And if he were dead, nevertheless?"
Pierre suddenly looked up--suppose the murderer were to prove his
assertion?
"Would you, if Jules's son were really dead, acknowledge me as the
heir?"
"I cannot tell."
"For the last time, will you speak?"
"No; the will and fortune belong to the Marquis of Fougereuse, Jules's
son."
"Enough; the will is here in your house; the rest will take care of
itself."
Hereupon the marquis gave a penetrating whistle, and when Simon appeared
his master said to him:
"Take hold of this scoundrel!"
"Bravo! force is the only thing," cried Simon, as he rushed upon the old
man. But he had reckoned without his host; with a shove Pierre Labarre
threw the audacious rascal to the ground, and the next minute the heavy
old table lay between him and his enemies. Thereupon the old man took a
pistol from the wall, and, cocking the trigger, cried:
"Vicomte Talizac, we still have an old score to settle! Years ago you
attempted to kill me in the Black Forest; take care you do not arouse my
anger again."
The vicomte, who had no weapon, recoiled: Simon, however, seized a
pocket-pistol from his breast, and mockingly replied: "Oh, two can play
at that game!"
He pressed his hand to the trigger, but Pierre Labarre put his pistol
down, and contemptuously said:
"Bah! for the lackey the dog will do. Catch him, Sultan!"
As he said these words he opened a side door; a large Vosges dog, whose
glowing eyes and crispy hair made him look like a wolf, sprang upon
Simon, and, clutching him by the throat, threw him to the ground.
"Help, my lord marquis!" cried the steward.
"Let go, Sultan," commanded Pierre.
The dog shook his opponent once more and then let him loose.
"Get out of here, miscreants!" exclaimed Pierre now, with threatening
voice, as he opened the door, "and never dare to come into my house
again."
The wretches ran as if pursued by the Furies. Pierre caressed the dog
and then laughed softly; he was rid of his guests.
CHAPTER VIII
A MEETING
Fanfaro had urged Irene's horse on at great speed, and while it flew
along like a bird, the most stormy feelings raged in his heart.
The gaze of the pretty girl haunted him; he heard her gentle voice and
tried in vain to shake off these thoughts. What was he, that he should
indulge in such wild fancies? A foundling, the adopted son of an
acrobat, who had picked him up upon the way, and yet--
Further and further horse and rider flew; before Fanfaro's eyes stood
Girdel's pale, motionless face, and he thought he could hear Caillette's
bitter sobs. No, he must bring help or else go under, and ceaselessly,
like lightning, he pushed on toward the city.
The marquis and Simon ran breathlessly along. Their only thought was to
get far from the neighborhood of the old man and his wolf-hound. Neither
of the two spoke a word. The stormy, roaring Cure was forgotten, the
danger to life was forgotten; on, on they went, like deer pursued by a
pack of bloodthirsty hounds, and neither of them paid any attention to
the ominous noise of the overflowing mountain streams.
Suddenly Simon paused and seized the marquis's arm.
"Listen," he whispered, tremblingly, "what is that?"
A thunderous noise, ceaseless, rolling, and crashing, reached their ears
from all sides; from all sides frothy, bubbling masses of water dashed
themselves against the rocks, and now--now an immense rock fell crashing
in the flood, which overflowed into the wide plain like a storm-whipped
sea.
Despair seized the men; before, behind, and around them roared and
foamed the turbulent waters; they turned to the right, where a huge
rock, which still projected above the waves, assured them safety, but
just then the marquis struck his foot against a stone--he tumbled and
fell with a half-smothered cry for help, "Help--I am sinking!" into the
dark depths.
Simon did not think of lending his master a helping hand; he sprang from
rock to rock, from stone to stone, and soon reached a high point which
protected him from the oncoming waters.
The marquis had been borne a short distance along by the raging waters,
until he succeeded in clambering upon a branch of an evergreen tree. The
flood still rolled along above his body, but with superhuman strength he
managed to keep his head above water and despairingly cry, "Help, Simon!
Rescue me!"
Suddenly it seemed to the half-unconscious man as if he heard a human
voice calling to him from above:
"Courage--keep up."
With the remainder of his strength the marquis gazed in the direction
from which it came, and recognized a human form which seemed to be
hanging in the air.
"Attention, I will soon be with you," cried the voice, now coming
nearer.
The marquis saw the form spring, climb, and then the water spurted up
and the marquis lost consciousness.
Fanfaro, for naturally he was the rescuer, who appeared at the hour of
the greatest need, now stood up to his knees in water, and had just
stretched his hand out toward the marquis, when the latter, with a
groan, let go of the tree branch, and the next minute he was borne along
by the turbulent waters.
Fanfaro uttered a slight cry, but he did not hesitate a moment. Plunging
into the seething waves, he parted them with muscular strokes, and
succeeded in grasping the drowning man. Throwing his left arm about him,
he swam to the rocky projection upon which the evergreen tree stood.
Inch by inch he climbed toward the pathway which was upon the top of the
hill. Perspiration dripped from his forehead, and his wind threatened to
give out, but Fanfaro went on, and finally stood on top. Putting the
marquis softly on the ground, Fanfaro took out a small pocket-lantern
which he always carried with him. With great trouble he lighted the wet
wick, and then let the rays fall full on the pale face of the motionless
man. Seized by an indescribable emotion, the young man leaned over the
marquis. Did he suspect that the man whom he had rescued from the stormy
waters, at the risk of his life, was the brother of the man who had
taken mercy on the helpless orphan, and was at the same time his father?
The marquis now opened his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and looked wildly
around him.
"Where am I?" he faintly stammered. "The water--ah!"
"You are saved," said Fanfaro, gently.
The sound of the voice caused all the blood to rush to the marquis's
heart.
"Did you save me?"
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Fanfaro, and I am a member of Girdel's troupe, which is at
present in Sainte-Ame. Can you raise yourself?"
With the young man's assistance, the marquis raised himself up, but
uttered a cry of pain when he put his feet on the ground.
"Are you wounded?" asked Fanfaro, anxiously.
"No, I do not think so; the water knocked me against trees and stones,
and my limbs hurt me from that."
"That will soon pass away. Now put your arm about my neck and trust
yourself to me; I will bring you to a place of safety."
The marquis put his arms tightly about the young man's neck, and the
latter strode along the narrow pathway which led to the heights.
Soon the road became broader, the neighing of a horse was heard, and
drawing a deep breath the young man stood still.
"Now we are safe," he said, consolingly; "I will take you on the back of
my horse, and in less than a quarter of an hour we will be in
Sainte-Ame. I rode from there to Vagney, to get a physician for my
foster-father, Girdel, who injured himself, but unfortunately he was not
at home, and so I had to return alone. Get up, the road is straight
ahead, and the mountains now lie between us and the water."
In the meantime Fanfaro had helped the marquis on the back of the horse,
and now he raised his lantern to untie the knot of the rope with which
he had bound the animal to a tree. The light of the lamp fell full upon
his face, and the marquis uttered a slight cry; his rescuer resembled in
a startling way the old Marquis of Fougereuse.
Had he Jules's son before him?
A satanic idea flashed through the brain of the noble rogue, and when
Fanfaro, after putting out his lantern, attempted to get on the horse's
back, the marquis pressed heavily against the horse's flank and they
were both off like the wind in the direction of the village.
Fanfaro, who only thought that the horse had run away with the marquis,
cried in vain to the rider, and so he had to foot the distance,
muttering as he went:
"If the poor fellow only doesn't get hurt; he is still feeble, and the
horse needs a competent rider."
CHAPTER IX
THE GRATITUDE OF A NOBLEMAN
Fanfaro was hardly a hundred feet away from Sainte-Ame, when Girdel
opened his eyes and looked about him.
"What, my little Caillette is weeping!" he muttered, half-laughing.
"Child, you probably thought I was dead?"
"Oh, God be praised and thanked!" cried Caillette, springing up and
falling upon her father's neck.
Bobichel almost sprung to the ceiling, and Schwan, between laughing and
crying, exclaimed:
"What a fright you gave us, old boy. The poor fellow rode away in the
night to get a physician, and--"
"A physician? For me?" laughed Girdel. "Thank God, we are not so far
gone."
"But you were unconscious more than half an hour; we became frightened,
and Fanfaro rode to Vagney."
"He rode? On our old mare, perhaps? If he only returns," said Girdel,
anxiously. "The water must be dangerous about Vagney."
"He has a good horse; the Countess of Salves gave Fanfaro her
thoroughbred," said Bobichel.
"Ah! that is different. Now, children, let me alone. Cousin Schwan,
send me the two men whom I am to bring to Remiremont to-morrow; I must
speak to them."
Caillette, Bobichel, Schwan and Rolla went away. In the dark corridor a
figure passed by Rolla, and a hoarse voice said:
"Well?"
"All for nothing," growled Rolla; "he lives, and is as healthy as a fish
in the water."
"You don't say so," hissed Robeckal.
"It was your own fault," continued the virago. "A good stab in the right
place, and all is over; but you have no courage."
"Silence, woman!" growled Robeckal. "I have attended to that in another
way; he shall not trouble us long. Tell me, does he ever receive any
letters?"
"A great pile," said Rolla.
"And you cannot tell me their contents?"
"No; I never read them."
This discretion had good grounds. Rolla could not read, but she did not
wish to admit it to him. Whether Robeckal suspected how things were, we
do not know; anyhow, he did not pursue the subject any further, but
said:
"Schwan brought two men to Girdel a little while ago; come with me to
the upper story; we can listen at the door there and find out what they
say."
When Robeckal and Rolla, after listening nearly two hours, slipped
downstairs they had heard all that Girdel and the two gentlemen had
said. They knew Fanfaro had been deputed to take important papers to
Paris and give them to a certain person who had been designated; Girdel
had guaranteed that Fanfaro would fill the mission promptly.
When Robeckal returned to the inn, Simon rushed in pale and trembling.
He could hardly reply to the landlord's hurried questions; the words,
"In the water--the flood--dead--my poor master!" came from his trembling
lips, and immediately afterward he sank to the floor unconscious.
While Schwan was busy with him, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard.
"Thank God, here comes Fanfaro!" exclaimed Bobichel and Caillette,
simultaneously, and they both rushed to the door.
Who can describe their astonishment when they saw the marquis, dripping
with water and half frozen, get down from the horse and enter the room?
"Where is Fanfaro?" asked Bobichel, anxiously.
"He will soon be here," replied the marquis; "the horse ran away with
me, and I could not hold him."
"Then the brave fellow is not injured?" asked Schwan, vivaciously.
"God forbid; quick, give me a glass of brandy and lead me to Girdel; I
must speak to him at once."
While the host went to get the brandy, Simon and the marquis exchanged
looks; the next minute Schwan returned and the nobleman drank a large
glass of brandy at a gulp.
"Ah, that warms," he said, smacking his lips, "and now let us look for
Girdel."
As soon as the marquis left the room, Robeckal drew near to the steward
and whispered:
"Follow me, I must speak to you."
They both went into the hall and held a conversation in low tones.
Suddenly a cry of joy reached their ears, and the next minute they saw
Bobichel, who, in his anxiety about Fanfaro, had hurried along the road,
enter the house with the young man.
"There he is," whispered Robeckal, "God knows how it is, but neither
fire nor water seems to have the slightest effect on him."
"We will get rid of him, never fear," said Simon, wickedly.
From the upper story loud cries were heard. Rolla danced with a brandy
bottle in her hand, and Girdel was asking himself how he ever could have
made such a low woman his wife.
A knock was now heard on his door; Girdel cried, "Come in," in powerful
tones, and a man, a stranger to him, crossed the threshold.
"Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Girdel?" the stranger politely
asked.
"At your service; that is my name."
"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse, and would like to have an interview
with you."
"Take a seat, my lord marquis, and speak," said Girdel, looking
expectantly at his visitor.
"I will not delay you long, Monsieur Girdel," the marquis began; "I know
you have met with a misfortune--"
"Oh, it was not serious," said the athlete.
"Monsieur Girdel," continued the nobleman, "about one hour ago I was in
peril of my life, and one of your men rescued me at the risk of his."
"You don't say so? How did it happen?" cried Girdel.
"I was in danger of drowning in the Cure; a young man seized me from out
of the turbulent waters and carried me in his arms to a place of
safety."
"Ah, I understand, the young man of whom you spoke--"
"Was your son, Fanfaro!"
"I thought so," said the athlete; "if Fanfaro is alone only one second,
he generally finds time to save somebody. Where is the boy now?"
"He will be here soon. He asked me to get on the back of the horse with
him. I got up first, and hardly had the fiery steed felt some one on his
back than he flew away like an arrow. I was too feeble to check the
horse, and so my rescuer was forced to follow on foot."
"Fanfaro doesn't care for that; he walks miles at a time without getting
tired, and in less than fifteen minutes he will be here."
"Then it is the right time for me to ask you a few questions which I do
not wish him to hear. You are probably aware what my position at court
is?"
"Candidly, no; the atmosphere of the court has never agreed with me."
"Then let me tell you that my position is a very influential one, and
consequently it would be easy for me to do something for you and
your--son."
The marquis pronounced the word "son" in a peculiar way, but Girdel
shook his head.
"I wish Fanfaro was my son," he sighed; "I know of no better luck."
"If the young man is not your son," said the marquis, "then he would
need my assistance the more. His parents are, perhaps, poor people, and
my fortune--"
"Fanfaro has no parents any more, my lord marquis."
"Poor young man!" said the nobleman, pityingly; "but what am I saying?"
he interrupted himself with well-played anger. "Fanfaro has no doubt
found a second father in you; I would like to wager that you were a
friend of his parents, and have bestowed your friendship upon the son."
"You are mistaken, my lord; I found Fanfaro on the road."
"Impossible! What singular things one hears! Where did you find the
boy?"
"Ah! that is an old story, but if it interests you I will relate it to
you: One cold winter day, I rode with my wagon--in which was, besides my
stock, my family and some members of my troupe--over a snow-covered
plain in the Vosges, when I suddenly heard loud trumpet tones. At first
I did not pay any attention to them. It was in the year 1814, and such
things were not uncommon then. However, the tones were repeated, and I
hurried in the direction from whence they proceeded. I shall never
forget the sight which met me. A boy about ten years of age lay
unconscious over a dead trumpeter, and his small hands were nervously
clutched about the trumpet. It was plain that he had blown the notes I
had heard and then fallen to the ground in a faint. I took the poor
little fellow in my arms; all around lay the bodies of many French
soldiers, and the terrors of the neighborhood had no doubt been too much
for the little rogue. We covered him in the wagon with warm cloaks, and
because the poor fellow had blown such fanfares upon the trumpet, we had
called him Fanfaro."
"Didn't he have any name?" asked the marquis, nervously.
"That, my dear sir, wasn't so easy to find out. Hardly had we taken the
boy to us than he got the brain-fever, and for weeks lay on the brink of
the grave. When he at length recovered, he had lost his memory entirely,
and only after months did he regain it. At last he could remember the
name of the village where he had formerly lived--"
"What was the name of this village?" interrupted the marquis, hurriedly.
"Leigoutte, my lord."
The nobleman had almost uttered a cry, but he restrained himself in
time, and Girdel did not notice his guest's terrible excitement.
"His name, too, and those of his parents and sister, we found out after
a time," continued Girdel; "his father's name was Jules, his mother's
Louise, his sister's Louison, and his own Jacques. On the strength of
his information I went to Leigoutte, but found out very little. The
village had been set on fire by the Cossacks and destroyed. Of the
inhabitants only a few women and children had been rescued, and the only
positive thing I heard was that Jacques's mother had been burned to
death in a neighboring farmhouse. The men of Leigoutte had made a stand
against the Cossacks, but had been fairly blown into the air by them. I
returned home dissatisfied. Fanfaro remained with us; he learned our
tricks, and we love him very much. Where he managed to procure the
knowledge he has is a riddle to me; he never went to a regular school,
and yet he knows a great deal. He is a genius, my lord marquis, and a
treasure for our troupe."
Cold drops of perspiration stood on the nobleman's forehead. No, there
was no longer any doubt: Fanfaro was his brother's son!
"Have you never been able to find out his family name?" he asked, after
a pause.
"No; the Cossacks set fire to the City Hall at Weissenbach and all the
records there were destroyed. An old shepherd said he had once been told
that Jules was the scion of an old noble family. Anything positive on
this point, I could not find out--I--"
At this point the door was hastily opened and Fanfaro entered. He rushed
upon Girdel and enthusiastically cried:
"Thank God, Papa Girdel, that you are well again."
"You rascal, you," laughed Girdel, looking proudly at the young man.
"You have found time again to rescue some one."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said the marquis now, "permit me once more to thank
you for what you have done for me. I can never repay you."
"Don't mention it, sir," replied Fanfaro, modestly, "I have only done my
duty."
"Well I hope if you should ever need me you will let me know. The
Marquis of Fougereuse is grateful."
When the marquis went downstairs shortly afterward, he found Simon
awaiting him.
"Simon," he said, hurriedly, "do you know who Fanfaro is?"
"No, my lord."
"He is the son of my brother, Jules de Fougereuse."
"Really?" exclaimed Simon, joyfully, "that would be splendid."
"Listen to my plan; the young man must die, but under such circumstances
as to have his identity proved, so that Pierre Labarre can be forced to
break his silence. You understand me, Simon?"
"Perfectly so, my lord; and I can tell you now that I already know the
means and way to do the job. A little while ago a man, whom I can trust,
informed me that Fanfaro is going to play a part in the conspiracy
against the government which I have already spoken to you about."
"So much the better; but can he be captured in such a way that there
will be no outlet for him?"
"I hope so."
"Who gave you this information?" asked the marquis, after Simon had told
him all that Robeckal had overheard.
"A man called Robeckal; he is a member of Girdel's troupe."
"Good."
The marquis took out a note-book, wrote a few lines, and then said:
"Here, take this note, Simon, and accompany Robeckal at once to
Remiremont. There you will go to the Count of Vernac, the police
superintendent, and give him the note. The count is a faithful supporter
of the monarchy, and will no doubt accede to my request to send some
policemen here this very night to arrest Girdel and Fanfaro. The rest I
shall see to."
"My lord, I congratulate you," said Simon, respectfully.
CHAPTER X
ESCAPED
Before Robeckal had gone with Simon, he had hurried to Rolla and told
her that he was going to Remiremont now to get some policemen.
"Our score will be settled now on one board," he said, with a wink.
The fat woman had looked at him with swimming eyes, and in a maudlin
voice replied:
"That--is--right--all--must--suffer--Caillette--also!"
"Certainly, Caillette, too," replied Robeckal, inwardly vowing to follow
his own ideas with respect to this last, and then he hurried after the
steward.
Caillette and Rolla slept in the same room; when the young girl entered
it she saw the Cannon Queen sitting in an intoxicated condition at the
table surrounded by empty bottles. The horrible woman greeted the young
girl with a coarse laugh, and as Caillette paid no attention to her,
Rolla placed her arms upon the table, and threateningly exclaimed:
"Don't put on such airs, you tight-rope princess; what will you do when
they take your Fanfaro away?"
"Take Fanfaro away? What do you mean?" asked Caillette, frightened,
overcoming her repulsion, and looking at Rolla.
"Ha! ha! ha! Now the pigeon thaws--yes, there is nothing like love,"
mocked the drunken woman. "Ah, the policemen won't let themselves be
waited for; Robeckal and the others will look out for that."
Caillette, horror-stricken, listened to the virago's words. Was she
right, and were her father and Fanfaro in danger?
"I am going to sleep now," said Rolla, "and when I wake up Fanfaro and
Girdel will have been taken care of."
Leaning back heavily in the chair, the woman closed her eyes. Caillette
waited until loud snoring told her Rolla was fast asleep, and then she
silently slipped out of the room, locked it from the outside, and
tremblingly hurried to wake her father.
As she reached Girdel's door, a dark form, which had been crouching near
the threshold, arose.
"Who's there?" asked Caillette softly.
"I, little Caillette," replied Bobichel's voice. "I am watching, because
I do not trust Robeckal."
"Oh, Bobichel, there is danger. I must waken father at once."
"What is the matter?"
"Go, wake father and tell him I must speak to him; do not lose a
minute," urged Caillette.
The clown did not ask any more questions. He hurried to wake Girdel and
Fanfaro, and then called Caillette. The young girl hastily told what she
had heard. At first Girdel shook his head doubtingly, but he soon became
pensive, and when Caillette finally said Rolla even muttered in her
sleep about an important conspiracy and papers, he could no longer
doubt.
"What shall we do?" he asked, turning to Fanfaro.
"Fly," said the young man quickly. "We owe our lives and our strength to
the fatherland and the good cause; to stay here would be to put them
both rashly at stake. Let us pray to God that it even now may not be too
late."
"So be it, let us fly. We can leave the wagon go, and take only the
horses. Is Robeckal at home?" asked Girdel, suddenly turning to
Bobichel.
"No, master, he has gone."
"Then forward," said the athlete firmly. "I will take Caillette on my
horse and you two, Fanfaro and Bobichel, mount the second animal."
"No, master, that won't do," remarked the clown, "you alone are almost
too heavy for a horse; Fanfaro must take Caillette upon his and I shall
go on foot. Do not say otherwise. My limbs can stand a great deal, and I
won't lose sight of you. Where are we going?"
"We must reach Paris as soon as possible," said Fanfaro. "Shall we wake
the landlord?"
"Not for any money," said Girdel; "we would only bring him into
trouble."
"You are right," replied Fanfaro; "we must not open the house door
either, we must go by way of the window."
"That won't be very difficult for such veterans as we are," laughed
Girdel. "Bobichel, get down at once and saddle the horses. You will find
the saddles in the large box in the wagon. But one minute--what will
become of my wife?"
The others remained silent, only Fanfaro said:
"Her present condition is such that we cannot take her along; and,
besides, there is no danger in store for her."
Girdel scratched his head in embarrassment.
"I will look after her," he finally said, and hurried out.
In about two minutes he returned.
"She is sleeping like a log," he said; "we must leave her here. Schwan
will take care of her."
In the meantime Bobichel had tied the bedclothes, opened the window, and
fastened the clothes to the window hinges. He then whispered jovially:
"Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen," and let himself slide down the
improvised rope. Caillette followed the clown, then came Girdel, and
finally Fanfaro.
"Let the clothes hang," ordered Girdel.
They all crept softly to the stable and in about five minutes were on
the street.
Bobichel ran alongside Girdel. Suddenly he stopped and hurriedly said:
"I hear the sound of horses' hoofs; we escaped just in time."
The noise Bobichel heard really came from the policemen, who had hurried
from Remiremont to Sainte-Ame and were now surrounding the Golden Sun.
Robeckal and Simon were smart enough to keep in the background. The
brigadier, a veteran soldier, knocked loudly at the house-door, and soon
the host appeared and asked what was the matter.
"Open in the name of the king," cried the brigadier impatiently.
"Policemen, oh my God!" groaned Schwan, more dead than alive. "There
must be a mistake here."
"Haven't arrested any one yet who didn't say the same thing," growled
the brigadier. "Quick, open the door and deliver up the malefactors."
"Whom shall I deliver?" asked Schwan, terror-stricken.
"Two acrobats, named Girdel and Fanfaro," was the answer.
"Girdel and Fanfaro? Oh, Mr. Brigadier, you are mistaken. What are they
accused of?"
"Treason! They are members of a secret organization, which is directed
against the monarchy."
"Impossible; it cannot be!" groaned Schwan.
"I will conduct the gentlemen," said Robeckal, coming forward.
"Scoundrel!" muttered the host, while Robeckal preceded the policemen up
the stairs, and pointed to Girdel's room.
"Open!" cried the brigadier, knocking at the door with the hilt of his
sword.
As no answer came, he burst open the door, and then uttered an oath.
"Confound them--they have fled!" exclaimed Robeckal.
"Yes, the nest is empty," said the brigadier; "look, there at the
window, the bed-sheets are still hanging with which they made their
escape."
"You are right," growled Robeckal; "but they cannot be very far off
yet."
"No; quick--to horse!" cried the brigadier to his men; and while they
got into the saddle, Robeckal looked in the stables and discovered the
loss of the two horses. The tracks were soon found, and the pursuers,
with Robeckal at the head, quickly gained the forest. But here
something singular happened. The brigadier's horse stumbled and fell,
the horse of the second policeman met with the same accident, and before
the end of two seconds two more horses, together with their riders, lay
on the ground. All four raged and cried in a horrible manner; one of
them had broken a leg, the brigadier's sword had run into his left side,
and two horses were so badly hurt that they had to be killed on the
spot.
"The devil take them!" cried Robeckal, who was looking about with his
lantern to discover the cause of these accidents, "the scoundrels have
drawn a net of thin cords from one tree to the other."
"Yes, the scoundrels happened to be smarter than other people," came a
mocking voice from the branch of an oak-tree, and looking up, Robeckal
saw the clown, who, with the quickness of an ape, had now slid down the
tree and disappeared in the bush.
"Villain!" exclaimed Robeckal, angrily, and taking a gun from one of the
policemen he fired a shot at Bobichel.
Did the shot take effect?
CHAPTER XI
IN PARIS
On the 29th of February, 1824, a great crowd of laughing, noisy people
wandered up and down the streets of the French capital, for it was the
last Sunday of the carnival; the boulevards in the neighborhood of the
Palais-Royal especially being packed with promenaders of both sexes.
An elegant carriage drawn by two thoroughbreds halted at the edge of the
pavement, and three young men got out. They had cigars in their mouths,
which at that time was something extraordinary; white satin masks hid
their faces, and dark (so-called) Venetian mantles, with many colored
bands on their shoulders, covered their forms.
The young men answered the jokes and guys of the crowd in a jolly
manner, and then took seats in the Cafe de la Rotonde. Darkness came on,
the lights gleamed, and one of the young men said, sorrowfully:
"The carnival is coming to an end; it's a great pity--we had such fun."
"Fernando, are you getting melancholy?" laughed the second young man.
"Fernando is right," remarked the third; "the last day of the carnival
is so dull and spiritless that one can plainly see it is nearing the
end. For more than two hours we have been strolling about the
boulevards, but have not met with one adventure. Everywhere the
stereotyped faces and masks; the same jokes as last year; even the
coffee and the cake look stale to me. Arthur, don't you agree with me?"
"You demand too much," cried Arthur, indifferently; "we still have the
night before us, and it would not be good if we could not find something
to make the hours fly. As a last resort we could get up a scandal."
"Hush! that smells of treason. The dear mob nowadays is not so easy to
lead, and the police might take a hand in the fight," warned Fernando.
"So much the better; the scandal would be complete then. The police are
naturally on our side, and our motto--'after us the deluge'--has always
brought us luck."
The young men laughed loudly. They were evidently in good humor. The one
whom his companions called Arthur was the son of the Count of
Montferrand, who made a name for himself in the House of Deputies on
account of his great speech in favor of the murderers of Marshal Brune;
the second, Gaston de Ferrette, was related to the first families of the
kingdom; he had accompanied the Duke of Angoulême to Spain, and was
known as an expert fencer. He was hardly twenty years of age, but had
already come out victorious in several duels.
The third young man was a foreigner, but having the very best
recommendations he was soon at home in the capital. His name was
Fernando de Velletri, and he was by birth an Italian of the old
nobility; he was received in all the palaces of the Faubourg St.
Germain, and was acquainted with everything that went on in the great
world.
"Where is Frederic?" asked Arthur now.
"Really, he seems to have forgotten us," replied Fernando, "I cannot
understand what delays him so long."
"Stop!" exclaimed Gaston de Ferrette. "Come to think of it, I understand
that he was going to accompany the Countess of Salves to some ceremony
at Notre Dame."
"Poor fellow!"
"He is not to be pitied. The Countess of Salves is a charming girl."
"Bah, she is going to become his wife."
"So much the more reason that he should love her before the marriage;
afterward, it isn't considered good form to have such feelings."
"He loves her, then?"
"I am very grateful to you, gentlemen; even in my absence you occupy
yourselves with my affairs," said a clear, sharp voice now.
"Frederic, at last; where have you been?"
"Oh, I have been standing over five minutes behind you, and heard your
conversation."
"Has it insulted you?" asked Gaston, laughing.
Frederic did not answer immediately; he let his gaze fall pityingly over
his companion, and Gaston hastily said:
"Really, Frederic, your splendor throws us in the shade; look at him, he
has no mask, and is dressed after the latest fashion."
The costume of the last comer was, indeed, much more elegant than those
of the other young men. A long overcoat, made of fine brown cloth, sat
tightly about the body and reached to the knees; the sleeves, wide at
the shoulder, narrowed down toward the wrists and formed cuffs, which
fell over the gloved hand. A white satin handkerchief peeped out
coquettishly from the left breast pocket. White trousers, of the finest
cloth, reached to the soles of his shoes, which were pointed and
spurred. A tall, silk hat, with an almost invisible brim, covered his
head.
Frederic allowed himself to be admired by his friends, and then said:
"Take my advice and put off your masks at once, and dress yourselves as
becomes young noblemen; let the mob run around with masks on."
"Frederic is right," said Gaston, "let us hurry to do so."
"I shall await you here and bring you then to Robert; or better still,
you can meet me at the Cafe Valois."
The three masks left, and the Vicomte Talizac, for he was the last
comer, remained alone.
His external appearance was very unsympathetic. The sharply-cut face had
a disagreeable expression, the squinting eyes and rolling look were
likewise repulsive, and if his back was not as much bent as usual, it
was due to the art of Bernard, the tailor of the dandies.
The Cafe de Valois, toward which the vicomte was now going, was
generally the meeting-place of old soldiers, and the dandies called it
mockingly the cafe of the grayheads. Rumor had it that it was really the
meeting-place of republicans, and it was a matter of surprise why
Delevan, the head of the police department, never took any notice of
these rumors.
When the vicomte entered the gallery of the cafe, he looked observingly
about him, and then approached a group of young men who all wore plain
black clothing and whose manners were somewhat military.
The young men moved backward at both sides when the vicomte approached
them. Not one of them gazed at the dandy. The latter, however, stepped
up to one of them, and laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder, said:
"Sir, can I see you for a moment?"
The person addressed, a man about twenty-five years of age with
classically formed features, turned hurriedly around; seeing the
vicomte, he said in a cold voice:
"I am at your service, sir."
The vicomte walked toward the street and the man followed. On a deserted
corner they both stopped, and the vicomte began:
"Monsieur, first I must ask you to tell me your name; I am the Vicomte
de Talizac."
"I know it," replied the young man coldly.
"So much the better; as soon as I know who you are I will be able to
tell whether I should speak to you as an equal or punish you as a
lackey."
The young man grew pale but he replied with indomitable courage:
"I don't know what we two could ever have in common."
"Sir!" exclaimed Talizac angrily, "in a month I shall lead the Countess
de Salves to the altar; therefore it will not surprise you if I
stigmatize your conduct as outrageous. You rode to-day at noon past the
De Salves palace, and threw a bouquet over the wall and into the
garden."
"Well, what else?"
"You have probably good reasons not to give your name, the name of an
adventurer, but in spite of all I must inform you that in case you
repeat the scene I shall be obliged to punish you. I--"
The vicomte was unable to proceed; the iron fist of the young man was
laid upon his shoulder, and so powerful was the pressure of his hand
that the vicomte was hardly able to keep himself on his feet. The young
man gave a whistle, upon which signal the friends who had followed him
hurried up. When they were near by, Talizac's opponent said:
"Vicomte, before I provoke a scene, I wish to lay the matter before my
friends; have patience for a moment. Gentlemen," he said, turning to his
companions, "this man insulted me. Shall I fight a duel with him? It is
the Vicomte de Talizac."
"The Vicomte de Talizac?" replied one of the men addressed, who wore the
cross of the Legion of Honor. "With a Talizac one does not fight duels."
The vicomte uttered a hoarse cry of rage, and turned under the iron fist
which was still pressed on his shoulder and held him tight; the young
man gave him a look which made his cowardly heart quake, and earnestly
said:
"Vicomte, we only fight with people we honor. If you do not understand
my words, ask your father the meaning of them; he can give you the
necessary explanations. Perhaps a day may come when I myself may not
refuse to oppose you, and then you may kill me if you are able to do so!
I have told you now what you ought to know, and now go and look up your
dissipated companions, and take your presence out of the society of
respectable people."
Wild with rage, his features horribly distorted, unable to utter a word,
the Vicomte de Talizac put his hand in his pocket, and threw a pack of
cards at his opponent's face. The young man was about to rush upon the
nobleman, but one of his companions seized his arm and whispered:
"Don't be too hasty, you must not put your life and liberty at stake
just now--you are not your own master;" saying which, he pointed to
three masked faces who had just approached the group.
The young man shook his head affirmatively, and Talizac took advantage
of this to disappear. He had hardly gone a few steps, when an arm was
thrown under his own and a laughing voice exclaimed:
"You are punctual, vicomte; your friends can vouch for that."
The vicomte kept silent, and Fernando, lowering his voice, continued:
"What was the difficulty between you and the young man? You wanted to
kill him. Are you acquainted with him?"
"No, I hardly know him; you overheard us?"
"Excuse me, my dear fellow; your opponent spoke so loudly that we were
not obliged to exert ourselves to hear his estimate of you. Anyhow I
only heard the conclusion of the affair; you will no doubt take pleasure
in relating the commencement to me!"
The words, and the tone in which they had been said, wounded Talizac's
self-love, and he sharply replied:
"If it pleases me, Signor Velletri!"
The Italian laughed, and then said, in an indifferent tone:
"My dear vicomte, in the position in which you find yourself, it would
be madness for me to imagine that you intend to insult me, and therefore
I do not consider your words as spoken."
"What do you mean, signor?"
"Oh, nothing, except that yesterday was the day of presentation for a
certain paper, which you, in a fit of abstraction, no doubt, signed with
another name than your own!"
The vicomte grew pale, and he mechanically clinched his fist.
"How--do--you--know--this?" he finally stammered.
The Italian drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took a piece
of stamped paper from it.
"Here is the _corpus delicti_," he said, laughing.
"But how did it get into your hands?"
"Oh, in a very simple way: I bought and paid for it."
"You, signor? For what purpose?"
"Could it not be for the purpose of doing you a service?"
The vicomte shrugged his shoulders; he had no faith in his fellow-men.
"You are right," said Fernando, replying to the dumb protest, "I will be
truthful with you. I would not want the Vicomte de Talizac to go under,
because my fate is closely attached to his, and because the vicomte's
father, the Marquis de Fougereuse, has done great service for the cause
I serve. Therefore if I earnestly ask you not to commit such follies any
more, you will thank me for it and acknowledge that this small
reciprocation is worth the favor I am showing you."
"Then you will return the paper to me?" cried the vicomte, stretching
out his hand for it.
"No, the paper does not belong to me."
"But you just said--"
"That I bought it, certainly. I paid the price for it only because I
received the amount from several friends."
"And these friends--"
"Are the defenders and supporters of the monarchy; they will not harm
you."
Talizac became pensive.
"Let us not speak about the matter," continued Fernando; "I only wished
to show you that I have a right to ask your confidence, and I believe
you will no longer look upon it as idle curiosity if I ask you what
business you had with that man."
The Italian's words confirmed to Talizac the opinion of the world that
Velletri was a tool of the Jesuits. However, he had done him a great
service, and he no longer hesitated to inform Velletri of the
occurrence.
"I accompanied the Countess de Salves and her daughter to a party at
Tivoli," he began, as he walked slowly along with his companion, "and we
were enjoying ourselves, when suddenly loud cries were heard and the
crowd rushed wildly toward the exits. The platform where dancing was
indulged in gave way, and the young countess, in affright, let go of my
arm and ran into the middle of the crowd. I hurried after her, but could
not catch up with her; she was now in the neighborhood of the scene of
the accident, and, horror-stricken, I saw a huge plank which hung
directly over her head get loose and tumble down. I cried aloud; the
plank would crush her to death. At the right minute I saw a man grasp
the plank and hold it in the air. How he did it I have never been able
to tell; the plank weighed at least several hundred pounds, but he
balanced it as if it had been a feather. The young countess had fainted
away. When I finally reached her, the young man held her in his arms,
and from the way in which she looked at him when she opened her eyes, I
at once concluded that that wasn't the first time she had seen him. The
old countess thanked him with tears in her eyes; I asked him for his
name, for I had to find out first if it were proper for me to speak with
him. He gave me no answer, but disappeared in the crowd. The only reward
he took was a ribbon which the lady wore on her bosom and which he
captured. The ribbon had no intrinsic value, but yet I thought it my
duty to inform Irene about it. Do you know what answer she gave me?"
"No," replied Velletri, calmly.
"None at all. She turned her back to me."
"Impossible," observed the Italian, laughing; "well, I suspect that the
knight without fear or reproach followed up the thing?"
"He did; he permits himself to ride past the Salves's palace every day,
throws flowers over the wall, and I really believe the young countess
picks up the flowers and waits at the window until he appears. Should I
stand this?"
"No," replied Velletri, laughing; "you must, under all circumstances,
get rid of this gallant. For your consolation, I can tell you it is not
a difficult job."
"Then you know the man? I sent my servant after him, but could not find
out anything further than that he visits the Cafe Valois every day at
this hour, and that is the reason I went there to-day."
"Without having been able to accomplish your object. My dear vicomte, I
place my experience at your service. The man is no rival, cannot be any;
and if the young countess has built any air-castles in her romantic
brain, I can give you the means to crumble them to pieces."
"And the means?"
"Simply tell her the name of her admirer."
"Yes; but he didn't mention his name to me."
"That does not surprise me. He was formerly an acrobat, and his name is
Fanfaro."
The vicomte laughed boisterously. Fanfaro, a former acrobat, ran after
young, noble ladies--it was too comical!
"So that is why the young man did not wish to fight me," he finally
cried; "it doesn't surprise me any more, and is cowardly too."
The Italian, who had witnessed the scene in which Fanfaro had refused to
cross weapons with a Talizac, laughed maliciously.
"The companions of the former acrobat are, no doubt, ignorant of whom
they are dealing with?" asked Talizac.
"On the contrary, they know him well."
"I don't understand it! They speak to him, shake hands with him; it is
extraordinary."
The vicomte's stupidity excited the Italian's pity, but he did not allow
his feelings to be perceived, and said:
"I think we have discussed this Fanfaro long enough. Let us not forget
that we are still in the Carnival, and that we must hurry if we still
wish to seek some distraction; forget the fatal scene of a short while
ago."
The vicomte had forgotten long ago that he and his father had been
stigmatized as dishonorable rogues, and in great good humor he
accompanied his companion toward the Rue Vivienne.
They had not gone far when the vicomte paused and nudged his friend.
Leaning against the balustrade of a house, a young girl, whose features
were illuminated by the rays of a street lamp, sang in a clear voice to
the accompaniment of a guitar. A large crowd of passers-by had assembled
around the singer, who was a perfect vision of beauty.
Chestnut brown hair framed a finely cut face, and deep black eyes looked
innocently from underneath long eyelashes. The fingers which played on
the instrument were long and tapering, and every movement of the body
was the personification of grace.
When the song was finished loud applause was heard. The young songstress
bowed at all sides, and a flush of pleasure lighted up the charming
face. Every one put a penny on the instrument. When the vicomte's turn
came, he threw forty francs on the guitar, and approached close to the
songstress.
"You are alone to-day?" he boldly asked.
The young girl trembled from head to foot and walked on. The vicomte
gazed after her, and the Italian laughingly observed:
"The 'Marquise' is very strict to-day."
Thereupon he bent down and picked something up from the ground.
"Here, vicomte, is your money; the little one threw it away."
The vicomte uttered a cry of rage.
"The impertinent hussy!" he hissed.
"The affair has been going on in this way for the last two months," said
the Italian, dryly; "and you could have known long ago, vicomte, that
the 'Marquise' spurns your attentions."
"Fernando, I really believe you play the spy upon me!" exclaimed
Talizac; "have a care, my patience has its limits."
"You are too tragical," replied Velletri, shrugging his shoulders;
"instead of pursuing the little one with platonic declarations, you
ought to try to break her spirit."
"Velletri, you are right," replied Talizac; "yes, I will revenge myself
upon Fanfaro and possess this girl. What am I peer of France for?"
"Bravo, vicomte, you please me now--let us go to dinner, and then--"
"But the 'Marquise'?"
"Have patience. You will be satisfied with me."
CHAPTER XII
THE "MARQUISE."
Mardi-Gras had come and folly reigned supreme at Paris. Opposite the
Café Turque, which had already at that time a European reputation, stood
a small poverty-stricken house. It was No. 48 Boulevard du Temple, and
was inhabited by poor people.
In a small but cleanly room on the fifth story a young girl stood before
a mirror arranging her toilet. The "Marquise," for it was she, looked
curiously out of place in her humble surroundings.
A dark, tightly fitting dress showed her form to perfection, and the
dark rose in her hair was no redder than the fresh lips of the young
girl. The little singer gave a last glance in the mirror, smoothed back
a rebellious curl, and seized her guitar to tune it.
A low moan came from a neighboring room. The street-singer immediately
opened the curtained door and slipped into the room from which a cry now
came.
"Louison--little Louison!"
"The poor thing--she has woke up," sighed the girl as she approached the
small bed which stood in the equally small space.
"Mamma, how goes it?" she asked.
The form which lay on the bed looked almost inhuman. The cadaverous
face was half burned and the bloodshot eyes, destitute of eyebrows,
could not stand the least ray of light. The hands were horribly burned,
and her laugh exposed her toothless gums.
"Thirst, Louison," stammered the woman, pulling her long gray hair over
her eyes.
"There, mamma, drink," said Louison, bending tenderly over the poor
woman.
The woman drank eagerly the glass of milk offered, and then muttered
softly to herself.
"It is so warm, I am burning, everywhere there are flames."
The poor woman was crazy, and no one would have ever recognized in her,
Louise, the wife of the landlord Jules Fougeres.
The reader will have guessed long since that Louison, the street-singer,
was none other than Fanfaro's lost sister. The young girl, however, did
not know that the poor woman she so tenderly nursed was her mother.
Louison had once lost herself in the woods, and in her blind fear had
run farther and farther until she finally reached an exit. As she stood
in a field sobbing bitterly, a man approached her and asked her who she
was and where she had come from. The child, exhausted by the excitement
of the last few days, could not give a clear answer, and so the man took
her on his arm and brought her to his wife, who was waiting for him in a
thicket. The man and his wife carried on a terrible trade; they hovered
about battlefields to seek prey, and more than one wounded man had been
despatched by them if his purse or his watch attracted the robbers'
attention. Nevertheless, these "Hyenas of the battlefield" were good
and kind to the lost child; they treated her just like their own
children, of whom they had three, and at the end of the war, in
consequence of the good crop they had secured on the battlefield, they
were possessed of sufficient competence to buy a little place in
Normandy.
Louison grew up. An old musician, who discovered that she had a
magnificent voice, took pride in teaching the child how to sing, and
when on Sundays she would sing in the choir, he would enthusiastically
exclaim, "Little Louison will be a good songstress some day, her voice
sounds far above the others."
An epidemic came to the village soon after, and at the end of two days
her foster-parents were carried away, and Louison was once more alone in
the world.
The nuns of the neighboring convent took the child, taught it what they
knew themselves, and a few years passed peacefully for Louison.
A thirst to see the world took hold of her; the convent walls stifled
her, and she implored the nuns to let her wander again. Naturally her
request was refused, and so Louison tried to help herself.
One dark, stormy night she clambered over the garden wall, and when the
nuns came to wake her next morning for early mass, they found her bed
empty and the room vacant.
Singing and begging, the child wandered through Normandy. In many
farmhouses she was kept a week as a guest, and one old woman even
presented her with a guitar, which a stranger had left behind.
The proverb "all roads lead to Rome" would be more true in many cases if
it said they lead to Paris; and thus it was with Louison. After a long
and difficult journey she reached the capital, the El Dorado of street
singers from Savoy; and, with the sanguine temperament of youth, the
fifteen-year-old girl no longer doubted that she would support herself
honestly.
In a miserable quarter of the great city, in the midst of people as poor
as herself, Louison found a habitation. The wondrous beauty of the girl
soon attracted attention, and when she sang songs on some street-corner
she never failed to reap a harvest. At the end of four weeks she had her
special public, and could now carry out a project she had long thought
of. She went to the inspector of the quarter and begged him to name her
some poor, sickly old woman whom she could provide for.
"I do not wish to be alone," she said, as the inspector looked at her in
amazement, "and it seems to me that my life would have an aim if I could
care for some one."
Petitions of this kind are quickly disposed of, and on the next day
Louison received an order to go to another house in the same quarter and
visit an old mad woman whose face had been terribly disfigured by fire.
Louison did not hesitate a moment to take the woman, whose appearance
was so repulsive, to her home. When she asked the crazy woman, who gazed
at her, "Mother, do you wish to go with me?" the deserted woman nodded,
and from that day on she was sheltered.
Who could tell but that Louison's voice recalled to that clouded memory
the recollection of happier days? Anyhow the maniac was tender and
obedient to the young girl, and a daughter could not have nursed and
cared for the poor old woman better than Louison did.
The sobriquet of the "Marquise" had been given to Louison by the people
of the quarter. She was so different from her companions; she looked
refined and aristocratic, although her clothes were of the cheapest
material, and no one would have dared to say an unkind or bold word to
the young girl.
As the old woman handed the empty glass back to the girl, Louison
cheerfully said:
"Mother, I must go out; promise me that you will be good during my
absence."
"Good," repeated the maniac.
"Then you can put on your new cap to-morrow."
"The one with the ribbons?"
"Yes."
"Oh, then I will be good."
The poor thing clapped her hands, but suddenly she uttered a cry of
pain.
"Ah!--my head--it is burning!"
Louison, with heavenly patience, caressed her gray hair and calmed her.
"Ah! where is the box?" the maniac complained after a while.
"To-morrow I will bring it to you," said the songstress, who knew the
whims of the sick woman.
"Do not forget it," said the old woman; "in that box is luck. Oh, where
did I put it?"
She continued to mutter softly to herself. Louison allowed her to do so,
and slipped into the other room. It was time for her to go about her
business. This being Mardi-Gras, she expected to reap a rich harvest. As
she was about to open the door, she suddenly paused; she thought she
heard a voice, and listened. A knock now sounded at the door, and
Louison asked:
"Who is there?"
"A friend," came back in a loud voice.
"Your name?"
"You do not know me."
"Tell me your name."
"Robeckal; please admit me."
The young girl did not open at once; an indefinable fear seized her.
Suppose the vicomte, who had followed her all over, had at last found
out where she lived?
"Well, are you going to open?" cried Robeckal, becoming impatient.
Hesitatingly Louison pushed back the bolt, and with a sigh of relief she
saw Robeckal's face; no, that was not the vicomte.
"H'm, mademoiselle, you thought perhaps that I was a beggar?" asked
Robeckal, mockingly.
"Please tell me quickly what you want," cried Louison, hurriedly. "I
must go out, and have no time to lose."
"You might offer me a chair, anyway," growled Robeckal, looking steadily
at the handsome girl.
"I told you before I am in a hurry," replied Louison, coldly; "therefore
please do not delay me unnecessarily."
Robeckal saw that the best thing he could do would be to come to the
point at once, and grinning maliciously, he said:
"Mademoiselle, would you like to earn some money?"
"That depends--go on."
"Let me first speak about myself. I am an extra waiter. Do you know what
that is?"
"Yes, you assist in saloons on Sundays and holidays."
"Right. For the past three days I have been at The Golden Calf, just in
the street above."
"Ah, by Monsieur Aube?"
"Yes. The landlord would like to treat his guests to-day to some special
amusement, and so he said to me last night, 'Robeckal, do you know of
anything new and piquant!'
"'The "Marquise," master,' I replied.
"'But will she come?'
"'H'm, we must ask her. How much do you intend to spend?'
"'Twenty francs.'
"'Good,' I said, 'I will ask her,' and here I am."
Louison had allowed Robeckal to finish. The man displeased her, but his
offer was worth considering. Twenty francs! For the young girl the sum
was a small fortune, and her heart ceased to beat when she thought of
the many little comforts she could provide her _protégée_ with it.
"Did not Monsieur Aube give you a letter for me?" she asked, still
hesitating.
"No, mademoiselle. Do you mistrust me?"
"I did not say that, but I cannot decide so hastily. I will be at the
Golden Calf in a little while, and give the gentleman my answer."
"Mademoiselle, tell me at once that you don't care to go, and I will get
the man without arms, who will do just as well. He won't refuse, I
warrant you."
With these words, Robeckal took out a card and pointed to two addresses
thereon. The first was Louison's address, the second that of a
street-singer who was well known to the young girl. Louison no longer
doubted.
"I shall come," she said firmly; "when shall I make my appearance?"
"At eight o'clock."
"And when will I be done?"
A peculiar smile, unnoticed by Louison, played about Robeckal's lips.
"I really do not know," he finally replied, "but it will be between ten
and eleven. With such good pay a minute more or less won't make much
difference."
"No, but it must not be later than midnight."
"On no account, mademoiselle; if you are afraid, why, I will see you
home," Robeckal gallantly cried.
"Good--tell Monsieur Aube I shall be punctual."
"Done. I suppose, mademoiselle, you will not forget to give me a portion
of the twenty francs? I was the one, you know, who brought it about."
"With pleasure."
"Then good-by until this evening."
Robeckal hurried down the five flights of stairs. In front of the house
a man enveloped in a wide mantle walked up and down.
When he saw Robeckal, he anxiously asked:
"Well?"
"It is settled."
"Really? Will she come?"
"Certainly."
The man in the cloak, who was no other than Fernando de Velletri, let
some gold pieces slip into Robeckal's hand.
"If everything goes all right, you will get five hundred francs more,"
he cried.
"It is as good as if I had the money already in my pocket. Besides, the
racket is rather cheap, for the little one is a picture."
"So much the better," laughed the Italian.
While the worthy pair were discussing their plans, Louison went as usual
to the boulevards and sang her pretty songs.
In the Golden Calf, Monsieur Aube's restaurant, things were very lively.
The guests fairly swarmed in. The landlord ran busily to and fro, now in
the kitchen turning over the roast, then again giving orders to the
waiters, pulling a tablecloth here, uncorking a bottle there, and then
again greeting new guests. On days like this the place was too narrow,
and it always made Aube angry that he could not use the first story. The
house belonged to an old man, who had until recently lived on the first
floor, but since then new tenants had moved in, who were a thorn in the
saloon-keeper's side. He had tried his best to get rid of them, advanced
the rent, implored, chicaned, but all in vain. They stayed.
If they had only been tenants one could be proud of; but no! The family
consisted of an athlete who called himself Firejaws; his daughter
Caillette, a tight-rope dancer, a clown called Mario, and a young
acrobat, Fanfaro. Every day the troupe performed on the Place du Chateau
d'Eau, and, besides this, people visited the house under the pretence of
taking lessons from Fanfaro in parlor magic.
These visitors, strange to say, looked very respectable; most of them
appeared to be old soldiers. They certainly had no need to learn magic.
The large hall was filled to the last seat, and the waiters ran here and
there with dishes, when an elegant equipage drove up and immediately
afterward the stentorian voice of the landlord cried:
"Jean, the gentlemen who have ordered room No. 11 have arrived. Conduct
them upstairs."
The gentlemen were the Vicomte de Talizac, Arthur de Montferrand and
Fernando de Velletri. Jean led them to the room, and began to set the
table.
"Tell me, Frederic," began Arthur, as he threw himself lazily in a
chair, "how you got the idea of inviting us to this hole for dinner?"
The waiter threw an angry look at Arthur, who had dared to call the
Golden Calf a hole.
"My dear Arthur," said the vicomte, coldly, "have patience yet a while.
It is not my fashion to speak about my affairs in the presence of
servants."
Jean hastily drew back, and only the thought of losing his tip prevailed
upon him to serve his customers.
"Now we are alone," said Arthur, "and we'll finally find out all about
it--"
"I must beg your pardon once more," interrupted the vicomte, "but before
dessert I never bother about serious affairs."
"Ah, it is serious then," remarked Arthur. He knew that Talizac was
often short and feared that he was about to ask for a loan. The young
men dined with good appetite, and as the waiter placed the dessert upon
the table, the vicomte threw a glass filled with red wine against the
wall and exclaimed:
"Champagne, bring champagne!"
"Well, I must say that you end the Carnival in a worthy way," laughed
Velletri.
"Bah! I must drown my troubles in champagne," replied the vicomte,
shrugging his shoulders. "I tell you, my friends, I had a conversation
with my father to-day which made me wild."
"Ah, it was about your marriage, no doubt!" said the Italian.
"Yes. The marquis wants me to go to the altar in fourteen days. That
would be a fine thing."
"But I thought the marriage was a good one for both sides; the fortune
of the Salves--"
"Oh, bother with the fortune!" interrupted the vicomte.
"And, besides, the young countess is very beautiful," continued Arthur.
"Beautiful?" repeated the vicomte, mockingly; "not that I can see. She
puts on airs, as if the whole world lay at her feet, and poses as such a
virtuous being. And yet I really believe she is no better than other
people; I--"
"Frederic," interrupted Velletri, warningly; he feared that the vicomte
would inform young Montferrand what had occurred between his bride and
the acrobat.
"Well," said Arthur, hastily, "I hope that when Irene de Salves becomes
your bride you will be more pleasant to her."
"Really, Arthur, you have such antediluvian notions," laughed the
vicomte; "formerly we said that marriage was the grave of love; but if
there has been no love beforehand, it follows that the grave will remain
empty. No, my friends, if I am bound by marriage ties, I authorize you
both to hunt on my ground, and it will give me pleasure if you score a
success. Who knows? The countess is, perhaps, less prudish than she
seems."
"Perhaps I shall make use of the permission," laughed Arthur,
carelessly.
"I wish you joy. I haven't the stuff of a jealous husband in me, and the
freedom I ask for myself I grant to others!"
"That is unselfish," said the Italian; "not every one is so liberal with
his wife."
"Bah! the wife of a friend is decidedly more piquant than one's own, and
who knows but that I may revenge myself later on. I--"
At this moment a clear, fresh girlish voice was heard coming from
downstairs, and the first verse of a ballad by Romagnesi was
delightfully phrased. The young men listened attentively to the simple
song, and when at the end of the same a storm of applause followed,
Arthur clapped his hands too.
"What a pity," he said, "that one cannot hear this nightingale nearer."
"Why should not that be possible?" cried the vicomte, springing up as if
electrified.
Fernando grew frightened. This idea might disturb his plan.
"What is there in a street-singer?" he contemptuously asked.
Talizac, however, who was under the influence of the champagne he had
drunk, did not understand the hint, and angrily exclaimed:
"Now she shall just come upstairs; first she must sing to us, and
then--"
"And then?" repeated Arthur curiously.
"Ah, it is merely a little surprise we arranged for the little one,"
observed Velletri, with a cynical laugh.
"What! a surprise?"
"Yes."
"And she does not suspect anything?"
"Nothing."
"Well, I am curious to see the little one; let us call Aube, he can show
his singer to us."
"Gentlemen, no folly," warned Velletri, "we are not in the Palais Royal
here, and in some things the mob does not see any fun."
"I will attend to the people downstairs," said Arthur, while the vicomte
rang loudly.
When the waiter came he received the order to send the landlord up, and
in less than five minutes the latter came and bowed respectfully to the
guests who had drunk so much champagne.
"Monsieur Aube," began the vicomte, "who is the little bird that sings
so beautifully downstairs?"
"A young, modest, and very respectable girl, gentlemen."
The young men burst into loud laughter.
"A saint, then?" exclaimed Arthur.
"Really, gentlemen, she is very virtuous and respectable."
"So much the better," said the young men to Aube. "We would like to take
a good look at the little one. Send her up to us so that she can sing a
few songs for us, and at the same time put a few more bottles on the
ice."
Monsieur Aube did not know what to do.
"What are you waiting for?" asked the vicomte, in a maudlin voice.
"Gentlemen, the little one is so pure," said the landlord, earnestly.
"Are we going to ruin her?" exclaimed Talizac, with a laugh. "She shall
sing, and we will pay her well for it. She shall get a hundred francs;
is that enough?"
The landlord considered. He knew Louison was poor, and he said to
himself he had no right to prevent the pretty girl from earning so much
money. Moreover, she was not called "The Marquise" for nothing, and
Velletri's mien reassured the host. So he came to the conclusion that
there was no danger to be feared for his _protégée_. Even if the other
two were drunk, the Italian was sober; and so the host finally said:
"I will send the little one."
As the landlord entered the hall, Louison was just going about and
collecting. The crop was a rich one, and with sparkling eyes the
songstress returned to her place, to give a few more songs, when Aube
drew her into a corner.
"Louison," he softly said, "I have got a good business to propose to
you."
"What is it, Father Aube?"
The landlord, somewhat embarrassed, stammeringly answered:
"If you desire you can make one hundred francs in fifteen minutes."
"So much? You are joking?"
"Not at all; you sing two or three songs, and the money is earned."
"Where shall I sing?"
"Here in my house, on the first story."
At this minute the hall-door opened and loud laughter came from above.
Louison looked anxiously at the host and asked:
"Who wants to hear me?"
"Some guests, Louison; high-toned guests."
"Are they ladies and gentlemen, or only gentlemen?"
"Gentlemen, jolly young gentlemen."
"And if I go up will you stay in the neighborhood?"
"Certainly; this house is my house, and you are under my protection."
Louison considered. One hundred francs was a treasure with which she
could do wonders. A comfortable chair could be bought for the invalid,
wine and other strengthening things kept in the house, and--
"I agree," she said, picking up her guitar; "when shall I go up?"
"Directly, Louison, I will accompany you."
"H'm, what does that mean?" exclaimed a solid-looking citizen as he saw
Louison go up the stairs; "is the performance over?"
"No," said Aube to his guests, "Louison will sing more later on. Have a
little patience."
When the landlord and the young girl entered the room of the young men,
Aube was agreeably surprised at seeing that the vicomte had disappeared.
He was perfectly calm now. It had been the vicomte of whom Aube had been
afraid, and with a light heart he left the apartment.
"'Marquise,' will you be so kind as to sing us a song?" asked Arthur,
politely.
Louison's modesty began to have a good influence on him, and he already
regretted having assisted Talizac in his plan.
Louison tuned her instrument and then began to sing a pretty little air.
Montferrand and Velletri listened attentively, and when she had ended
they both asked her in the most polite way imaginable to sing another
song. Louison did not wait to be coaxed; she began a simple ballad and
sang it with melting sweetness. Suddenly she uttered a loud scream and
let her guitar fall. Frederic de Talizac stood before her.
"Continue your song, my pretty child," giggled the vicomte; "I hope I
have not frightened you?"
As he said this he tried to put his arm around Louison's waist.
She recoiled as if stung by a rattlesnake.
"I will not sing any more," she said firmly; "let me go."
"Nonsense, my little pigeon, you remain here," said the vicomte huskily,
placing himself in front of the door, "and for each note you sing I will
give you a kiss."
The poor child was paralyzed with fear. She threw an agonizing look upon
the drunken man's companions, and when she saw them both sit there so
calm and indifferent, her eyes sparkled with anger.
"Miserable cowards!" she contemptuously exclaimed. "Will you permit a
drunken scoundrel to insult a defenceless girl?"
Arthur sprang up. A flash of shame was on his classically formed
features, and turning to Talizac he hastily said:
"She is right, vicomte; are you not ashamed?"
"Are you speaking to me?" laughed Talizac, mockingly. "I really believe
you wish to be the Don Quixote of this virtuous Dulcinea del Toboso! No,
my friend, we did not bet that way; the girl must be mine, and I should
like to see the man who will oppose me."
He grasped Louison's arm; the young girl cried aloud for help, and the
next minute the vicomte tumbled back struck by a powerful blow of the
fist. Montferrand had come to the street-singer's rescue.
The vicomte roared like a wild bull, and, seizing a knife from the
table, rushed upon Arthur. The two men struggled with one another. The
table fell over; and while Louison unsuccessfully tried to separate the
combatants, Velletri looked coolly at the fray.
"Help! murder!" cried Louison in desperation. She did not think of
escape. She hoped Aube would make his appearance.
The landlord had really hastened up at the first cry, but at the head of
the stairs Robeckal had held him tight and uttered a peculiar whistle.
Two powerful men came in answer to the signal, and seizing the host in
their arms, they bore him to a small room where the brooms were kept.
Aube imagined his house had been entered by burglars. He threw himself
with all his force against the door, he cried for help, and soon a few
guests who had been sitting in the restaurant came to his assistance and
rescued him.
"Follow me, gentlemen," cried the landlord, angrily. "It is a dastardly
conspiracy! Upstairs there they are driving a poor, innocent girl to
despair. Help me to rescue her. It's the 'Marquise.' Oh, heavens! her
cries have ceased, she must be dead!"
Twenty men, in company with the landlord, rushed into the young men's
rooms. Louison was no longer there, and in the centre Montferrand and
the vicomte were still fighting with one another. Montferrand had
already taken the knife away from the drunken man, when the vicomte
angrily rushed at Arthur and hit him in the neck. A stream of blood
gushed from the wound, and with a low moan the wounded man sank to the
ground.
Before he could rise to his feet again, Velletri had seized the vicomte
by the arm, and in spite of his resistance dragged him down the stairs.
When Aube looked around for them, they had already left and not a trace
of Louison could be found.
"Merciful God!" he despairingly cried, "where is the poor child? I
promised her I would protect her, and now--"
"The scoundrels have abducted her!" exclaimed Arthur, who had in the
meantime recovered. "It was a shrewdly planned piece of business."
"Abducted her? Impossible!" cried the landlord, looking at Arthur in
amazement. "Who are the men?"
A crowd of guests had gathered about Arthur and the landlord, and while
a barber tried to stanch the still bleeding wound, Montferrand bitterly
said:
"One of the scoundrels bears a noble old name. Shame over the nobility
of France that it tolerates a Talizac and Fougereuse in its ranks."
"Who speaks of Talizac and Fougereuse?" cried a fresh voice, and a very
handsome man approached Monsieur Aube.
"Ah, Monsieur Fanfaro," said the landlord vivaciously, "Heaven sends you
at the right time. Forget all the troubles and the cares I have caused
you; I will never say another word against athletes and acrobats, but
help us!"
"What has happened?" asked Fanfaro in astonishment. "I just came home
and found every one in the restaurant excited. I asked, but no one knew
anything, so I hurried here. Tell me what I can do for you; I am ready."
"May God reward you, Monsieur Fanfaro; oh, if it is only not too late."
"Monsieur Aube," asked Fanfaro, politely, "what is the matter?"
"A young girl--it will bring me to my grave when I think that such a
thing should happen in my house--I--"
"Landlord," interrupted Arthur, "let me tell the story to the gentleman.
"Unfortunately," continued Montferrand, turning to Fanfaro, "I am mixed
up in the affair myself. I let myself be persuaded by the Vicomte de
Talizac--"
"I thought so," growled Fanfaro.
"And his friend Velletri to accompany them here--"
"Velletri? The Italian spy? The tool of the Jesuits, who treacherously
betrayed his own countrymen, the Carbonari?" asked Fanfaro,
contemptuously.
"Really, you are telling me something new," replied Arthur, "but it
served me right. Why wasn't I more particular in the choice of my
companions! Well, this worthy pair have abducted a young girl, a
street-singer."
"The scoundrels! Where have they carried the poor child to?"
"God alone knows! I only heard here about the plan, but the scoundrels
did not inform me where they intended to bring the poor child," replied
Arthur, feeling ashamed at having had even the slightest connection
with the affair, and inwardly vowing never again to have anything to do
with the scoundrels who bear noble names.
"But the girl, no doubt, has relatives, parents or friends, who will
follow her traces?"
"No," replied Aube, "she is an orphan, and is called the 'Marquise.'"
"Why has she received that sobriquet?"
"I do not know. She is a very respectable girl."
"Where does she live?"
"Not far from here, No. 42 Boulevard du Temple, fifth story. Robeckal,
an extra waiter, who, as I have since found out, is a cunning scoundrel,
had engaged her for to-night."
"If Robeckal had a hand in the affair then it can only be a scoundrelly
one!" exclaimed Fanfaro, with a frown.
"Do you know him?"
"Unfortunately, yes; tell me what more do you know?"
"Not much. The 'Marquise' lives with an old, poor crazy woman, who lost
her reason and the use of her limbs at a fire. The young girl, whose
name is Louison--"
"Louison?" cried Fanfaro, in affright.
"Yes; why, what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing; tell me how old is the girl?"
"About sixteen."
"My God, that would just be right; but no, it cannot be."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, gently, "can I do anything for
you, you seem to be in trouble?"
"Oh, I have a horrible suspicion, I cannot explain it to you now, but
the age and the name agree. Ah, that infamous Talizac! again and again
he crosses my path; but if I catch him now, I will stamp upon him like a
worm!"
"Do you intend to follow the robbers?"
"Certainly, I must rescue the girl."
"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, "do with me what you will, I will
help you!"
CHAPTER XIII
THE PURSUIT
Fanfaro looked gratefully at the young nobleman and then said:
"Please tell me your name, so that I may know whom I am under
obligations to?"
"My name is Arthur de Montferrand," said the nobleman, handing his card
to the young man, whose profession he knew, with the same politeness as
if he were a peer of France.
Fanfaro bowed and then hurriedly said:
"Let us not lose any more time; I--"
Loud knocking at the house-door and the murmur of several voices, which
came from below, made the young man pause. The planting of muskets on
the pavement was now heard and a coarse voice cried:
"Open in the name of the law!"
Fanfaro trembled.
"The police!" exclaimed Aube, breathing more freely; "perhaps the
robbers have already been captured."
Fanfaro laid his hand upon Aube's shoulder.
"Monsieur Aube," he said bitterly, "the police to-day do not bother
about such trivial affairs. The minions of Louis XVIII. hunt different
game."
"Open," came louder than before, "or we shall burst in the door."
"My God! my God! what a day this is," complained Aube, sinking
helplessly on a chair; "what do the police want in my house?"
"Monsieur Aube, they seek conspirators, heroes of freedom and justice,"
said Fanfaro earnestly.
"How so? What do you mean?" asked Aube, opening wide his eyes and
looking at the young man.
"I am one of the men the police are looking for," exclaimed Fanfaro
coolly.
"You!" exclaimed Montferrand in terror, "then you are lost."
"Not yet," laughed Fanfaro. "Monsieur Aube, hurry and open the door and
try to detain the people. That is all that is necessary. Good-by for the
present, and do not forget to hunt for the girl; with the aid of God we
will find her."
He ran out, and the nobleman and the landlord heard him bound up the
stairs. Aube now began to push back the iron bolt of the street door,
and when it opened several policemen and an inspector entered.
"I must say, Monsieur Aube," cried the inspector angrily, "you took a
long time to obey his majesty's order."
"But at this time of night," stammered Aube. "What are you looking for,
inspector?"
"Ask rather whom I am looking for?" retorted the inspector.
His gaze fell on Arthur, who did not look very attractive with his
bloody clothes and torn shirt.
"Who is this tramp?" asked the inspector roughly.
"The tramp will have you thrown out if you are impertinent. My name is
Arthur de Montferrand, and I am the son of the Marquis of Montferrand."
The inspector opened his eyes wide with astonishment. How could such a
mistake happen to him? The son of the Marquis of Montferrand. The
inspector would have preferred just now to hide himself in a corner. He
stammered apology upon apology, and then in an embarrassed way muttered:
"I have got a painful mission. I am to look for a 'suspect' in this
house."
"A 'suspect'?" whispered Aube, anxiously.
"Yes; conspirators who threaten the sacred person of the king."
"And you are looking for these people in my house?" asked Aube,
apparently overwhelmed at the intelligence.
"Yes, they are said to live here; two acrobats, named Girdel and
Fanfaro."
"Inspector, I am inconsolable; but I will not oppose you; do your duty,"
said Aube, with the mien of a man who gives a kingdom away.
Arthur and the landlord exchanged knowing looks as the inspector strode
toward the door. Fanfaro must be in safety by this time.
"The house is surrounded," said the inspector, as he went away, "and I
think we shall have little to do."
Montferrand trembled. Suppose Fanfaro had been captured! The policemen
went to the upper story, which had been pointed out to them by the
landlord as the residence of Girdel and Fanfaro.
"Open, in the name of the law!" thundered a voice, which shook the
house; and then followed, hardly less loud, the angry exclamation:
"By Jupiter, the nest is empty; the birds have flown!"
At this moment a voice cried from the street:
"Inspector, they are escaping over the roofs."
It was Simon, the worthy steward of the Marquis of Fougereuse, who
assisted the police to-day. He had stationed himself, with several
officers, in front of the house, and had noticed two shadows gliding
over the roofs.
"Forward, men," cried the inspector. "We must catch them, dead or
alive."
In a moment, Simon had bounded up the stairs and now stood near the
official at the skylight.
"How slanting that roof is!" growled the inspector. "One misstep and you
lie in the street."
He carefully climbed out; Simon followed, and then they both looked
around for the escaped conspirators.
"There they are!" exclaimed the steward, hastily. "Look, they have
reached the edge of the roof and are going to swing themselves over to
the neighboring roof! They are fools; the distance must be at least ten
feet. They will either fall down and smash their heads on the pavement,
or else fall into our hands."
Simon had seen aright. Girdel and Fanfaro were at the edge of the roof,
and now the young man bent down and swung something his pursuers could
not make out.
"Surrender!" cried the inspector, holding himself on a chimney.
Fanfaro now rose upright. He made a jump and the next minute he was on
the neighboring roof.
The inspector and Simon uttered a cry of rage, and redoubled it when
they saw Fanfaro busying himself tying a stout rope to an iron hook
which he connected with another hook on the roof he had just left.
Girdel now clambered to the edge of the roof, grasped the rope with both
hands, and began to work his way across to Fanfaro.
"Quick, a knife!" cried the inspector.
Simon handed him his pocket-knife and the policeman began to saw the
rope through. Luckily for Girdel, the work went very slow, for the knife
was as dull as the rope was thick, and Simon, who only now began to
remember that Girdel must not be killed at any price, loudly exclaimed:
"Stop, inspector, are you out of your senses?"
The policeman was no longer able to heed the warning. The knife had done
its duty, the rope was cut!
Girdel did not fall to the pavement though. At the decisive moment
Fanfaro bent far over the roof, and with superhuman strength held on to
the rope on which Girdel was, at the same time crying to him:
"Attention, the rope is cut, take your teeth."
Girdel understood at once, and his mighty jaws held the rope firmly.
Fanfaro had bent far forward to hinder Girdel from being dashed against
the wall, and kept in that position, until the athlete could work
himself with his hands and teeth to the edge of the roof.
The roof was at length reached. Fanfaro swung his arms about Girdel, and
the next minute they both disappeared behind a tall chimney!
"Papa Girdel, we have nothing to fear now," said Fanfaro, laughing; but
soon he thought of Louison, and he sighed heavily.
"What is the matter with you, my boy?" asked Girdel, in amazement.
"I will tell you some other time. Let us try to reach the street first,
for our pursuers will surely try to get into the house and begin the
hunt anew."
The athlete saw he was right, and they both began their perilous flight
over the roofs. For a time everything went right, but suddenly Fanfaro
paused and said:
"We are at a street corner."
"That is a fatal surprise," growled Girdel; "what shall we do now?"
"We must try to reach a roof-pipe and glide down."
"That is easier said than done. Where will you find a roof-pipe able to
sustain my weight?"
Fanfaro looked at Girdel in amazement. He had not thought of that.
"Then let us try to find a skylight and get into some house," he said,
after a pause.
"Suppose the window leads to an inhabited room?" observed Girdel.
"Then we can explain our perilous position. We will not be likely to
tumble into a policeman's house."
"Let us hope for the best," replied Girdel.
At the same moment a terrific crash was heard and Fanfaro saw his
foster-father sink away. Girdel had unconsciously trodden on a
window-pane and fallen through!
"That is a new way of paying visits," cried a voice which Fanfaro
thought he recognized, and while Girdel made desperate attempts to swing
himself again on the roof, a hand armed with a tallow candle appeared
in the opening.
"I will light the gentlemen," continued the voice.
"Bobichel, is it you?" cried Fanfaro, joyously.
"Certainly, and I ought to know you," was the reply; "really, the master
and Fanfaro."
"Bobichel," said Girdel, greatly astonished, "is it really you? We
thought you were dead!"
"Bah! a clown can stand a scratch; but come quickly into my room, it is
cold outside."
Girdel and Fanfaro entered the small attic and Bobichel received his old
comrades cordially.
"The ball did not hit you, then?" asked Girdel; "we thought you were
gone."
"Almost," replied the clown; "I dragged myself a few steps further, with
the bullet in my side, and then sank down unconscious. When I awoke I
found myself in the hospital at Remiremont, where I remained until a
week ago. Later on I will give you all the details. For to-day I will
only say that I arrived in Paris yesterday and rented this room here. I
expected to find you here, and I intended to look about to-morrow
morning. What happy accident brought you here?"
"In the first place, the police," replied Fanfaro; "they hunted us like
a pack of dogs a wild animal, and if we had not escaped over the roofs
we would now be behind lock and key."
"But why are you pursued?" asked Bobichel, anxiously. "Do you belong to
the conspiracy of which there is so much talk?"
"Probably," replied Girdel.
"Is there a place for me in the conspiracy?" asked the clown,
vivaciously, "I am without employment just now, and if you wish to take
me in tow, I--"
"We shall attend to it," said Fanfaro, cordially.
"How is little Caillette getting on?" asked Bobichel, after a pause.
"Very well, thank you. We shall let her know to-morrow morning that we
are safe."
"Then she is in Paris, too?"
"Certainly. We lived up till now in the Golden Calf. However, we must
look for other rooms now. We can speak about that to-morrow. Let us go
to sleep now, it must be very late," said Girdel; and looking at his
watch, he added: "Really it is two o'clock."
"Bobichel's eyes knew that long ago," laughed Fanfaro. "Go to bed, old
friend, you are tired."
"Oh, I am not tired," said the clown, yawning in spite of himself. "I
will not go to bed after I have found you again."
"You must do so, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, earnestly. "You are still weak
and must husband your strength. Go calmly to bed. Girdel and I have
still a great deal to consider, and we are both glad that we need not
camp in the street."
Bobichel hesitated no longer; he threw himself on his hard couch and in
less than five minutes he was fast asleep.
As soon as Girdel found himself alone with Fanfaro, he said, in an
anxious voice:
"Fanfaro, tell me what ails you. I know you too well not to be aware
that something extraordinary has happened. Place confidence in me;
perhaps I can help you."
"If you only could," sighed Fanfaro; "but you are right, I will tell
you all. First, Papa Girdel, I must ask you a few questions about my
past--"
"Speak; what do you wish to know?"
"What did you find out about my mother?"
"That she was the victim of a conflagration. She was in a farmhouse
which had been set fire to by Cossacks."
"And my father?"
"He died the death of a hero, fighting for his country."
"As far as my memory goes," said Fanfaro, pensively, "I was in a large,
dark room. It must have been a subterranean chamber. My parents had
intrusted my little sister to my care. I held her by the hand, but
suddenly I lost her and could never find her again."
"I know, I know," said Girdel, sorrowfully.
"Since this evening," continued the young man, "I have been thinking of
my poor little Louison. I have not been able to tell you yet that a
respectable young girl, who earns her living by singing, was forcibly
abducted from the Golden Calf this evening."
"Impossible! Monsieur Aube is a brave man," exclaimed Girdel,
impatiently.
"Ah! Aube knows nothing of the matter. He is innocent. The villain who
did it is a bad man, who has already crossed our path."
"And his name?"
"Vicomte de Talizac."
"Talizac? Has this family got a thousand devils in its service? It was
the vicomte's father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, who wished to kill us
at Sainte-Ame; his steward ran to Remiremont to get the police."
"Like father like son. The proverb says that the apple doesn't fall far
from the tree. The young girl whom Talizac abducted is named Louison,
and I--"
"My poor boy, you do not really think--"
"That this Louison is my poor lost sister? Yes, I fear so, Papa Girdel.
When I heard the name, I trembled in every limb, and since then the
thought haunts me. If I knew that Louison were dead I would thank God on
my knees, but it is terrible to think that she is in the power of that
scoundrel. The fact that Robeckal has a hand in the affair stamps it at
once as a piece of villany."
"Robeckal is the vicomte's accomplice?" cried Girdel, springing up. "Oh,
Fanfaro, why did you not say so at once? We must not lose a minute! Ah,
now I understand all! Robeckal abducted the poor child and brought it to
Rolla. I know they are both in Paris, and I will move heaven and earth
to find them!"
"May God reward you, Papa Girdel," said Fanfaro, with deep emotion. "I
will in the meantime try to find the invalid with whom the street-singer
lives, and--"
"Is there nothing for Bobichel to do?" asked the clown, sitting up in
his bed.
"Oh, Bobichel!" exclaimed Fanfaro, gratefully, "if you want to help us?"
"Of course I do. I will accompany master to Robeckal, for I also have a
bone to pick with the scoundrel."
CHAPTER XIV
LOUISE
Louison's crazy mother had passed a miserable night. Accustomed to see
Louison before going to sleep and hear her gentle voice, and not having
her cries answered on this particular evening, the poor woman, who had
not been able to move a step for years, dragged herself on her hands and
feet into the next room and shoved the white curtains aside.
The painful cry of the invalid as she saw the bed empty, drowned a loud
knock at the door, and only when the knocking was repeated and a voice
imploringly cried: "Open, for God's sake, open quick!" did the burned
woman listen. Where had she heard the voice?
"Quick, open--it is on account of Louison," came again from the outside.
It was Fanfaro who demanded entrance.
A cry which was no longer human came from the breast of the burned
woman, and, collecting all her strength, she crawled to the door and
tore so long at the curtains which covered the pane of glass that they
came down and Fanfaro could see into the room. As soon as he saw the
position of the poor woman, he understood at once that she could not
open the door, and making up his mind quickly, he pressed in the
window, and the next minute he was in the room.
"Where is Louison, madame?" he exclaimed.
The woman did not answer; she looked steadily at him and plunged her
fingers in her gray hair.
"Madame, listen to me. Louison has been abducted. Don't you know
anything?"
The poor thing still remained silent, even though her lips trembled
convulsively, and the deep-set eyes gazed steadily at the young man.
"Madame," began Fanfaro, desperately, "listen to my words. Can you not
remember where Louison told you she was going? You know who Louison is;
she nurses and cares for you. Can you not tell me anything?"
At length a word came from the burned woman's breast.
"Jacques, Jacques!" she stammered, clutching the young man's knees and
looking at him.
Fanfaro trembled. Who was this horrible woman who called him by the name
of his childhood?
"Louison! Jacques!" uttered the toothless lips, and hot, scalding tears
rolled over the scarred cheeks.
A flood of never-before-felt emotions rushed over Fanfaro; he tenderly
bent over the poor woman, and gently said:
"You called me Jacques. I was called that once. What do you know of me?"
The burned woman looked hopelessly at him; she tried hard to understand
him, but her clouded mind could not at first grasp what he meant.
"I will tell you what I know of the past," continued Fanfaro, slowly. "I
formerly lived at Leigoutte in the Vosges. My father's name was Jules,
my mother's Louise, and my little sister Louison--where is Louison?"
At last a ray of reason broke from the disfigured eyes, and she
whispered:
"Jacques, my dear Jacques! I am Louise, your mother, and the wife of
Jules Fougeres!"
"My mother!" stammered Fanfaro with emotion, and taking the broken woman
in his arms, he fervently kissed her disfigured face. The poor woman
clung to him. The veil of madness was torn aside and stroking the
handsome face of the young man with her broken fingers, she softly
murmured:
"I have you again. God be thanked!"
"But where is Louison?" broke in Fanfaro, anxiously.
Still the brain of the sick woman could not grasp all the new
impressions she had received, and although she looked again and again at
Fanfaro, she left the question unanswered.
At any other time Fanfaro would have left the sick woman alone, but his
anxiety about Louison gave him no peace. He did not doubt a minute but
that his mother had recognized Louison long ago as her daughter, and so
he asked more urgently:
"Mother, where is Louison? Your little Louison, my sister?"
"Louison?" repeated the sick woman, with flaming eyes. "Oh, she is good;
she brings me fruit and flowers."
"But where is she now?"
"Gone," moaned the invalid.
"Gone? Where to?"
"I do not know. Her bed is empty."
"Then I was not deceived. She has been abducted by that scoundrel,
Talizac!"
"Talizac?" repeated the maniac, with a foolish laugh. "Oh, I know him,
do not let him in; he brings unhappiness--unhappiness!"
"Then he has been here?" cried Fanfaro, terror-stricken.
"No, not here--in--Sachemont--I--oh! my poor head."
With a heart-rending cry the poor woman sank to the ground unconscious.
The excitement of the last hour had been too much for her. Fanfaro
looked at the fainting woman, not knowing what to do. He took her in his
arms and was about to place her on the bed when the door was softly
opened and three forms glided in.
"Girdel, thank Heaven!" cried Fanfaro, recognizing the athlete, "have
you found Robeckal?"
"No, the wretches moved out of their former residence in the Rue
Vinaigrier, yesterday, and no one could tell us where they went."
"I thought so," groaned Fanfaro, and then he hastily added: "Girdel, the
unhappy woman I hold in my arms is my mother. No, do not think I am
crazy, it is the truth; and the girl who was abducted is my sister
Louison."
"Impossible!" stammered Girdel.
"His mother!" came a whisper behind Fanfaro, and turning hastily round
he saw Caillette--who stood at the door with tears in her eyes--with
Bobichel, who said:
"Caillette will take care of the invalid until we have found Louison; I
say that we move heaven and earth so that we find her."
"You are right, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, and, pressing a kiss upon his
mother's forehead, he ran off with Girdel and the clown.
CHAPTER XV
SWINDLED
While Montferrand and Talizac were struggling, Robeckal slipped up to
the door and winked to Louison. She hurried out and implored Robeckal to
bring her out of this miserable house. This was just what the wretch had
been waiting for, and hardly five minutes later he was in a small street
with the betrayed girl. In this street a carriage stood. Robeckal seized
the unsuspecting girl by the waist, lifted her into the carriage, and
sprang in himself. The driver whipped up the horses and away they went
at a rapid gait.
"Where are you bringing me to?" cried Louison in terror, as she saw the
carriage take a wrong direction.
"Keep still, my little pigeon," laughed Robeckal, "I am bringing you to
a place where it will please you."
Louison for a moment was speechless; she soon recovered herself,
however, comprehended her position at a glance, hastily pulled down the
carriage window, and cried aloud for help.
"Silence, minx!" exclaimed Robeckal roughly, and pulling a cloth out of
his pocket he held it in front of Louison's face.
"Ah, now you are getting tame," he mockingly laughed, as the young
girl, moaning softly, fell back in the cushions. The carriage hurried
along and finally stopped in an obscure street of the Belleville
Quarter.
Robeckal sprang out, and taking the unconscious Louison in his arms, he
carried her up the stairs of a small house, and pulled the bell, while
the carriage rolled on.
"Ah, here you are; let me see the chicken!"
With these words Rolla received her comrade.
She put the lamp close to Louison's face, and then said:
"Your Talizac hasn't got bad taste; the little one is handsome."
"Is everything in order?" asked Robeckal, going up the stairs after the
"Cannon Queen."
"Certainly, look for yourself."
Robeckal entered an elegantly furnished room, and, placing Louison on a
sofa, he said in a commendatory tone:
"It's pretty fair."
"Don't you think so? Leave the rest to me; I have a grand idea."
"An idea?" repeated Robeckal, doubtingly.
"Yes, an idea that will bring us in a nice sum of money."
"Then I am satisfied. If the little one only does not cause us any
embarrassment."
"No fear of that. In the first place she should sleep."
The virago poured a few drops of a watery liquid in a spoon and
approached Louison. The latter had her lips parted, but her teeth were
tightly drawn together. Robeckal carefully put the blade of his knife
between them, and Rolla poured the liquid down Louison's throat.
"Now come downstairs with me," she said, turning to Robeckal, "and if
your vicomte comes you will praise me."
The worthy pair now left Louison, who was sleeping; and after Rolla had
tightly locked the door and put the key in her pocket, they both strode
to the basement. Here they entered a small, dirty room, and Rolla had
just filled two glasses with rum when a carriage stopped in front of the
door.
"Here they are," said Robeckal, hastily emptying his glass and going to
the street door, from whence came the sound of loud knocks.
Shortly afterward he returned in company with Talizac and Velletri. The
vicomte's face was flushed with the wine he had been drinking; spots of
blood were on his clothes, and his walk was uneven and unsteady.
Velletri, on the other hand, showed not a trace of excitement, and his
dress was neat and select.
"A glass of water!" commanded the vicomte, in a rough voice, turning to
Rolla.
The fat woman looked angrily at him, and while she brought the water she
muttered to herself:
"Wait now. You shall pay dearly for your coarseness."
Talizac drank, and then said:
"Is the little one here?"
"Yes."
"You haven't done anything to her, have you?"
"What do you take me for?" growled Rolla.
"Bring me some wash water," said the vicomte, without noticing Rolla's
sensitiveness, and turning to Velletri, he added: "Montferrand handled
me roughly; I look as if I had been torn from the gallows."
"As if you won't get there one of these days," growled Rolla; and,
lighting a candle, she said aloud, "If the gentlemen wish I will conduct
them to the 'Marquise.'"
"Go on; where is she?"
"In the upper story--she is sleeping."
"So much the better. I will lavish my affection on her, and see if she
is still as prudish."
Rolla preceded the vicomte up the stairs. As she went past she exchanged
a quick glance with Robeckal, and the latter growled to himself:
"There is something up with her; I will watch and help her should it be
necessary."
Rolla and Talizac were now in front of the door which led to Louison's
room. The vicomte looked inquiringly at his companion and said:
"Open it."
"One moment, we are not as far as that yet. Just look at the little one
first."
With these words Rolla opened a sliding window in the door and stepped
back, while the vicomte bent down and looked into the partly lighted
room.
Louison lay fast asleep on the sofa. The pretty head rested on the left
arm, while the right hung carelessly down, and the long eyelashes lay
tightly on the slightly flushed cheeks. The small, delicate mouth was
slightly compressed, and the mass of silky hair fell in natural curls
about the white forehead.
"Isn't she charming?" giggled Rolla.
Talizac was a libertine, a dissipated man, and yet when he saw the
sleeping girl, a feeling he could not account for overcame him. He
forgot where he was, that the miserable woman at his side had helped to
carry out his dastardly plans, and all his longing now was to throw
himself at Louison's feet, and say to her:
"I love you dearly!"
"Open," he hastily ordered.
Rolla let the window fall again and looked impertinently at him.
"My lord," she said, with a courtesy, "before I open this door you will
pay me twenty thousand francs."
"Woman, are you mad?"
"Bah! you would shout so! I said twenty thousand francs, and I mean it.
Here is my hand. Count in the money and I will get the key."
"Enough of this foolish talk," cried the vicomte, in a rage. "I paid
your comrade the sum he demanded, and that settles it."
"You are more stupid than I thought," laughed Rolla. "If you do not pay,
nothing will come of the affair."
"But this is a swindle," said the vicomte.
"Do not shout such language through the whole house," growled Rolla. "Do
you think it is a pleasure to abduct girls? Robeckal had enough trouble
with the little one and--"
What Rolla said further was drowned by the noise Talizac made as he
threw himself against the door. It did not move an inch though; and
before the vicomte could try again, Robeckal hurried up with a long
knife in his hand.
"What is the matter?" he angrily cried.
"Your friend the vicomte forgot his purse and thinks he can get the
girl on credit," mockingly replied Rolla.
The noise brought Velletri up too; but as soon as he saw Robeckal's long
knife, he turned about again. The vicomte too became pacified.
"I will give you all the money I have with me," he said, as he turned
the contents of his purse into Rolla's big hand. "Count and see how much
it is."
"Ten, twenty, eight hundred francs," counted the Cannon Queen; "we shall
keep the money on account, and when you bring the rest, you can get the
key."
"This is miserable," hissed Talizac, as he turned to go; "who will vouch
to me that you won't ask me again for the money?"
"Our honor, vicomte," replied Rolla, grinning. "We think as much of our
reputation as high-toned people."
"Scoundrels," muttered Talizac, as he went away with Velletri. "If we
could only do without them!"
CHAPTER XVI
MACHIAVELLI AND COMPANY
The Marquis of Fougereuse was sitting in his study, and Simon stood
beside him.
"So he has escaped from us again?" remarked the marquis frowning.
"God knows how it happened, my lord; my plans were all so well laid that
I cannot understand how the affair fell through?"
"Postponed is not given up," observed the nobleman; "and as Fanfaro does
not yet suspect who he really is, he can go on compromising himself.
Have you any further details with regard to the conspiracy?"
"Yes, my lord, we have trustworthy witnesses, who can swear, in case of
need, that Fanfaro planned an attempt upon the sacred person of the
king."
"Very good; but still the attempt must be really made, so that Fanfaro
could be convicted."
"I have attended to that. One of our agents will set the harmless
attempt in motion, and the individual selected--who, by the way, has
escaped the gallows more than once--will swear in court that Fanfaro is
the intellectual head of the assassination and chief conspirator."
Before the marquis could express his satisfaction, the Marquis of
Montferrand was announced.
"A visit at this hour!" cried Fougereuse, in amazement; "it is hardly
seven o'clock."
"The gentleman comes on important business, as he informed me," said the
servant.
"Bring the marquis in," ordered the nobleman; and as the servant went
away he hastily said to Simon: "Hide behind the curtain, and remain
there until the interview is over; perhaps you might hear something that
will further our plans." Simon nodded and disappeared, while the marquis
was led in.
Arthur's father was a man of imposing presence. He looked down upon the
beggar nobility which fawned about the court, to receive money or
favors.
The old man looked pale. He hastily approached the marquis and said:
"Marquis, you imagine you are a faithful adherent of the monarchy, but
scandals such as take place to-day are not calculated to raise the
Fougereuse and Talizacs in the estimation of the court."
"You are speaking in riddles, marquis!" exclaimed Fougereuse, in
amazement.
"So much the worse for you, if your son's conduct must be told you by
another party," said the old man, sternly.
"What is the matter with my son?"
"The Vicomte de Talizac has dishonored himself and the cause you serve."
"My son is young and wild. Has he again committed one of his stupid
follies?" asked the marquis, uneasily.
"If it only were a stupid folly! The vicomte had a quarrel last night
with my son, because my son wished to hinder him from committing a
dastardly act. My son boxed the vicomte's ears, upon which the latter
tried to stab him with a knife."
"Impossible!" cried Fougereuse, in a rage.
"I am speaking the truth," declared the old gentleman, calmly.
"What was the nature of this dastardly act?"
"The vicomte was drunk and employed people to abduct a respectable young
girl, a street-singer. My son was in the society of yours, in a
restaurant of a low order. When he heard what the affair was, he
energetically protested and tried to hinder the vicomte and his friend
Velletri from carrying out their plot. They quarrelled, the vicomte was
boxed on the ears and my son was stabbed. They both received what they
deserved. What brought me here is another matter. You are aware that I
consented to speak to my cousin the Comtesse of Salves in relation to
the marriage of her daughter with your son. From what happened last
night, I should regard it as a misfortune for Irene if she becomes the
vicomte's wife. I came here to tell you this."
Fougereuse became pale and clutched the back of a chair to keep from
falling. At this moment the rustle of a silk dress was heard, and
Madeleine, the marquis's wife, entered the room.
The marquis excitedly approached her.
"The vicomte is a scoundrel!" he cried, in a rage; "he has dragged the
old noble name in the mud, thanks to his mother's bringing up. You have
never refused him a wish."
Madeleine's blue eyes shot gleams of fire; she looked above her husband
as if he had been empty air, and turned to the Marquis of Montferrand.
"Monsieur le Marquis," she politely said, "my son desired me to offer
you his apologies."
"Apology?" repeated Montferrand, coldly, "for the box on the ear he
got?"
"No, my lord, but because he was so intoxicated as to raise the ire of
your son. He would not have gone so far if he had been sober. As to the
affair with the street-singer, it is not so serious as you imagine. My
son regrets very much that such a trivial affair has been the means of
causing a rupture between him and your son. He has already taken steps
to indemnify the girl for the wrong he did her, and I am positive the
little one will have her liberty restored to her before many hours have
passed. Is the word of the Marquise de Fougereuse sufficient for you, my
lord?"
"Perfectly sufficient," said Montferrand, gallantly kissing the
marquise's hand.
"Then we can count on seeing you to-night at our house?" asked
Madeleine. "I have a surprise in store for my friends."
"Can one find out in advance the nature of it?" asked Montferrand, while
Fougereuse looked anxiously at Madeleine.
"Oh, yes; his majesty has condescended to appoint the vicomte a captain
in the Life Guards with the decoration of St. Louis," said the marquise
proudly.
"Oh, I call that a surprise," cried Fougereuse, more freely, and
Montferrand hastened to extend his congratulations.
"The Countess of Salves and her daughter have signified their intention
of being present," continued Madeleine, "and as soon as my son receives
his commission, the engagement of the young couple will be announced."
"It is only what one might expect from the Marquise of Fougereuse," said
Montferrand politely, as he rose. "Good-by then, until this evening."
The marquis accompanied the old man to the door, then returned to his
wife and excitedly asked:
"Madeleine, is all this true?"
Instead of answering, the marquise contemptuously shrugged her shoulders
and left the room to hunt up her son.
"It is all settled," she said; "here are the twenty thousand francs you
need to silence the girl; and now try to bring honor to your new
position."
Madeleine placed a pocket-book on the table and went away. Talizac
laughed in his sleeve. He did not think he could obtain the money so
easily.
CHAPTER XVII
LOUISON
Toward noon Louison awoke from the lethargic sleep in which Rolla's
liquid had thrown her, and her first look fell upon the virago, who was
sitting in a half-drunken condition near the window. The young girl
unconsciously uttered a cry when she saw the repulsive woman, and this
cry aroused Rolla from out of her dreams about well-filled brandy
bottles into reality.
"Well, my pigeon, how goes it?" she asked, grinning.
"My head hurts," replied Louison faintly, and throwing an anxious look
about the strange apartment, she timidly added: "Where am I?"
"Where are you? Among good people certainly, who have become interested
in you and will do what's right."
Louison was silent and tried to collect her thoughts. But it was no use,
she had to close her eyes again from exhaustion.
"Ah, you are sensible I see; that pleases me," said Rolla, giggling.
"Robeckal thought you would stamp and cry, but I said right away: 'The
little one is smart, she will not throw her fortune away.' What is the
use of virtue, anyway? It hardly brings one dry bread, so the sooner
you throw it overboard the better it is. Oh, you will make your way,
never fear. Your face is handsome, and who knows but that you will have
your own elegant house and carriage one of these days? The little
vicomte is certainly no Adonis, with his high shoulder, but one cannot
have everything and--"
Louison had listened to Rolla's words with increasing loathing, and when
she heard the name of the vicomte pronounced, her memory returned to
her. Hastily springing up, she uttered a loud cry, and clutching Rolla
tightly about the shoulder she exclaimed:
"Let me go or you shall be sorry for it!"
Rolla looked at the street-singer with a foolish laugh, and, shaking her
thick head, she laconically said:
"Stay here."
"But I will not stay here," declared Louison firmly. "I will go away!
Either you let me go or I shall cry for help. I am a respectable girl,
and you ought to be ashamed to treat me in this way."
"So you--are a respectable girl," said the woman, in a maudlin voice.
"What conceit--you have! You might have been so yesterday, but
to-day--try it--tell the people that you spent a few hours in the Cannon
Queen's house in Belleville and are still a respectable girl. Ha! ha!
They will laugh at you, or spit in your face. No, no, my pretty dear, no
one will believe that fairy story, and if an angel from heaven came down
and took rooms in my house, it would be ruined. Give in, my chicken, and
don't show the white feather! No one will believe that you are
respectable and virtuous, and I think you ought to save yourself the
trouble. It is too late now."
"You lie!" cried Louison, in desperation.
"So--I lie--it is about time that I shut your bold mouth," growled the
virago, and raising her voice, she cried: "Robeckal, bring me the
bottle."
The next minute hurried steps were heard coming up the stairs, and Rolla
hastened to open the locked door. It was Robeckal, who entered with a
small bottle in his hand. When Louison saw him she turned deathly pale,
and running to the window she burst the panes with her clinched fist and
called loudly for help.
"Minx!" hissed Robeckal, forcibly holding her back and throwing her to
the ground.
With Rolla's assistance he now poured the contents of the bottle down
her throat. When he tried to open the tightly compressed lips, Louison
bit him in the finger. He uttered an oath, put a piece of wood between
her teeth, and triumphantly exclaimed:
"For the next few hours you are done for, you little hussy."
"If it were only not too much," said Rolla, as Louison, groaning loudly,
sank backward and closed her eyes.
"Have no fear; I know my methods," laughed Robeckal. "I am not so
foolish as to kill the little one before we have the vicomte's money in
our hands. She will sleep a few hours, and wake up tamed. Come, let us
put her on the sofa and leave her alone."
The worthy pair laid the unconscious girl on the sofa and went away.
Rolla, on closing the door, put the key in her pocket. They began to
play cards in the basement, a pursuit which agreed with them, and at the
same time swallowed deep draughts of brandy.
Toward six o'clock the vicomte entered. He threw a well-filled
pocket-book on the table, and in a tone of command said: "The key!"
"First we will count," growled Rolla; and opening the pocket-book with
her fat hands she passed the contents in review.
"It is correct," she finally said; and taking the key out of her pocket
she handed it to the vicomte.
As soon as the latter had left the room, Rolla shoved the pocket-book in
her dirty dress, and hastily said:
"Come, Robeckal, the little one might make a noise. Let him see how he
will get through with her."
Robeckal acquiesced, and they both quickly left the house, leaving all
the doors open behind them.
They had hardly been gone, when a cry of rage rang through the house,
and immediately afterward the vicomte burst into the room.
"You have deceived me," he cried, in a rage; "the window is open and the
girl is gone!"
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CANAL
By what miracle had Louison escaped? In his anxiety to make the young
girl harmless, Robeckal had given her such a strong dose that the
narcotic had just the opposite effect, and before an hour had passed, a
hammering and beating of her temples awakened her again. The excited
state in which she was made her unable to grasp a clear thought; but one
thing stood plainly before her--she must leave this horrible house at
any price.
Slowly rising, she felt for the door; it was locked. She then walked
softly to the window and looked at the street. It was deserted and empty
of pedestrians, a fog hung over it, and if Louison could only reach the
street she would be safe.
Through the broken pane the fresh air entered, and she tried then to
collect her thoughts. The horrible woman had spoken about Belleville; if
she were only in the street she would soon reach the Boulevard du
Temple, and then--further than this she did not get with her plans.
Away, only away, the rest would take care of itself.
What had the virago said? "Too late, too late, too late!" The horrible
words rang in her ears like a death-knell; every pulse-beat repeated,
"Too late!"
Pressing her hand to her temples, Louison began to sob. Just then the
coarse laughter of her torturers sounded from the basement and her tears
immediately dried.
Softly, very softly, she opened the window, stood on the sill and swung
herself to the outer sill. A pole which served to support a grapevine
gave her a hold. She carefully climbed down its side, reached the street
and ran as if pursued by the Furies.
The fog grew denser, and more than once Louison knocked against a wall
or ran against passers-by, but these obstacles did not hinder her from
running on.
How long she had been going in this way she did not know, but suddenly a
blast of cold air grazed her burning face, and looking up she perceived
that she had reached the Canal St. Martin. She had only to cross the
bridge to reach those quarters of the great city which were known to
her, but still she did not do it. A short while she stood there not
knowing what to do. Then she strode on, timidly looking around her and
walked down the damp stone steps leading to the water.
For a long time she stood on the last step. All around everything was
still, and only the monotonous ripple of the waves reached the deserted
girl's ears. With her arms folded across her bosom, she gazed at the
black waters; the murmuring waves played about her feet and then she
paused so long--long--
Robeckal and Rolla hurried through the streets with feverish haste. The
ground burned under their feet, and they did not dare to breathe before
they had turned their back upon the capital. They were just turning into
the Rue St. Denis, when an iron fist was laid upon Robeckal's shoulder,
and forced the frightened man to stand still.
"What does this mean?" he angrily cried, as he turned around, "a--"
He paused, for he had recognized Fanfaro. Bobichel had clutched Rolla at
the same time, and shaking her roughly, he cried:
"Monster, where is the street-singer?"
"What do I know of a street-singer?" cried Rolla, boldly. "Let me go or
I shall cry out."
"Cry away," replied Bobichel. "You must know best yourself whether you
desire the interference of the police or not."
Rolla thought of the well-filled pocket-book and kept silent. Robeckal,
in the meantime, had almost died of strangulation, for Fanfaro's fingers
pressed his throat together; and when he was asked if he intended to
answer, he could only nod with his head.
"Where is Louison?" asked Fanfaro, in a voice of thunder.
"No. 16 Rue de Belleville."
"Alone?"
"I do not know."
"Scoundrels, God help you, if all is not right," hissed Fanfaro, "bring
us quickly to the house named."
"Oh, it is very easy to find," began Rolla, but Bobichel threatened her
with his fist and cried:
"So much the better for you, forward march!"
Robeckal and the Cannon Queen, held in the grips of Fanfaro and the
clown, proceeded on the way to Belleville. They stopped in front of No.
16, and it required the application of force to get them to enter.
Rolla, in advance of the others, went to the top story. The door was
wide open and the room empty.
"Really, he has taken her along?" she exclaimed in amazement.
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Fanfaro, trembling with fear.
"Of whom else but the little vicomte."
"His name?"
"Talizac."
"The villain!" muttered Fanfaro to himself.
Bobichel was still holding Rolla by the arm. His gaze, roving about the
room, had espied a note on the table. Rolla saw it, too, but before she
could take it the clown had called Fanfaro's attention to it.
"You have swindled me," the young man read; "you have helped her to
escape, confound you!"
"Thank God all is not lost yet," whispered Fanfaro, handing Bobichel the
paper.
"One moment," said the clown; "I have an idea which I would like to
carry out."
With a quick movement Bobichel threw Robeckal to the ground, bound him
with a thick rope and threw him into a closet. He locked it and putting
the key in his pocket, he turned to Rolla.
"March, away with you," he said, roughly, "and do not attempt to free
him; he can ponder over his sins."
Rolla hurried to leave the house. If Robeckal died she would be the sole
possessor of the twenty thousand francs. Bobichel and Fanfaro left the
house likewise, and Robeckal remained crying behind.
CHAPTER XIX
SPLENDOR
The Fougereuse mansion was resplendent with light. Madeleine intended to
celebrate the vicomte's appointment to a captaincy in a fitting way, and
hundreds of invitations had been issued and accepted.
One fine carriage after another rolled up; the marquise, dressed in
princely style, received her guests in the fairy-like parlors, and soon
a brilliant assembly crowded the rooms.
The marquis and his wife looked proudly at the vicomte, who, however,
could hardly restrain his disappointment. He did not know what hurt him
most, the loss of Louison or the twenty thousand francs, and he railed
against himself for being so foolish as to imagine that Robeckal and
Rolla would keep their word.
"Do not frown so," whispered Madeleine to her son, "here comes Irene."
The vicomte bit his lips until they bled, and then approached Irene de
Salves, who had just entered, accompanied by her mother and the Marquis
de Montferrand.
Irene was dazzlingly beautiful, and her rich dress enhanced her charming
appearance. There was, however, a melancholy look in her dark eyes, but
her voice sounded clear and strong as she replied to the vicomte's
greeting.
Brought up in the traditions of the nobility, Irene did not think of
resisting her mother when the latter told her that her engagement with
the Vicomte de Talizac would be announced that evening. Irene loved
Fanfaro with all the fervor of her soul, but she would never have dared
to tell her mother of her attachment for the acrobat.
When the vicomte pressed her hand upon his arm, she trembled violently,
and a gleam of rage shot out of the dark eyes, while Talizac thought to
himself that the young girl had every reason to be proud of him. Captain
in the Life Guards and Knight of St. Louis. The more he considered it
the more he came to the conclusion that he could demand more, and only
the circumstance that the young countess possessed several millions
caused him to submit to the match.
The first notes of a polonaise were heard now, and the guests, grouping
themselves in pairs, strode through the wide halls. A quadrille followed
the polonaise, and it was a charming sight to see all these graceful
women and young girls dance. Irene kept up a cross-fire of words with
the vicomte and Velletri. Talizac had just whispered some gallant
sentence to her, when a high officer of the Royal Life Guards appeared
and handed the vicomte his commission.
Great enthusiasm arose. The vicomte and his parents were congratulated
from all sides, and the young girls envied Irene, for it was an open
secret that she would be the future Vicomtesse de Talizac.
Arthur de Montferrand was the only one who could not force himself to
congratulate the vicomte. It was only on his father's account that he
came at all, and while Talizac was being surrounded on all sides,
Arthur's thoughts went back to the scene of the previous evening. He saw
Louison's pleading looks, he heard her contemptuous words, and could
never forgive himself for having given her good reason to believe that
he was one of Talizac's accomplices.
The vicomte's voice aroused him from his dreams.
"Well, Arthur," said Talizac laughing, "have you no congratulation for
me?"
Arthur looked penetratingly at the vicomte, and in a low voice replied:
"Vicomte, if I cannot discover any traces of the punishment you received
yesterday on your cheeks, I hope to be able to pay up for what I have
lost. For to-day you must excuse me."
Deathly pale, Talizac looked at Montferrand, but before he had a chance
to reply, a commotion was heard in the corridor, followed by a war of
words.
The marquis looked uneasily at the door, and was about to give an order
to a servant to inquire after the cause of the disturbance, when the
folding doors were thrown open and a man who carried the lifeless,
dripping form of a young girl in his arms rushed into the ballroom.
"Fanfaro!" cried Montferrand in amazement.
Fanfaro, for it was really he, laid the young girl's body tenderly upon
the ground, and, turning to the assembled guests, cried with threatening
voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen, here is the corpse of a young girl whom the
Vicomte de Talizac murdered."
The women uttered cries of terror and the men looked threateningly at
Talizac, who was trembling and trying hard to appear indifferent.
The Marquis of Fougereuse was as white as a spectre. Was this Fanfaro
going to pursue him forever?
"Who is the bold fellow?" he audaciously said. "Throw him out."
"Don't be so quick, marquis," said Fanfaro earnestly; "it is a question
of a terrible crime, and your son the Vicomte de Talizac is the
criminal! Oh, the shame of it! Does he think that because he is a
nobleman he can do what he pleases? This young girl lived modestly and
plainly; she was pure and innocent. The Vicomte de Talizac regarded her
as his prey. He bribed a couple of scoundrels and ha
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/22086