CHAPTER XXVII

FREEDOM

In a poor fisherman's cottage in Havre a young man was walking up and

down in feverish uneasiness. From time to time he looked through the

window which opened on to the sea. The waves ran high, the wind

whistled, while dark clouds rolled over the starless sky.

A slight knock was now heard at the door of the cottage.

"Who is there?" asked the young man, anxiously.

"We are looking for Fanfaro," came from the outside; and, when the man

hastily shoved back the bolt, two slim female forms, enveloped in dark

cloaks, crossed the threshold.

Before the young man had time to greet the strangers, another knock was

heard, and upon the question, "Who is there?" the answer came this time,

in a soft, trembling voice:

"We have been sent here to find Fanfaro."

"Come in," cried the young man, eagerly; and two more female forms

entered the cottage. One of them was young and strong; the other, old,

gray-haired and broken-down, clung to her companion, who almost carried

her.

They all looked silently at each other; finally, one of those who had

first entered let her cloak, the hood of which she wore over her head,

sink down, and, turning to the young man, she vivaciously said:

"Arthur, have you sent me this invitation?"

With these words, she handed Arthur de Montferrand, for he was the young

man, the following note:

"Whoever wants to see Fanfaro once more should come to the

fisherman's cottage of Antoine Michel, in Havre, on the 18th day of

March."

"I received a similar invitation," said Arthur. "I was told, at the same

time, to come in the afternoon; to answer any inquiries that might be

made; and to see that no stranger be admitted. Who invited us here, I do

not know; but I think we shall not be kept waiting long for an

explanation."

"As God pleases, this hope may be confirmed," replied Irene de Salves,

and turning to her companion, who was softly sobbing, she whispered

consolingly to her: "Courage, Louison, you will soon embrace your

brother."

The two other women were Caillette and Louise; the latter looked

vacantly before her, and all of Louison's caresses were of no avail to

cheer her.

"Jacques--where is Jacques?" she incessantly repeated, and the fact that

Louison was really her daughter seemed to have entirely escaped her.

Arthur de Montferrand never turned his eyes from the girl for whose

honor he had fought so bravely, and every time Louison looked up she met

the eyes of the young nobleman.

A skyrocket now shot up in the dark sky; it exploded aloft with a loud

noise, and a golden rain lighted up the horizon for a while.

"That was undoubtedly a good sign," thought Arthur, hastily opening the

cottage door.

Loud oar-sounds were now heard, and a light boat struck for the shore

with the rapidity of an arrow.

The keel now struck the sand and a slim form sprang quickly out of the

bark and hurried toward the cottage.

"Fanfaro!" joyously exclaimed the inmates of the cottage, and the young

man who had been rescued from the grave was soon surrounded on all

sides. He, however, had eyes alone for the broken-down old woman who

clung to Caillette in great excitement and gently implored:

"Jacques--where is Jacques? I do not see him!"

"Here I am, my poor dear mother," sobbed Fanfaro, sinking on his knees

in front of the old lady.

With trembling hands she caressed his hair, pressed her lips upon her

son's forehead, and then sank, with a smile, to the floor. Death had

released her from her sufferings after she had been permitted to enjoy

the last, and, to her, highest earthly joy.

* * * * *

Here Fanfaro's story ended. Girdel knew something to add to it after

Fanfaro had closed. He and Bobichel had succeeded in overtaking the

funeral cortege which the marquis and Pierre Labarre conducted to the

family vault. In a few words Pierre was informed of the condition of

things, and as the marquis had become thoroughly exhausted, the faithful

old servant had undertaken to bring Fanfaro's body to a place of safety.

Girdel had been prudent enough to take along the physician who had given

him the narcotic, and soon Fanfaro opened his eyes.

As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, Pierre told him, in short

outlines, who he was. The young man listened with deep emotion to the

story, and then he swore a sacred oath that he would never call another

man father than the one who had taken pity on him, the helpless child;

the Marquis of Fougereuse had no right to him, and he would rather have

died than touch a penny of his money. No power on earth could induce him

to have anything to do with the marquis. He would leave France, and try

to forget, in a foreign country, what he had suffered.

That very night Fanfaro travelled, in company with his sister, Girdel,

Bobichel, and Caillette, to Algiers. Before the ship lifted anchor,

Fanfaro had received from Irene's lips the promise that she would become

his wife. Her mother's life hung on a thread, and as long as she

remained on earth the daughter could not think of leaving her.

The old countess died about six months afterward, and as soon as Irene

had arranged her affairs, she prepared herself for the journey to

Africa.

She was not surprised when Arthur offered to accompany her. She was

aware that a powerful magnet in the person of Louison attracted him

across the ocean, and when the young nobleman landed in France again,

after the lapse of a few months, he was accompanied by a handsome young

wife, whom the old Marquis of Montferrand warmly welcomed to the home of

his fathers--for was she not a scion of the house of Fougereuse, and the

sole heiress of all the property of that family? Louison's uncle, the

Marquis Jean de Fougereuse, had ended his dreary life shortly after the

Vicomte de Talizac's death, and it was not difficult for Arthur, with

Pierre Labarre's assistance, to maintain Louison's claims as the

daughter of Jules de Fougereuse and sole heiress of the legacy. Of

course, the Society of Jesus was much put out by the sudden apparition

of an heiress, for it had hoped to come into possession of the millions

some day.

Bobichel had become Caillette's husband; and though the handsome wife

did not conceal the fact from him that not he, but Fanfaro, had been her

first love, the supremely happy clown was satisfied. He knew Caillette

was good to him and that he had no ground any more to be jealous of

Irene's husband.

The life which the colonists led in Africa was full of dangers, but had

also its pleasures and joys, and through Louison and her husband they

remained in connection with their fatherland, whose children they

remained in spite of everything.

* * * * *

At the end of a week Spero had entirely recovered, and the count

prepared to depart for France. Before he parted from his kind host, he

turned to Fanfaro and begged him in a solemn tone to stand by his son

with his assistance and advice, should he ever need them, and Fanfaro

cheerfully complied with his request.

"Rely on my word," he said, as the little caravan was about to start.

"The son of the Count of Monte-Cristo is under the protection of all of

us, and if he should ever call us to his assistance, whether by day or

night, we shall obey the call!"

CHAPTER XXVII

BENEDETTO'S REVENGE

_A Letter of the Count of Monte-Cristo to his son, Vicomte Spero_

"MY DEARLY BELOVED SON--To-day is the anniversary of your rescue

from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although twelve years

have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the fright I

sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved to us; God

bless them for it, and give you and me an opportunity to repay them

for what they have done for us.

"In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I have

passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing.

"Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarnation of

energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor wife died, all

is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, five long

years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her last in my

arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like a child. How

insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when I saw the cheeks of

my dear wife become paler day by day and her beautiful eyes lose

their sparkle. What good was all the art and science I had learned

from the Abbé Faria to me if I could not rescue her? Like avenging

spirits, the shades of all those upon whom I had taken revenge

rose up before me: Villefort, Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto,

Maldar, had all been overcome by me, but death was stronger than I

am--it took her from me!

"My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother, but

it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At that

time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears mingled

with mine and you cried out in deep grief: 'Ah, mother, if I could

only die for you!'

"Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has deceived

himself? I spent my life to carry out what I thought to be right,

the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of those who do

good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a question of punishing

the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child when I attempted to

make good the wrong I did in an excess of zeal, and all my tears

and entreaties were of no avail.

"What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the Countess

Mercedes, from the murderous flames of Uargla? Two years later he

was shot in the _coup d'état_ of December, and his mother died of a

broken heart.

"Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort met an early and a

fearful death--they fell victims to the insurrection of the Sepoys

in India, in the year 1859.

"You inherited from your mother everything that is good, noble, and

sublime; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and activity.

Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit my

arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you receive

this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, and

voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it must be.

"Will you be able to understand me and my motives? Ah, Spero, I

cannot help domineering over those about me, and that is why I am

going.

"So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You look at

life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, and my opinion

is decisive for you in everything you do and think.

"You do not regard me as a man, but as a supernatural being. Far

from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for one's

acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me for this

temporary separation.

"Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the struggle

of life, and it is about time that you take up your arms and begin

your first battle with life.

"You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and courageous,

and will not shrink from any obstacle. You are rich, you have

knowledge--now it must be seen whether you possess the will which

guarantees success.

"Your path is smooth--no enemy threatens you, and a crowd of

friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. Those

who acted as such were either servants or poor people, and only

those who are situated similarly and think alike can understand the

blessings of friendship.

"My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do not distrust

any one; real experience is gained only by mistakes.

"Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. Of

the old servants, I shall leave only Coucou with you. He is devoted

to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave will yearn

for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for your good

and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel likewise. With

best love,

YOUR FATHER."

CHAPTER XXVIII

SPERO

The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo was a wonderfully handsome man. The grace of

his mother and the stalwart build of his father were united in him. His

dark hair fell in wavy locks over his high white forehead, and the long

eyelashes lay like veils upon his cheeks.

The young man's surroundings were in every particular arranged with

consummate taste. The vicomte had inherited from his parents a taste for

Oriental things, and his study looked like a costly tent, while his

bedroom was furnished with the simplicity of a convent cell. The Count

of Monte-Cristo had taught his son to be strict to himself and not

become effeminate in any way. Nice pictures and statues were in the

parlors, the bookcase was filled with selected volumes and he spent many

hours each day in serious studies. Spero was a master in all physical

accomplishments. His father's iron muscles were his legacy, and the

count often proudly thought that his son, in case of need, would also

have found the means and the way to escape from the Chateau d'If.

The vicomte sat at his writing-desk and was reading his father's letter

when Coucou entered. The Zouave had changed somewhat. He no longer wore

a uniform or the little cap of a Jackal, but had changed them for a dark

brown overcoat. His eyes, however, still sparkled as merrily as ever,

and Coucou could laugh as heartily as ever.

"When did the count leave the house?" asked Spero, whose voice reminded

one of his father's.

"This evening, vicomte," replied Coucou, with military briefness.

"Why was I not called?"

"The count forbade it. He ordered me to place the letter which you found

on the writing-table and--"

"Did the count go alone?"

"No, Ali accompanied him."

"In what direction did he go?"

"I do not know. I was called to the count at two o'clock this morning,

and after I had received the letter, I went away."

"Without asking any questions?"

"Oh, vicomte, no one asks the Count of Monte-Cristo for a reason," cried

Coucou, vivaciously. "I am not a coward, but--"

"I know you possess courage," replied the young man.

"_Sapristi_--there, now, I have allowed myself to go again. I know that

my way of speaking displeases you, vicomte, and I will try next time to

do better."

"What makes you think that your language displeases me?" asked Spero,

laughing.

"Because--excuse me, vicomte, but sometimes you look so stern--"

"Nonsense," interrupted Spero; "I may sometimes look troubled, but

certainly not stern, and I beg you not to speak differently from what

you were taught--speak to me as you do to my father."

"Ah, it is easy to speak to the count," said Coucou, unthinkingly; "he

has such a cheering smile--"

A frown passed over Spero's face, and he gently said:

"My father is good--he is much better than I am--I knew it long ago."

"Vicomte, I did not say that," cried the Zouave, embarrassed.

"No, but you thought so, and were perfectly right, my dear Auguste; if

you wish to have me for a friend, always tell the truth."

"Yes, sir," replied Coucou, "and now I have a special favor to ask you,

vicomte."

"Speak, it is already granted."

"Vicomte, the count never calls me Auguste, which is my baptismal name,

but Coucou. If you would call me Coucou, I--"

"With pleasure. Well, then, Coucou, you know nothing further?"

"Nothing."

"It is good. You can go."

The Zouave turned toward the door. When he had nearly reached it, Spero

cried:

"Coucou, stay a moment."

"Just as you say, vicomte."

"I only wished to beg you again," said Spero, in a low, trembling voice,

"not to think me stern or ungrateful. I shall never forget that it was

you who accompanied my father and me to Africa, and that you placed

your own life in danger to rescue mine."

"Ah, vicomte," stammered the Zouave, deeply moved, "that was only my

duty."

"That a good many would have shirked this duty, and that you did not, is

why I thank you still to-day. Give me your hand in token of our

friendship. Now we are good friends again, are we not?"

With tears in his laughing eyes, Coucou laid his big brown hand in the

delicate hand of the vicomte. The latter cordially shook it, and was

almost frightened, when the Zouave uttered a faint cry and hastily

withdrew his fingers.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Spero, in amazement.

"Oh, nothing, but--"

"Well, but--"

"You see, vicomte, my hand is almost crushed, and because I was not

prepared for it, I gave a slight cry. Who would have thought that such a

fine, white, delicate hand could give you a squeeze like a piston-rod?"

Spero looked wonderingly at his hands, and then dreamily said:

"I am stronger than I thought."

"I think so, too," said Coucou. "Only the count understands how to

squeeze one's hand in that way. I almost forgot to ask you, vicomte,

where you intend to take breakfast?"

"Downstairs in the dining-room."

"Are you going to breakfast alone?"

"That depends. Perhaps one of my friends may drop in, though I haven't

invited any one."

"Please ring the bell in case you want to be served," said Coucou, as

he left the room.

Spero stood at the writing-desk for a time, and his dark eyes were

humid. He shoved a brown velvet curtain aside and entered a small, dark

room which opened from his study. A pressure of the finger upon the

blinds caused them to spring open, and the broad daylight streamed

through the high windows. The walls, which were hung with brown velvet,

formed an octagon, and opposite the broad windows were two pictures in

gold frames. The vicomte's look rested on these pictures. They were the

features of his parents which had been placed upon the canvas by the

hand of an artist. In all her goodness, Haydee, Ali Tebelen's daughter,

looked down upon her son, and the bold, proud face of Edmond Dantes

greeted his heir with a speaking look.

"Ah, my mother," whispered Spero, softly, "if you were only with me now

that father has left me. How shall I get along in life without him? The

future looks blank and dark to me, the present sad, and only the past is

worth having lived for! What a present the proud name is that was laid

in my cradle. Others see bright light where the shadow threatens to

suffocate me, and my heart trembles when I think that I am standing in

the labyrinth of life without a guide!"

From this it can be seen that the count had not exaggerated in his

letter to his son. He domineered, consciously or unconsciously, over his

surroundings, and so it happened that Spero hardly dared to express a

thought of his own.

Spero was never heard to praise or admire this or that, before he had

first inquired whether such an opinion would be proper to express. The

father recognized too late that his son lacked independence of thought.

He had, as he thought, schooled his son for the battle of life. He had

taught him how to carry the weapons, but in his anxiety about exterior

and trivial things he had forgotten to make allowance for the inward

yearning. The form was more to him than the contents, and this was

revenging itself now in a telling way. The demands of ordinary life were

unknown to Spero. He had put his arm in the burning flame with the

courage of a Mucius Scævola, and quailed before the prick of a needle.

Suddenly the door-bell rang, and breathing more freely the vicomte left

the little room. When he returned to his study he found Coucou awaiting

him. The Zouave presented a visiting card to the vicomte on a silver

salver, and hardly had Spero thrown a look at it, when he joyfully

cried:

"Bring the gentleman to the dining-room, Coucou, and put two covers on;

we shall dine together."

CHAPTER XXIX

FORWARD, MARCH

When Spero entered the dining-room, a handsome young man about

twenty-five years of age hurried toward him with outstretched arms.

"How are you, my dear Spero?" he vivaciously cried.

"Oh, thank you, very well. Do you know, Gontram, that you couldn't have

come at a more appropriate hour?"

"Really? That pleases me," said the new-comer, a painter who in spite of

his youth enjoyed a great reputation. Laying his hand on Spero's

shoulder, he looked steadily at him and earnestly asked: "Has anything

disagreeable happened to you?"

"No; what makes you think so?" replied Spero, confused.

"Your appearance is different from usual. Your eyes sparkle, and you are

feverishly excited. Perhaps you have some secret to intrust to me?"

In the meantime the young men had seated themselves at table, and while

they were eating they indulged in general conversation.

"Do you know that my father has left Paris suddenly?" asked Spero in the

course of the conversation.

"No. Where has the count gone to?"

"I do not know," said the vicomte.

Gontram Sabran had been acquainted with Spero for two years.

He had attracted the vicomte's attention through a picture he had

exhibited, and as Spero admired painting, he paid a visit to the creator

of the wonderfully natural painting.

The picture represented a young gypsy who was playing the violin. The

vicomte sent his father's steward to the artist with an order to buy the

canvas at any price. Gontram Sabran had refused to sell the painting,

and the vicomte went personally to the painter.

"Sir," said Gontram, politely, "you offered me twenty thousand francs

for a picture which is worth far less; that I have nevertheless refused

to sell the picture needs an explanation, and if you are willing, I

shall be happy to give it to you."

Spero had become curious, and upon his acquiescence Gontram told him the

following.

"I had a girl once who suffered from an incurable disease. We were very

happy together, enjoyed the present, and thought very little of the

future. One day, as was customary with us, we undertook a little

promenade. It led us however further than we intended to go, and before

we knew it we were in the woods of Meudon. Curious and wonderful sounds

awoke us from our reveries, and going to an opening, we saw a young

gypsy who was playing the violin and moving her body to and fro to the

time of the instrument. Aimee listened attentively to the heavenly

playing of the almost childish girl, but suddenly I felt her head lean

heavily on my shoulder--she had fainted, and I brought a very sick girl

back to Paris.

"One week later death knocked at her door. Aimee knew she was going to

die, and with tears in her eyes she begged me to hunt up the gypsy girl

and have her play a song to her before she died.

"What was I to do? I could not find the gypsy, and was almost in

despair. On the morning of the fourth day, the invalid suddenly rose in

her bed and cried aloud:

"'There she is, I hear the gypsy's violin--oh, now I can die peacefully!

Open the window, Gontram, so that I can hear the music better.'

"I did as she said, and now the tones of the violin reached my ears. The

dying girl listened breathlessly to the sweet sounds. When the song was

over, Aimee took my hand and whispered:

"'Bring her up and beg her to play at my bedside.'

"I hurried into the street and asked the gypsy to fulfil the wish of the

dying girl. She did so at once, and sitting beside Aimee she played upon

her instrument. How long she played I do not know, but I was thrilled by

the sudden cessation of the music, and when I looked in terror at Aimee,

I saw she had drawn her last breath--she had gone to her eternal slumber

to the music of the violin.

"The gypsy disappeared, and I have never seen her since. But I have put

her features on canvas as they are engraved in my memory, and you can

understand now why I do not wish to sell the picture."

"Monsieur Sabran," said Spero when the painter had finished, "your

little romance is interesting, and I am now ready to pay fifty thousand

francs for the picture."

Gontram looked pityingly at the vicomte and dryly replied:

"I stick to my refusal."

Spero went away disappointed. Two days later he hurried to the painter's

studio and hesitatingly said:

"Monsieur Sabran, I treated you the other day in a mean way. Please

excuse me."

Gontram was surprised. Taking the vicomte's hand, he cordially said:

"I am glad I was mistaken in you; if features such as yours are

deceitful, then it is bad for humanity."

From that day on they became firm friends. When the painter saw Spero's

disturbed features on this particular day, and heard that the count had

departed, he had an idea that it would do him good.

"Where did your father go to?" he asked.

"I do not know," replied Spero, uneasily.

"What? Your father did not inform you?" asked Gontram.

"No," replied Spero; "he departed this evening and left a letter for me

behind him."

"Ah, really, every one does as he pleases," said Gontram. "Do you know I

came here to-day to ask a favor of you?"

"You couldn't do me a greater pleasure," replied Spero, cheerfully;

"everything I possess is at your disposal."

"I thought so; the next time you will offer me your millions," cried

Gontram, laughing.

"I hope you will ask me for something besides wretched money," said

Spero, warmly. "I could gladly fight for you, or do some other important

service for you."

"And suppose I was to keep you at your word?" asked Gontram, seriously;

"suppose I came here only to demand a sacrifice of you?"

"Oh, speak!" cried the vicomte, eagerly.

"H'm, would you for my sake get on top of a stage?" asked Gontram,

earnestly. "No, do not look so curiously at me. I know you never did

such a thing before, and knew what I was talking about when I said I

would ask a sacrifice of you."

"I--would--do it--to please you," replied Spero, hesitatingly.

"I thought so," cried the painter, laughing; "yet I made you the

proposition, because I thought you were boring yourself to death here."

"But--"

"No, do not protest. You are not happy because you are the slave of

propriety, and if you were to get in a stage with me it would be a

heroic act on your part. If you want to go out, a carriage is at the

door, the horses already harnessed. You have your own box at the

theatre, and so on. Nowhere do you come in contact with the great world;

your life is no life."

Spero gazed at the painter in astonishment.

"Why have you not told me all that long ago?" he slowly asked.

"Because a great deal depends on time and opportunity. If I had told you

this at the commencement of our friendship you would have thought me

impertinent, and I did not come here to-day either to give you a

lecture. The words came unconsciously to my lips. Your life is that of

a drop of oil which when put in a bottle of water feels itself in a

strange element and decidedly uncomfortable."

Spero bit his lip.

"Am I ever going to hear what service I can do for you?" he asked with a

calmness which reflected honor on his powers of self-control.

"Bravo, you have already learned something. First fill your wine-glass,

otherwise I shall drink all your fine sherry alone."

The habit of drinking moderately Spero had also learned from his father.

Upon the remark of the painter, he filled his glass and impatiently

said:

"Well?"

"I would like to make a loan. Don't laugh, but hear what I have to say.

I intend to give a little party in my studio--"

"In your studio?" said Spero in surprise.

"Yes, it is certainly not as large as the Place Vendome, but that

doesn't matter. Diogenes lived in a hogshead, and a dozen good friends

will find plenty of room in my house. Let me tell you what gave me the

idea. While I was studying in Rome, an aristocratic Italian, Count

Vellini, took an interest in me. He was my friend, my Macænas, and I owe

a great deal to him. The day before yesterday he arrived in Paris, and I

should like to revenge myself for his kindness. As he is a

millionnaire--not a millionnaire like you, for he has, at the utmost,

five or six millions--I must offer him certain pleasures which cannot be

obtained with money. I am going to turn my studio into a picture

gallery and exhibit the best works of my numerous friends and my own. He

shall see that I have become something in the meantime, and from what I

know of him he will be delighted with my idea. I want to furnish my

house properly, and for this I need some costly tapestries. You have

real treasures of this description. Would you loan me a few pieces?"

"Is that all?" said Spero, cordially. "You give me joy, and I hope you

will allow me to attend to it."

"That depends. What do you intend to do?"

"I would like to ask you to let my decorator take charge of the

furnishing of your studio. To-morrow morning he can select from my

storehouse whatever he thinks best--"

"And spoil my fun?" interrupted Gontram, frowning. "No, no, I cannot

consent to that. Your decorator may be a very able man, but that isn't

the question. I know of no greater pleasure than to do everything

according to my own taste. But I had almost forgotten the principal

thing; I count on your appearance."

"I generally work at night," replied Spero, hesitating.

"No rule without an exception," declared the painter; "I have invited

ladies too, and I hope you will enjoy yourself."

CHAPTER XXX

JANE ZILD

On the night of the party, Gontram's room looked lovely, and when the

guests arrived they could not refrain from expressing their admiration.

The Oriental hangings gave the whole a piquant appearance, and Gontram

knew where to stop, an art which few understand. The society which

assembled in the painter's studio was a very exceptional one. Many a

rich banker would have given a great deal if he could have won some of

the artists who assembled here for his private _soirées_, for the first

stars of the opera, the drama and literature had accepted the

invitation. Rachel had offered to do the honors; Emma Bouges, a

sculptress, assisted her, and Gontram was satisfied.

The painter had told the vicomte that he desired to revenge himself upon

Count Vellini. The other reason he had for giving this party he said

nothing of, and yet it was the one which did honor to his heart. Under

the pretence of surprising the count, he had asked his numerous friends

to loan him their pictures, and had hung them in splendid style. Of his

own works he only exhibited the gypsy, and when the guests strode up and

down the studio to the music of a small orchestra, it was natural that

they criticised or admired this and that painting.

Count Vellini, a splendid old gentleman, was enthusiastic over the

cause of the party. He gave the secretary who accompanied him directions

to buy several of the exhibited paintings, and the secretary carefully

noted everything.

Signor Fagiano, the secretary, was not a very agreeable-looking

gentleman. A blood-red scar ran clear across his face, his deep black

eyes had a sharp, restless look, and one of the young partners jokingly

said:

"If I did not know that Signor Fagiano had charge of the count's

finances, I would suspect him of robbing his employer--he has a bad

look."

While the young man uttered these joking remarks, new guests were

announced, and their names, "Monsieur de Larsagny and Mademoiselle de

Larsagny," created surprise among the guests. Monsieur de Larsagny was

the manager of the new credit-bank, and every one was astonished at

Gontram's acquaintance with him. However, as soon as Mademoiselle de

Larsagny was seen to enter the room leaning on her father's arm, the

riddle was solved. The classical head of the young girl graced the last

_salon_, and as Gontram had painted the picture, no one wondered any

longer at seeing the handsome Carmen and her father in the studio.

The young girl appeared to be somewhat eccentric, a thing which was not

looked upon as strange in the daughter of a millionnaire. Nevertheless,

the pranks of the young heiress never overstepped the bounds of

propriety, and the numerous admirers of the beautiful Carmen thought her

on this account all the more piquant. Her ash-blond hair fell in a

thousand locks over a dazzling white forehead, and the small, finely

formed mouth understood how to talk.

Hanging to Gontram's arm, Carmen walked up and down the studio. She

sometimes directed her dark-blue eyes at the young painter, and who

could scold Gontram if he loved to look in those magnificent stars?

"I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having come here," said

Gontram, sparkling with joy, as he walked by the young girl's side.

"How could I have refused your cordial invitation?" replied Carmen,

laughing; "even princesses have visited the studios of their court

painters."

"The Duchess of Ferrara, for instance," said a young sculptor who had

overheard the remark.

Gontram frowned, and whispered softly to the young artist:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raoul."

Carmen, however, laughed, and carelessly said:

"Let him alone; I knew the story long ago."

To make this little scene understood, we must observe that the young

sculptor's words referred to that Duchess of Ferrara whom Titian painted

in the primitive costume of Mother Eve, and it stung the young painter

to the heart when he heard Carmen confess that she had heard the story

before--who could have told it to the nineteen-year-old girl?

"What about the surprise you were going to give your guests?" asked

Carmen, after an uncomfortable pause.

"I will keep my word," replied the painter, laughing. "Have you ever

heard the name of Jane Zild, mademoiselle?"

"Jane Zild? That wonderful songstress who comes from the north, either

Lapland or Finland? What is the matter with her?"

"Well, this songstress, who, by the way, comes from Russia, has promised

to be here to-night," declared Gontram, triumphantly.

"Ah, really?" replied Carmen, breathing heavily, while her eyes shot

forth threatening gleams.

"What ails you, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram uneasily, "have I hurt you

in any way?"

"No; what makes you think so? But let us go to the parlor; my father is

already looking for me, and you know he can't be long without me."

A curious laugh issued from the pale lips, and it seemed to Gontram as

if she had accented the words "my father" in a peculiar way.

Just as Gontram and his companion re-entered the parlor, a short but

unpleasant scene was being acted there. An accident had brought Signor

Fagiano and Monsieur de Larsagny together. Hardly had the secretary

caught a glimpse of the banker than he recoiled in affright and nearly

fell to the ground. Larsagny sprang to his rescue, but Fagiano muttered

an excuse and hastily left the parlor.

Carmen and her companion were witnesses of the meeting, and Gontram felt

the young girl's arm tremble. Before he could ask for the cause of this,

she laughed aloud and mockingly said:

"A good host has generally several surprises _in petto_ for his guests;

are you an exception to the general rule?"

Gontram was about to reply when the door was opened and the servant

announced:

"Mademoiselle Jane Zild, the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"

"There you have my second surprise," said the painter, laughing; "are

you satisfied now?"

Gontram did not find out whether this was the case, for the broker

uttered a cry at the same moment and stretched his hands out as if to

ward off a spectre.

"What has happened to you, Monsieur de Larsagny?" asked Gontram in

amazement. "You are so pale and you tremble. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thank you--it is the heat," stammered Larsagny. "Will you permit me

to go on the terrace? I will recover in the fresh air."

Without deigning to notice Carmen, the banker turned toward the glass

door which led to the terrace and disappeared. The young girl bit her

lips, and the next minute she was the centre of a gay crowd of admirers.

Gontram in the meantime had gone to meet the young lady who had just

entered. She was a wonderfully handsome girl, and taking the painter's

arm she slowly walked through the decorated rooms.

Who Jane Zild was no one knew. Two months previously she had made her

appearance in Paris society, and since then it was considered good form

to patronize Jane Zild.

The members of the Opera and other theatres had arranged a performance

for the relief of the inhabitants of a village which had been destroyed

by fire, and the elegant world of the capital fairly grew wild with

enthusiasm over the coming event.

The climax of the performance was to be a duet, to be sung by the great

Roger and a diva who was past her youth. Half an hour before the number

was to be sung a messenger arrived who announced the sickness of the

diva. Roger immediately declared his willingness to sing alone, and loud

applause ran through the crowded auditorium when he sang the charming

song from the "White Lady," "Ah, what a joy it is to be a soldier!"

The success of the first part of the concert was assured. Before the

second part began a strange young lady went to the celebrated singer and

offered to take the part of Madame X----, and sing several songs.

"What is your name, mademoiselle?" asked Roger.

"My name will be unknown to you, as I have only been two days in Paris,"

replied the stranger, laughing. "I am Jane Zild. Perhaps you will allow

me to sing something to you first. Will the beggar aria from the

'Prophet' be agreeable to you?"

Without waiting for answer Jane Zild went to the piano.

The accompanist struck the first notes of the well-known aria, and

hardly had Roger heard the magnificent contralto of the stranger than he

enthusiastically exclaimed:

"Thank God, Madame X---- is sick!"

"That is treason!" scolded the young lady; but the public seemed to be

of the same opinion as Roger, and rewarded the young songstress, when

she had finished, with round after round of applause. Encouraged by the

applause, she sang the aria from "Orpheus"--"Ah, I have lost her, all my

happiness is gone." This set the audience wild.

For two days nothing else was talked of in Paris but the young

songstress. Jane Zild lived in a house in the Champs-Elysées. She had

arrived, as she said, but a few days before from Russia, in company with

an elderly man, who was looked upon as her steward, and whom she called

Melosan.

The reporters had seized upon these meagre details and magnified them.

According to them, Jane Zild was the daughter of a rich Russian

nobleman. An unconquerable yearning for the stage brought her in

conflict with her father, and, burdened with his curse, she ran away

from home. If in spite of this she did not go on the stage it was not

the reporters' fault.

The young lady was very capricious, and had refused the most tempting

offers from the management of the Opera. She also refused to sing for

the Emperor at Compiegne, and it therefore caused a sensation among

Gontram's guests when Jane Zild suddenly appeared.

"Gontram's luck is really extraordinary," said a colleague of the young

painter laughingly, as he saw the majestic figure of the diva enter the

room. What would he have said if he had heard in what way Gontram had

secured Jane Zild as one of his guests?

While the young painter was breakfasting with Spero, a perfumed note was

sent up to his residence in the Rue Montaigne, wherein Jane Zild

declared her willingness to appear in the painter's parlors and sing a

few songs.

Gontram did not say no, and immediately hurried to the diva's house to

thank her.

Spero had entered just behind the songstress, and Gontram smiled when he

saw the vicomte. Spero's carriage had driven up in front of the house

almost simultaneously with that of the diva, and Spero assisted the

young lady to alight.

When the vicomte entered the parlor, he felt humiliated when he saw all

eyes turned in the direction of the diva. No one seemed to care to

notice the heir of the Count of Monte-Cristo.

Jane Zild strode the rooms with the dignity of a queen.

"Heavenly! Admirable! Beautiful!" Such were the epithets which were

murmured half aloud, and later when she sat down at the piano and sang a

simple ballad, loud applause ran through the room. The ballad was

followed by an aria; Jane then sang a Russian melody, and closed with a

magnificent tarantella.

"Monsieur Sabran," said a low voice to Gontram, "I must confess that you

are an obliging host! You are forgetting all your other guests on

account of the beautiful songstress, and I will reflect upon a suitable

punishment."

The one who spoke was Carmen de Larsagny. Gontram blushed and made

excuses, but it took some time to appease the young lady's wrath.

"Well," she finally said, "I will forgive you, but only upon one

condition. Have you a moment's time?"

"For you always," replied the painter, warmly.

"Good; then conduct me to the terrace."

"To the terrace?" repeated Gontram in surprise. "How do you know I have

a terrace?"

"Oh, I heard my father mention it a little while ago."

"That's so," replied the painter. "Will you please accompany me?"

They both walked through the studio and turned into the gallery.

Suddenly Gontram paused, and uttered a low cry of astonishment.

Spero was leaning against a door sunk in thought.

"Can I introduce the young man to you?" asked Gontram softly of his

companion.

"Who is he?" replied Carmen.

"The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"

"What? The son of the celebrated count?" asked the young lady, looking

at Spero with increased interest.

"Yes. I have a high regard for the vicomte."

"I could have thought so," said Carmen, laughing.

"What do you mean by that, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram in surprise.

"Oh, you see you have the habit of caring very little for those whom you

pretend to honor," replied the young girl, looking at the painter in

such a way as made his heart beat fast.

"I hope to be able soon to prove my esteem for you," whispered the young

man.

Carmen was for a moment silent, and then vivaciously said:

"Introduce me; I am curious to know your little vicomte."

Just then Spero raised his head, and, seeing Gontram, he cordially said:

"Gontram, am I not deserving of praise? You see I have accepted your

invitation."

"I am very grateful to you," replied the painter warmly, and turning to

Carmen he said:

"Mademoiselle de Larsagny, permit me to introduce the Vicomte of

Monte-Cristo to you."

Spero bowed deeply. The young lady gazed steadily at the handsome

cavalier, and admiration shone in her eyes.

"I really have not had the pleasure of seeing the vicomte. I should not

have forgotten him."

"I believe you," said the painter; "the vicomte is, by the way, a man

of serious ideas, an ascetic, who does not care for worldly pleasures."

Spero protested with a shake of the head, and muttered some disconnected

words. Carmen, however, noticed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Mademoiselle de Larsagny," said Gontram, laughing now, "I hope that you

and the other ladies here will succeed in converting the hermit."

Carmen was dissatisfied with the vicomte's indifference, and, bowing

coldly, she went away, drawing the painter with her.

"Well, how does my eccentric please you?" asked Gontram.

"H'm, he is very handsome; whether he is intellectual, I cannot tell. Is

the father of the little vicomte really the knight without fear and

reproach, the hero of Dumas' novel?"

"The same."

"And has this man--Edmond Dantes was his right name--really had all the

adventurous wanderings imputed to him?"

"I am sure of it."

"One more question. It might appear strange to you, but I must ask it

nevertheless. Do you know whether Monsieur de Larsagny ever had any

relations with the count?"

"I do not know, in fact I hardly think so. Your father has been living

in Paris but a few years, and the count has not been in Paris for any

great length of time during the past ten years. He is almost always

travelling. I believe there is no country on earth which he has not

visited, and he is again absent. However, if it interests you, I will

make inquiries and--"

"Not for any price," interrupted Carmen, laughing; "let us drop the

subject and hurry to the terrace before others get there ahead of us."

"We are there already," said Gontram, laughing, as he shoved a Japanese

drapery aside and stepped upon a small balcony with his companion. A

beautiful view of the Champs-Elysées was had from here.

At that time the many mansions which now fill the Champs-Elysées were

not yet built, and the eye reached far down the beautiful lanes to the

Place de la Concorde.

The two young persons stood upon the little terrace, and the spring wind

played with Carmen's golden locks and fanned Gontram's cheeks.

The young girl now leaned over the railing, and, breathing the balsamic

air, she sighed:

"Ah, how beautiful and peaceful it is here."

Gontram had his arm about the young girl's slim waist, and carried away

by his feelings he pressed a kiss upon Carmen's coral-red lips. The

young girl returned the kiss, and who knows but that they would have

continued their osculatory exercise had not a voice close to the terrace

said:

"Take care, Monsieur de Larsagny, that you do not try to find out my

name. You will know it sooner than will be agreeable to you."

Carmen shuddered, and leaning far over, she tried to espy the speakers.

However, she could not see any one, though some passionate words reached

her from below; Gontram, on the other hand, felt like strangling the

disturbers.

"Let us go back to the parlor," said the young girl, and it seemed to

Gontram that her voice had changed in tone.

He silently opened the drapery and brought his companion back to the

studio; when they entered it, the vicomte hurried to the painter, and

said in a low tone:

"Gontram, have you a minute for me? I must speak to you."

CHAPTER XXXI

A THUNDERBOLT

The vicomte's disturbed features and the tone of his voice caused

Gontram to become anxious, and leading Carmen into the music-room, he

stammered an excuse, and then returned to Spero.

"What has happened to you?" he asked, as he saw the young man was still

excited. "I am afraid I am a very inattentive host."

"Oh, that is not it," said Spero, hesitating; "but--"

"Well, speak. You frighten me," said Gontram, uneasily.

"Gontram," began the vicomte, "you have confidence in me?"

"Certainly; but what have we to do with that now? You know that I esteem

you--"

"And you do not think me capable of deceiving or lying to you?"

"Spero, I do not know you any more," cried Gontram, more and more

confused.

"Have patience, you will soon learn to understand me," said the vicomte,

smiling curiously; "let me now tell you what has happened to me."

Spero took a long breath, and then continued:

"About ten minutes ago I was standing here, listening to the wonderful

singing of that beautiful creature whom you call Jane Zild. The melody

transported me to another world, and I saw and heard very little of what

was going on about me. Suddenly I heard a slight noise behind the

drapery, and these words reached my ears: 'Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, take

care of yourself. A trap has been set for you, and woe to you if you are

foolish enough not to notice it.'"

"A trap laid? What does that mean, and who was it that gave you this

warning?" asked Gontram, in amazement.

"I do not know. Springing up I ran in the direction whence the words

came. I shoved the drapery aside, but could see no one."

"No one?" repeated the painter, breathing more freely. "That looks like

magic! Are you sure, Spero, that you didn't deceive yourself?"

"You do not believe me," said the vicomte, smiling sorrowfully.

"Spero, you misunderstand me. Let us proceed to work thoroughly, and, if

possible, find out what has occurred. You yourself confessed that you

were plunged in thought. In such half-dreamy conditions it often happens

that we imagine we see things which have no foundation in fact. We

believe we see persons, hear voices--"

"You speak of imagination," interrupted Spero, "while I told you of

something that I actually have experienced. I heard the words clearly

and legibly; the voice was strange to me, and yet there was something

sincere in it which struck me."

"Curious! Perhaps some one has played a joke upon you."

"That would not be improbable, yet I do not believe it. The words were

spoken seriously."

"But you are mad! A trap, if laid for you, could only be done by me. I

must now ask you the same question you put to me: Have you confidence in

me?"

"Perfect confidence," said the vicomte, warmly.

"God be praised! Now follow me to the parlor, and forget your black

thoughts," and, shoving his arm under the vicomte's, he led him into the

music-room.

"And where should the trap be?" asked Gontram, as they walked on; "not

in Jane Zild's heavenly tones? Just look how the dark eyes are looking

at you--really you are in luck."

Jane Zild had risen after the song was ended, and while the applause

sounded about her, she looked steadily at the vicomte.

"Banish the black thoughts," whispered Gontram to the young man, "come

and talk a little to the diva; she appears to expect it."

"Mademoiselle," he said, turning to Jane, "here is one of your most

enthusiastic admirers, who would consider himself happy if you would

make a tour of the gallery with him."

Gontram turned to other guests, and Spero timidly drew near to the young

girl and offered her his arm. Jane hesitated for a moment to take it,

and looked expectantly at the vicomte. She waited, no doubt, for a

compliment or some word from him. As Spero remained silent, a satisfied

smile crossed the classical features of the diva, and placing her hand

on his arm she carelessly said: "Let us go."

Just then something unexpected happened. A burning candle fell down

from the chandelier, and a flame licked the black lace dress of the diva

and enveloped her.

A cry of horror came from the lips of the bystanders, and they all

rushed away. Spero was the only one who showed self-possession. Quick as

thought, he tore one of the draperies from the wall, and placing the

thick cloth around the shoulders of the diva, he pressed her tightly to

his bosom.

The next minute Jane stood with pale face, but otherwise uninjured,

before her rescuer, and holding her little hand to him, she whispered

cordially:

"Thanks, a thousand thanks!"

Spero took the long fingers and pressed his lips as respectfully upon

them as if Jane Zild were a queen and he her subject. The diva, with the

drapery still about her shoulders, looked really like a queen, and all

eyes were turned admiringly toward her.

A man dressed in plain dark clothes hurried through the crowd, and

looking anxiously at Jane he cried in a vibrating voice:

"Are you injured?"

The diva trembled when she heard the voice, and blushing deeply, she

hastily replied:

"No, thank God, I am not hurt. The coolness of the Vicomte of

Monte-Cristo prevented a misfortune."

The vicomte, too, trembled when he heard the unknown's words, for he

felt certain that the voice was the same as that which had given him the

mysterious warning.

The man bowed respectfully to the vicomte, and Jane, turning to Spero,

said in cordial tones:

"Complete your good work, vicomte, and conduct me to my carriage."

Spero laid her little hand upon his arm and led her out. As Spero

assisted her in the carriage she bowed again to him and whispered:

"I hope we shall see each other again."

Jane's companion looked at the vicomte in an embarrassed way; he

evidently wished to say something to him, but had not the courage to do

so. The next minute the horses started and the carriage rolled away.

Spero looked after the equipage as long as it could be seen and then

called for his coachman, as he wished to go home too. Just as he was

about to enter the carriage, the coachman, in surprise, exclaimed:

"You have forgotten your hat, vicomte. Jean, quick, go and get it."

Spero, in astonishment, felt his head; it was true, the coachman was

right.

"Stay, Jean, I shall go myself," he briefly said, as he hurried back to

the house.

Just as he reached the stairs, Monsieur de Larsagny and his daughter,

whom Gontram escorted, and Count Vellini and his secretary came down.

"Vicomte," said Carmen, vivaciously, "you are a hero, and the rest of

the gentlemen can take you for an example."

Monsieur de Larsagny coughed slightly, while Fagiano loudly cried:

"The vicomte is the worthy son of his father, the great count."

These words, although spoken in a respectful tone, displeased Spero, yet

he kept silent and the guests departed.

"Stay a minute longer," begged Gontram, "I will take a walk with you,

if it is agreeable; I am too much excited yet to go to bed."

"That is my position, too," replied the vicomte.

The servant brought them their hats and cloaks, and they both walked in

the direction of the Champs-Elysées. Neither of them noticed a dark form

which stood at a street corner and looked after them.

"Have a care," hissed Fagiano's voice, "you shall suffer for being his

son."

CHAPTER XXXII

OLD ACQUAINTANCES

Jane Zild lived in a modest room in a small house on the Champs-Elysées.

The interior was furnished in the ordinary style of a private house. In

the basement was the reception-room, the sitting-room and dining-room.

The owner of the house was Madame Vollard, the widow of an officer. One

of her principles was, that it was better to have her rooms empty than

to let them out to people whose reputation was not of the best.

She did not care much either for artists or actresses, but made some

exceptions, and when Melosan, Jane Zild's secretary, offered her a

considerable sum for a room on the first floor, she immediately

accepted.

The bells of Notre-Dame struck one o'clock, when a carriage, which

contained Jane and her companion, stopped in front of Madame Vollard's

house.

In spite of the late hour, the landlady hurried to the street door to

greet the young girl. When she saw the latter's disordered toilet, she

uttered a cry of horror. Jane had thrown off the cloak, and the burned

dress with the withered and crushed roses could be seen.

"What is the matter, my dear?" asked the worthy lady.

"Oh, nothing," replied Jane; "I am only tired."

"Then you tell me, at least, what has occurred," said Madame Vollard,

turning to Melosan.

"Later on, later on. The young lady is excited and needs rest."

"Oh, I will give her some drops," said the good-hearted lady, "I--"

"Good-night, Madame Vollard," said the secretary, and taking a light

from the lady's hands, he hurried up the stairs with Jane.

The young girl sank back in a chair exhausted. Melosan, a man about

sixty years of age, with white hair and sunburned face, stood with

folded hands before his mistress, and his dark eyes looked anxiously at

Jane's pale face.

"You are suffering?" he said, after a pause.

Jane shuddered. "Ah, no," she said, "I am feeling perfectly well."

"But the fright?"

"Oh, that is nothing," replied Jane, sorrowfully; and, rising up wildly,

she passionately added: "Why am I forced to enter a world which is not

my own, and never can be! And it shall not be either," she sobbingly

concluded, "never--never!"

Melosan held down his head.

"A queen would have been proud at the reception you had to-night."

"Why do you tell me this?" she exclaimed. "A queen? I? Oh, what bitter

mockery!"

"But your eminent talent--your voice?"

"Would to God I had none! I--but go now, I want to be alone."

The man sorrowfully approached the door; on the threshold he paused and

imploringly murmured:

"Pardon me, Jane, I did not wish to hurt you."

"I know it. I am sometimes hard and cruel, but my unhappy situation is

the cause of it. Why did not the wretched fire consume me? Then all

grief would have been at an end. O my God! my God!"

She sobbed as if her heart would break, and Melosan wrung his hands in

despair.

"Jane, tell me what has happened," he said, in despair. "I have never

seen you this way before. Has any one insulted you?"

"No one," said Jane, softly, "no one."

"Your fate is dreary and burdensome, but you are young and strong. You

have life before you, and in time you'll forget the past and be happy."

Melosan's words caused the young girl to dry her tears.

"You are right," she said, half ashamed, "I was foolish and ungrateful.

I will forget the past. Forgive me--grief overwhelmed me."

"You are an angel," cried Melosan, enthusiastically; "but now you must

really go to bed. Good-night, Jane."

"Good-night," said the young girl, cordially, and then the door closed

behind Melosan.

As the secretary was about to go to his room, Madame Vollard intercepted

him on the stairs.

"Well, how goes it?" she asked; "has the poor child recovered?"

"Yes, thank you."

"What occurred?"

"She was almost burned to death; her dress had already caught fire."

"What a lucky accident--"

"Lucky accident?" repeated Melosan, not understanding.

"I do not mean the fire, but the fact that I just possess a walking

suit, such as Mademoiselle Zild needs, and which I can let her have at a

very moderate price. A silk dress with pomegranate leaves--"

"To-morrow, Madame Vollard, to-morrow," Melosan interrupted her. "I

really feel fatigued, and should like to go to my room."

"You are right. I ought to have known it."

She disappeared, and Melosan walked up the stairs. On entering his room

he locked the door, threw himself into a chair, and burying his face in

his hands he sobbed bitterly.

"What is going to happen now," he muttered to himself; "my money is

nearly all gone, and--"

Hastily springing up, he opened the bureau and took a torn portfolio out

of it. Opening it, he sorrowfully counted its contents and shook his

gray head.

"It is useless," he muttered in a hollow voice, "the day after to-morrow

the rent is due, and what then remains to us is not worth speaking

about. If I only could begin something, but everywhere my horrible past

stares me in the face. I dare not go out in the broad daylight. I myself

would be satisfied with dry bread, but Jane, the poor, poor thing! With

her talent she could have had a brilliant life, and reign everywhere

like a queen if it were not for the terrible past. Like a spectre, it

stands in our path, and while she is innocent, the curse of being the

cause of both our wretchedness strikes me. I--"

A slight noise caused Melosan to pause and listen. For a while all was

silent, and then the noise recommenced. He hurried to the door, but

could not see any one, and returning to the room he shook his head and

resumed his seat.

"I must have been deceived," he murmured uneasily, "and yet I thought--"

The knock was repeated, and this time so loudly that Melosan discovered

from whence it came. Hastily going to the attic window he threw the

curtain aside and peered out. A dark shadow moved here and there on the

roof, and Melosan reached for his pistol.

"Who's there?" he cried.

"Some one who desires to speak to you," came back in firm tones.

"To me? At this hour?" asked the secretary in a daze.

"Yes, to you--open quickly or I shall burst in the window."

Melosan saw that it could not be a thief, and so he hesitatingly shoved

back the bolt.

A powerful hand raised the window from the outside, and Melosan raised

his weapon threateningly; but at this moment the light from the room

fell full on the man's face, and the secretary let the pistol fall, and

cried in a faint, trembling voice:

"You! You! O God! how did you get here?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Don't you see I came from the roof?" cried the man,

mockingly.

"But you shall not come in," cried Melosan, angrily, as he cocked his

pistol. "Get out of here, or I shall blow your brains out."

"You won't do any such thing," said the other, coolly. "Do you think

because you are posing as an honest man that other people will imagine

you are one? Ha! is the situation clear to you? A good memory is a good

thing to have, and if one does not like to hear names it is better to

acquiesce. Well, what do you say? Shall we talk over matters peacefully,

or do you persist in firing off your pistol and attracting the attention

of the police?"

A shudder ran through Melosan, and he looked at the floor in despair.

"Can I offer you a cigar?" continued the man. "No? Then permit me to

light my own;" and turning himself in his chair, and reclining

comfortably against the back of the fauteuil, the speaker lighted a

cigar, and with the utmost calm of mind puffed blue clouds of smoke in

the air.

Melosan was evidently struggling with himself. At last he had made up

his mind, and, angrily approaching the other, said:

"Listen to me. The sooner we get rid of each other the better it will be

for both of us. Why did you hunt me up? You ought to have known long ago

that I did not wish to have anything to do with you. You go your way and

I will go mine; let neither of us bother the other, and as I am called

Melosan, I shall forget that you ever bore any other name than Fagiano."

"You have become proud!" exclaimed the man who called himself Fagiano,

laughing mockingly; "upon my word, Anselmo, if I did not know that you

were a former galley-slave, I would think you were a prince!"

"And I would hold you now and always for the incarnation of everything

that is bad," replied Anselmo (for it was he). "You ought to be called

Lucifer instead of Benedetto!"

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CATASTROPHE

The two men looked at each other with flaming eyes. In Toulon they were

chained together, and now--

Anselmo had reversed the letters of his name and called himself Melosan.

In Toulon they were both on the same moral plane, but since then their

ways as well as their characters had changed. Benedetto sank lower and

lower day by day, while Anselmo worked hard to obliterate the stigma of

a galley-slave.

Benedetto, bold and impudent, looked at his former chain-companion, and

a mocking smile played about his lips. Anselmo, however, lost little by

little his assurance, and finally implored Benedetto to leave, saying:

"We two have nothing in common any more."

"That is a question. Sit down and listen to me."

"No, Benedetto, we are done with each other."

"Nonsense--you have become virtuous all of a sudden," mocked Count

Vellini's secretary.

"Would to God it were so. When we were in Toulon an unfortunate accident

brought us together; a far more unfortunate one separated us. Since then

it has been my endeavor to have the sins which led me to the Bagnio

atoned for by an honest life. I do not care to know what kind of a life

you have led. All I ask is that in the future we meet as strangers, and

I hope you will consent to my wish!"

"And if I do not do so?" asked Benedetto, laying his hand upon his

former comrade's shoulder. "Suppose I will not forget you nor want to be

forgotten by you?"

Anselmo moaned aloud.

"Moan away," continued Benedetto. "I know all the details of your past

life, and if you have forgotten anything I am in a position to refresh

your memory."

"I--do not--understand you," stammered Anselmo.

"Think of the past," replied Benedetto, frowning.

"Of the time when the smith fastened us to the same chain?"

"Oh, think again."

Anselmo trembled.

"Do you speak of the moment when we jumped into the sea and escaped from

the galleys?" he softly asked.

"No; your memory seems to be weak."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Really? You seem to have drunk from the spring of Lethe," said

Benedetto, contemptuously. "Anselmo, have you forgotten our meeting at

Beaussuet?"

"Scoundrel! miserable wretch! Do you really dare to remind me of that?"

cried Anselmo, beside himself.

"Why not?"

"If you can do so--no power on earth can induce me to say another word

about that horrible affair," said Anselmo, shuddering.

"My nerves are better than yours," laughed Benedetto. "It was only to

speak to you about that particular night that I braved the danger of

hunting you up. I need you as a witness, and that is why you see me

here."

"As a witness?" exclaimed Anselmo, in surprise. "Either you are crazy or

else I shall become so. Benedetto, if I open my mouth the gallows will

be your fate!"

"That is my business and need not worry you at all. Do you remember the

night of the 24th of February, 1839? Yes or no?"

"Yes," groaned Anselmo.

"No jeremiads! Do you also remember the vicarage at Beaussuet?"

"Yes."

"Well, a certain person came expressly from Toulon to see about a sum of

money, a million--"

"I have not touched a penny of the money," interrupted Anselmo,

shuddering.

"No, certainly not, you were always unselfish. Well, do not interrupt

me. The person who came from Toulon (_recte_ Benedetto) was just about

to put the sum of money in his pocket, when the devil sent a stranger

who--"

"Benedetto, if you are a human being and not a devil, keep silent,"

cried Anselmo, beside himself.

Benedetto shrugged his shoulders.

"You are a fool," he said, contemptuously. "I heard two persons on the

stairs. I hid behind the door, with a knife in my right hand. The door

opened. The shadow of a form appeared in the door, and I struck. I felt

the knife sink deep into a human breast."

"Wretch! It was the breast of your mother!" stammered Anselmo.

"Ah, your memory is returning to you," mocked Benedetto, with a cynical

smile. "Yes, it was my mother. But how did you know it?"

"I met the unfortunate woman on the way in the gorges of Oliolles--"

"Ah! and there she told you the story of her life."

"She begged me to help her save her son, and I promised to do so; I knew

that you were that wretched son."

"Did she tell you her name?" said Benedetto, uneasily.

"She hid nothing from me. I found out that the son she wished to save

intended to murder her--"

"Facts," said Benedetto, roughly, "and less talk."

"And that this son was a child of sin."

"Ah, really; and her name?"

"She made me swear to keep it secret."

"So much the better! She really thought, then, that a galley-slave was a

man of his word?"

"Galley-slave or not, I have kept silent, and will do so further."

"You are a hero! Nevertheless, you can tell me the name."

"No!"

"And if I demand it?"

"I won't tell you, either."

"Anselmo, have a care!" hissed Benedetto, angrily. "Tell me the name,

or--"

"I am silent," declared Anselmo; "you do not know the name, and you will

never learn it from me."

Benedetto broke into a coarse laugh.

"You are either very naïve," he said, "or think I am. I only wished to

see if you had not forgotten the name. The lady was Madame Danglars."

Anselmo uttered a cry of rage.

"Well, preacher of words, what do you say now?" asked Benedetto,

politely.

"Since you know the name, we are done with each other," said Anselmo,

"and I think you will now leave me in peace."

"You are wrong, my dear Anselmo; do you know that you are very

disrespectful?"

Anselmo began to ponder whether it would not be better to appear more

friendly to the hated comrade.

"Benedetto," he said, in a gentle voice, "why should we be enemies? I

know you had reason to be angry a little while ago, but the recollection

of that fearful night unmanned me, and I did not know what I was

speaking about. At that time, too, I was terribly excited--"

"As I had reason to notice," interrupted Benedetto. "You were ready to

kill me."

"Let us forget all that," said Anselmo, hastily. "You came here to ask a

favor of me and I was a fool to refuse. We have both the same interests

in keeping our past history from the world. Therefore speak. If what you

desire is within the limits of reason, it shall be done."

"Bravo! you please me now, Anselmo," cried Benedetto, laughing. "At

length you have become sensible. But tell me, is the little one

handsome? For it is natural that your reform has been brought about by a

woman; you always were an admirer and connoisseur of the fair sex."

Anselmo sprang upon Benedetto and, holding his clinched fist in his

face, he said:

"Benedetto, if you care to live, don't say another word!"

"And why?" asked the wretch, with silent contempt.

"Because I shall not stand it," replied Anselmo, coldly. "You have me in

your power, Benedetto. With an anonymous letter you could denounce me

to-morrow as an escaped galley-slave and have me sent back to the

galleys. I would not care a snap for that, but I most emphatically

forbid you to throw a slur upon the reputation of the woman who lives

with me under this roof."

"You forbid me? Come now, Anselmo, you speak in a peculiar tone," hissed

Benedetto.

"I speak exactly in the tone the matter demands. You know my opinion;

conduct yourself accordingly."

"And if I did not care to obey you?"

"Then I would denounce you, even though I put my own neck in danger."

"Ha! ha! I tell you you won't do anything of the kind."

"Listen," said Anselmo, "you do not know me. Yes, I was a wretch, a

perjurer, worse than any highwayman. But I have suffered, suffered

terribly for my sins, and since years it has been my only ambition to

lead a blameless life as repentance for my crimes. I have taken care of

a poor helpless being, and to defend her I will sacrifice my life. I

bear everything to shield her from grief and misery; in fact, if it were

necessary, I would accept her contempt, for if she ever found out who I

am, she would despise me."

"Have you pen, ink and paper?" asked Benedetto, after Anselmo had

concluded.

"Yes. What do you want to do with them?"

"You shall soon find out."

Anselmo silently pointed to a table upon which writing materials lay.

Benedetto dipped the pen in the ink, and, grinning, said:

"My friend, have the kindness to take this pen and write what I

dictate."

"I?"

"Yes, you. I only want you to write a few lines."

"What shall I write?"

"The truth."

"I do not understand you."

"It is very simple; you will write down what you have just said."

"Explain yourself more clearly."

"With pleasure; better still, write what I dictate."

Anselmo looked uneasily at the wretch; Benedetto quietly walked behind

the ex-priest's chair, and began:

"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from the

galleys of Toulon, murdered Madame Danglars, his mother."

"That is horrible!" cried Anselmo, throwing the pen down; "I shall not

write that."

"You will write; you know I can force you; therefore--"

Anselmo sighed, and took up the pen again.

"So, I am done now," he said, after a pause; "must it be signed, too?"

"Certainly; though the name has nothing to do with it. You can put any

one you please under it."

It sounded very simple, and yet Anselmo hesitated.

"No," he firmly said, "I will not do it. I know you are up to some

trick, and I do not intend to assist you."

Benedetto laughed in a peculiar way.

"I know you are not rich," said the pretended secretary, "and--"

Anselmo made a threatening gesture, but Benedetto continued:

"I was at this window for some time. Count Vellini's house is next door

to this, and I had no difficulty in getting here. I saw you counting

your secret treasure, and consequently--"

Unconsciously Anselmo glanced at the portfolio which lay on the table.

Benedetto noticed it and laughed maliciously.

"Yes, there lies your fortune," he said contemptuously. "The lean

bank-notes you counted a little while ago will not keep you long above

board."

"But I have not asked for anything," murmured Anselmo.

"I offer you a price."

Benedetto drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took ten

thousand-franc notes out of it which he laid upon the table. "Finish and

sign the paper I dictated," he coldly said, "and the money is yours."

Anselmo grew pale. Did Benedetto know of his troubles? Had he read his

thoughts?

"I will not do it," he said, rising up. "Keep your money, Benedetto; it

would bring me misfortune."

Benedetto uttered a cry of rage, and, grasping the pen, he seated

himself at the table and wrote a few words.

"So," he said, with a satanic gleam in his eyes as he held the paper

under Anselmo's nose, "either you do what I say or else these lines

which I have just written will be sent to the papers to-morrow."

Anselmo read, and the blood rushed to his head. He felt his brain

whirl, and, beating his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. What had

Benedetto written? Only a few words: "The lady who is known as Jane Zild

is--"

"You will not send these lines off," cried Anselmo, springing up

suddenly and clutching Benedetto by the throat. The latter, however, was

too strong for him; in a minute he had thrown the ex-priest upon the

bed.

"No nonsense," he sternly said, "either you write or I will send the

notice to the papers to-morrow."

The ex-priest took the pen and with a trembling hand wrote what

Benedetto had asked of him.

"Here," he said, in a choking voice, "swear to me--but no--you do not

believe in anything--I--"

"My dear friend," interrupted Benedetto, "do not take the thing so

seriously. I have no intention of disturbing your peace."

Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears.

Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled contemptuously

when he saw the signature.

"The fool wrote his own name," he murmured as he rubbed his hands, "may

it do him good."

The next minute the secretary of Count Vellini disappeared, and Anselmo

breathed more freely.

Suddenly an idea flew through his brain as his gaze fell upon the

bank-notes.

"We will fly," he muttered to himself, "now, this very hour! This demon

knows everything; we are not safe from him, and if an accident happens

to Jane--"

In desperation he walked up and down the room and disconnected words

came from his lips.

"Who will guarantee me that he will keep silent? Oh, he was always a

wretch--to-morrow at four o'clock we can take the train--we will go to

England and from there to America."

He paused, and, going to the window, listened. Everything was quiet and

Anselmo noticed that a rain shed connected the count's house with that

of Madame Vollard. Benedetto's visit was probably undiscovered, and a

great deal depended on that.

"I will wake Jane," said Anselmo after a short pause, "I will tell her

an excuse, and since she believes in me, she will be ready at once to

follow me! I will tell her I am in danger and must leave France."

Anselmo carefully opened the door and listened. All was still in the

house, and, going on tiptoe, he glided up to the next story and into

Jane's room. Merciful God, it was empty!

Uttering a cry he rushed out of the room and down the stairs, and, a

prey to despair, hurried out into the dark night.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A SHOT

In deep silence Gontram and Spero walked along the Champs-Elysées, which

at this time of the day was deserted. They were both indulging in

day-dreams and permitted the magical spring air to affect them.

"Confound the slow pokes," cried the painter at length, after the two

young men had been walking up and down for over an hour; "I will go

directly to the point."

Spero looked up in amazement. Buried in thought, he believed his friend

had spoken to him, and so he said confusedly:

"Excuse me, Gontram, I was thinking of something else and didn't catch

your meaning."

"Oh, I was only thinking aloud," replied the painter, laughing, "but it

is best if I talk the matter over with you. I will sooner reach a

decision."

"I do not understand," stammered Spero.

"I believe you; but do you know that we are both in the same boat?"

"How so?"

"Oh, I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but hope that you will

listen quietly to my confession and then give me your opinion."

"A confession? Have you any debts? You know very well--"

"That your purse is open to me I know, but I want to make a loan with

your heart."

"Speak quickly; what is the matter?"

"It is about the solution of a problem which has already brought many a

man to the brink of despair."

"Gontram!"

"Yes, look at me; it is unfortunately true. One of the most interesting

chapters in Rabelais's 'Pantagruel' is devoted to the theme."

Spero was not in the humor for any literary discussion, and so he firmly

said:

"If Rabelais handled this theme, he did it undoubtedly in a more worthy

way than I could possibly have done."

"H'm, Rabelais merely gives the question, but does not answer it."

"You are speaking in riddles," said the vicomte, laughing, "and, as you

know, I have very little acquaintance with practical life."

"But you know 'Pantagruel'?"

"Yes, but--"

"Panurge asks his master, 'Shall I marry or shall I not marry?' and

Pantagruel replies, 'Marry or do not marry, just as you feel inclined.'"

"Ah, so that is the question you wish to place before me?" said Spero.

"Yes."

"But why do you come to me for my advice in such a delicate matter?"

"Because I have confidence in you," replied the painter, warmly.

"Thank you," said the vicomte, cordially; "in questions of ordinary life

I know as little as a child. I think it is a misfortune to always live

alone."

"Then you advise me to marry?"

"If the woman you have selected is worthy to be your wife."

For a time they were both silent, and then Spero continued:

"I think marriage must be based upon unlimited mutual esteem."

"You are right. You have, no doubt, observed that the young lady whom I

conducted through the parlor this evening--"

Spero trembled and uttered a low cry. The painter looked suspiciously at

him, but the vicomte laughingly said that he had knocked against a

stone, and so the painter continued:

"The young lady has captivated me--"

"Of which lady are you speaking?" asked the vicomte, uneasily.

"Of the pretty blonde, Mademoiselle de Larsagny!"

"Ah! she is certainly very handsome," cried Spero, breathing more

freely.

"Don't you think so?" exclaimed Gontram, enthusiastically. "That is the

young lady I mean."

"In that case I can only congratulate you on the choice you have made."

"Thank you. Then you think Carmen de Larsagny charming?"

"Yes. From what I have seen of the young lady she deserves the love of

such a splendid fellow as you are."

"If I were to obey the voice of love," said Gontram, "I would go to her

now and say: 'I love you--be mine!'"

"And why do you hesitate? You love her, do you not?"

"I suppose so; Carmen is charming. This evening I was at the point of

proposing--"

"Well? and--"

"That is just the point. Spero, have you never had a feeling which

caused you to leave undone something which your heart prompted you to

do? Several times this evening a feeling of coming misfortune overcame

me, so that I had great trouble to retain my cheerfulness."

"Such things are sometimes deceiving," said Spero.

"That may be, but every time I think of a marriage with Carmen a feeling

of uneasiness overcomes me."

"That is merely nervous excitement."

"I am in love and--"

"Well, you hesitate?"

"I have not told you everything yet. I committed an indiscretion."

"Of what nature?"

"I embraced Mademoiselle de Larsagny and kissed her."

"Ah! and the young girl?"

"Did not repulse me. Now shall I marry or not?"

"What does your heart tell you?"

"My heart is like Pantagruel. It knows no decided answer."

"Good. If you follow my advice, marry the girl. A kiss between two good

young people is as binding as an engagement."

"You are right, a hundred times right, and yet the moment I pressed my

lips to hers I felt a pain in my heart. If I only knew the cause of this

fright which seizes me every time I think of Carmen."

"Perhaps it is her father, Monsieur de Larsagny, who does not inspire

you with confidence?" said Spero after a pause.

In the meantime the two friends reached the Arc de Triomphe and walked

up and down the woods.

"Perhaps you are right," said Gontram, answering the vicomte's last

question. "I know very little of Monsieur de Larsagny, and yet I could

swear that there are some dark spots in his past."

At this moment a shot sounded in the still night, and the friends stood

still and looked at each other in surprise.

"What was that?" cried Spero.

"A shot, and, as I fear, a crime," said Gontram, softly.

The young men hurried in the direction from which the shot came, and

were soon in a small pathway which was lighted up by the faint gleam of

the moon. On the ground a motionless form lay. Spero bent over it, and,

uttering a hollow cry, he took it in his arms and clasped the head with

its long, black, streaming hair to his bosom. It was Jane Zild whom the

vicomte held in his arms. Near her lay a revolver.

CHAPTER XXXV

WILL SHE LIVE?

Spero hurried with his burden to the street, and Gontram could hardly

keep up with him. Finally he overtook him, and, placing his hand on the

vicomte's shoulder, he urgently cried:

"Spero, where are you going with this corpse?"

"She is not dead," replied the vicomte, tremblingly. "She lives; she

must live--she dare not die!"

"And who is she?" asked Gontram, as he tried to get a glimpse of the

face. Yes, he recognized her now as she lay in Spero's arms.

"Jane! Jane Zild?" stammered the painter, terror-stricken. "O my God!"

They had now reached the Place de l'Etoile, and Gontram looked around

for a carriage.

"What shall we do?" he asked, turning in desperation to Spero. "Are you

going to bring the poor thing to your house? I shall go and arouse the

servants."

"Do so, Gontram, and hurry--every minute counts."

Soon the Monte-Cristo mansion was reached. Spero carried the unconscious

girl up the stairs and gently laid her on the divan. He then got on his

knees beside Jane, and, hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed

bitterly.

Gontram now approached his friend.

"Spero," he said, "calm yourself; we must rescue the poor child."

The vicomte sprang up.

"You are right, Gontram," he replied; "but if she is dead, I shall die,

too, for I love her--I love her more than my life."

"She is no doubt wounded," said Gontram softly.

"Yes, just hold a light here," cried the vicomte. "I will examine her. I

have not studied medicine for nothing."

The vicomte laid his ear to her bosom, and then said:

"She lives, but to tell whether there is any hope I must examine her

more closely. Gontram, go to my study and bring me the cedar box which

stands on my writing-desk."

Gontram left the room, and Spero was alone with the unconscious girl.

Placing his hand upon her white forehead, he bent over the young girl

and tenderly murmured:

"Poor dear child! Why did you wish to die? Oh, Jane, Jane! you must

live--live for me, and no power on earth shall tear you from me!"

He pressed his lips upon her pale mouth, and with this kiss his soul was

bound to that of the young girl.

Gontram now returned; Spero opened the box and took an instrument from

it.

"Feel if my hand trembles," he said, turning to the painter; "only if

that is not the case can I dare to probe for the bullet."

Gontram took hold of the white hand. It did not tremble, and Spero began

to probe for the bullet.

"The ball has not touched a vital part," whispered the vicomte at

length; "it lies in the muscles. I touched it with the instrument."

"Do you think you can remove the bullet?" asked the painter.

"I hope so."

The vicomte motioned to Gontram to hand him the box again, and taking a

bistoury and a pincette he bent over the unconscious girl again.

An anxious moment passed and then Spero triumphantly exclaimed:

"Saved!"

"Saved," repeated Gontram as he took the murderous lead from the

vicomte's hand.

"Then we can call the housekeeper," said Spero, after he had poured a

liquid down the young girl's throat.

He hurried out, and returned in less than five minutes with Madame

Caraman.

The last time we saw the worthy governess she was in Africa, in company

with Miss Clary. The latter fell in love with Captain Joliette and

married him in spite of Lord Ellis's opposition. The young couple were

very happy until the _coup d'état_ of the 2d of December, 1851, when

Albert de Morcerf was killed by a murderous ball. Six months later Miss

Clary died of grief. Four weeks after her death Madame Caraman became

the housekeeper of the Monte-Cristo mansion. Thus it came about that

Spero hurried to her for aid for the sick girl. She asked no questions,

but, with the vicomte's assistance, placed a bandage upon the young

girl's wound and wished to discreetly retire.

"Mamma Caraman," said Spero, imploringly, "stay here and watch over the

young girl whom I place under your protection. Let no one know that she

is in this house."

Spero thereupon withdrew, while Jane Zild remained under the care of the

good-hearted woman.

CHAPTER XXXVI

MELOSAN'S SECRET

We left Melosan as he ran into the street in despair, hoping to find the

missing girl. Had Jane run away? Had she been abducted?

Two policemen were patrolling the Champs-Elysées, and Anselmo went up to

them and politely asked them whether they had not seen his mistress, a

young lady?

The officials looked suspiciously at him, and remarked that the young

lady would have something else to do than wander in the streets at this

time of night. Anselmo sorrowfully bowed his head, and, after thanking

them, continued on his way.

He had reached the polygon and listened attentively. He heard steps, but

not the right ones. Suppose Jane had committed suicide?

She had been so painfully excited this evening, and Anselmo, who knew

her past, shuddered when he thought that the Seine was not far away.

Without a pause he ran to the edge of the water; the dawning day was raw

and chilly, and Anselmo shuddered as he looked in the dark waves. Were

they taking his dearest treasure on earth along in their course?

What mysterious tie bound him to Jane Zild? the former galley-slave to

the beautiful, talented creature?

* * * * *

Twenty-one years had passed since Anselmo had witnessed the killing of

Madame Danglars by her son Benedetto and the latter's flight with the

treasure. Anselmo was, of course, a scoundrel, too; but his whole being

rose up in anger at such inhuman cruelty, and, grasping the knife, he

had threatened to kill the parricide if he did not depart at once.

Benedetto was thrown into the sea, and was rescued upon the island of

Monte-Cristo.

Anselmo had remained behind, half dazed, and only little by little did

he recover his senses sufficiently to think over his own situation. It

was a desperate one; yet he would not have exchanged with Benedetto for

any price.

Suddenly, a faint glimmer of daylight shone through the open window, and

Anselmo trembled when his gaze fell on the pale face of the murdered

woman. Suppose she was not dead? Anselmo bent over her and listened; not

the slightest sign of breathing was visible, and yet the convict thought

he felt an almost imperceptible beating of the heart.

Should he call for help? That would be equivalent to delivering himself

over to the hangman. If he hesitated, the woman would die, under all

circumstances. Who would believe him, if he said that the woman's own

son was the murderer? Appearances were against him, and, if the murdered

woman really recovered consciousness again, and she should be asked who

raised the knife against her, she would much sooner accuse him than the

son whom she madly loved.

While Anselmo was still debating the question in his mind, he heard a

noise in front of the house, and, hurrying to the window, he perceived

the priest, who had just returned home from his journey. The convict

uttered a cry of relief. He could now leave without having a murder upon

his soul; for the clergyman would, no doubt, immediately discover what

had happened, and take care of the victim. He waited until he had heard

the priest's steps on the stairs, and then swung himself through the

window on to the tree which had helped Benedetto to enter the room, and

disappeared at the very moment that the horrified clergyman entered the

room. Anselmo determined to leave France in an easterly direction. After

great trials and difficulties he reached Switzerland, and from there he

journeyed to Germany. Intelligent and active, he soon found a means of

earning an honest living; he settled in Munich, and, under the name of

Melosan, gave lessons in French.

Fifteen years passed in this way. Anselmo worked hard, and was satisfied

with the reward of his activity. His scholars esteemed him. During this

time an entire change had taken place in the former convict. But then a

yearning to see France once more seized him, and he resolved to return

to the fatherland.

He first went to Lyons, where he gave lessons in German and Italian. He

lived in a modest apartment in the Faubourg St. Antoine. One evening

Anselmo was walking along the quay when he heard quarrelling voices. A

woman's voice cried aloud:

"Let me go! I want to go for my daughter. I have nothing to do with you.

Help, help!"

Anselmo stood still. A woman was no doubt struggling with some men, and

when her cries redoubled, he forgot his prudence and hurried toward the

group.

As he suspected, he found three drunken workmen trying to force a

sixteen-year-old girl from the grasp of an elderly woman.

The woman cried loudly for help and struck angrily around her. The young

girl, however, silently defended herself.

"Don't be so prudish, Zilda," said one of the men. "You make as much

noise as if we were going to hang the little one."

The speaker, as he said this, threw his arms around the slim waist of

the young girl and tried to draw her to him. At this moment Anselmo

appeared, and with a terrible blow he struck the fellow to the ground.

The young girl sobbed, and taking the hand of her rescuer she pressed a

kiss upon it. Then turning to the old lady, who was leaning against the

wall moaning, she cried, beside herself:

"Oh, mother, mother! What is the matter with you? My God, she is dying!"

This really seemed to be the case; the poor woman had become deathly

pale, and sank to the ground.

"Let me help you," said Anselmo to the young girl. He bent down and took

the unconscious woman in his arms. "Where do you live?"

As simple as the question was, the girl appeared to be embarrassed by

it.

"Won't you tell me where you live?" said Anselmo, as the girl remained

silent.

"We do not live far from here, in the Rue Franchefoin."

"I do not know that street."

"Ah, I believe you," stammered the poor child, shuddering; "I shall

proceed in advance."

"Do so," said Anselmo.

The ex-priest followed her, bearing the unconscious woman in his

muscular arms, and only gradually did he perceive that his companion was

leading him into one of the most disreputable streets in the city.

The young girl stopped in front of a small house. A robust woman stood

in the doorway, and when she saw the young girl she venomously said:

"Zilda has taken time. She stayed away a good two hours to get her

daughter."

"My mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying," said the young girl in a

sharp voice.

"It won't be so serious," replied the woman, with a coarse laugh.

"Have you not heard that the woman is dangerously ill?" said the

ex-priest.

"Is she sick?" asked the woman, coldly. "Well, if she dies, it won't be

a great misfortune. I--"

"Madame, for God's sake!" implored the young girl.

"Show me to a room where I can lay the invalid down," said Anselmo

roughly.

"Yes, yes, directly. Follow me if you are in such a hurry," growled the

woman.

Just then two men who were intoxicated staggered into the hallway.

"Ah, there is Zilda," cried one of them; "quick, old woman; come in and

sing us a song."

The woman opened a door and winked to the ex-priest to enter. The room

was small and dirty. In the corner stood a slovenly bed upon which

Anselmo deposited the invalid.

"Is there a physician in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"A physician? That is hardly worth the trouble," mocked the virago, "she

is only drunk."

The ex-priest took a five-franc piece from his pocket and said:

"Get a physician, I insist upon it."

The next minute the virago was on the way.

Anselmo remained alone with the two women. The young girl sobbed

silently, and the invalid remained motionless.

"Mademoiselle," he began, "I think you might loosen your mother's dress;

the fainting fit lasts rather long."

The young girl looked at him, seeming not to understand.

"She is your mother, is she not?"

The young girl nodded, and, rising, pressed her lips upon the woman's

forehead. Thereupon she loosened her mother's dress and held a glass of

water to her lips. The invalid mechanically drank a few drops, but soon

waved it back and whispered:

"No more, no water, leave me!"

"Mother," said the young girl, "mother, it is I; do you not know me?"

"No, I do not know who you are!" cried the invalid. "Away, I cannot sing

to-day--my breast pains me. Oh--"

"Oh, mother," sobbed the poor child.

"Yes--I am cold--why do you put ice on my feet?" complained the invalid,

and with a quick movement she raised herself up in bed.

Suddenly the delirious woman caught sight of Anselmo, and with a

terrible cry she sprung at him with clinched fists.

"There you are, you wretch," she hissed; "where have you put your black

coat?"

Just then the virago returned with the doctor.

The latter looked contemptuously at her, and in a gruff voice said:

"Lie down!"

He then beat her bosom, counted her pulse, and shook his head.

"Nothing can be done," he dryly declared; "her strength has been

impaired by a fast and dissipated life, and--"

"But, doctor," interrupted Anselmo, "have some compunction for the poor

woman. You see she is conscious and understands every word."

"Ah, you are probably a relative of hers, or has your warm interest in

her some other ground?"

"Doctor, I only speak as a human being," replied Anselmo, sternly, "and

if you do not do your duty as a physician I will notify the proper

authorities."

This threat had the desired effect. The doctor drew his note-book from

his pocket, rapidly wrote a prescription, and went away.

Anselmo took the prescription and hurried to the nearest drug-store. As

he walked along the snow-covered streets, he muttered to himself:

"Merciful God, do not punish me so hard!"

When he returned he found the virago awaiting him at the door.

"Monsieur," she said, "it seems that Zilda interests you."

"Yes, like any other unhappy creature."

"Well, I have her papers. Her name is Zild--Jane Zild."

"Give them to me," said Anselmo, firmly; "I will take care of her."

"May God reward you; the sooner you get her out of my house the happier

I shall be."

The woman hurried into the house, and Anselmo handed the invalid's

daughter the medicine he had bought and waited for the return of the

virago. In less than five minutes she returned and handed the ex-priest

a package of papers.

"Where can I look through them?" he asked, uneasily.

"Oh, come into the kitchen."

Anselmo accepted her invitation, and by the flickering light of a tallow

candle he unfolded the yellow and withered papers.

One of the papers contained a passport for the work-man, Jean Zild, and

his daughter Jane, made out by the commune of Sitzheim in Alsace. When

Anselmo read this he grew pale and nearly fell to the floor in a faint.

"The reading seems to overtax your strength," said the woman giggling.

"Zilda has travelled a great deal, and maybe you have met her before."

"I hardly think so," stammered Anselmo.

In company with the virago, Anselmo re-entered the sick-room, and,

laying his hand on the young girl's shoulder, he said:

"My dear child, your mother is much better now, and if you follow my

advice you will go to bed and take a rest. I shall stay with the

invalid. The housekeeper here has kindly consented to give you a room."

"Not for any price," cried the little one in terror. "I cannot stay in

this house overnight."

Little by little he managed to calm the poor child and make her

understand his aim. She hesitatingly consented to stay overnight in the

house, and the housekeeper conducted her to a little room. With inward

terror the little one gazed at the unclean walls, and only her love for

her mother induced her to stay and not return even now.

"Good-night, mother," she said, sobbing.

The woman looked vacantly at her and gave no sign of recognition of her

daughter.

"Do not wake your mother up," said Anselmo, hastily. "Sleep is necessary

to her and I will call you if she asks for you."

"Then you really intend to stay here?"

"Yes."

"Do you know us?"

"No," stammered Anselmo; "but go to bed now, it is late."

"You will surely call me?" asked the little one.

"Certainly; go now and rely on me."

She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid--the dying woman, as he

shudderingly said to himself.

From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her sleep and utter a

low moan.

Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of former

beauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early and so sadly?

Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at the

ex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded hands.

"How did you get here?" she asked, timidly.

"You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn everything,"

replied Anselmo.

"I am sick! Ha! ha! ha! I am cursed--cursed!" she cried.

"Keep still; go to sleep," begged Anselmo, frightened. "No one has

cursed you."

"But he--my father--oh, I have brought shame and sorrow upon him; but it

was not my fault--no, not my fault! Oh, I was so young and innocent.

Father said, pray earnestly and often, and so I prayed. Oh, how nice it

was in Sitzheim; the church lay upon a hill, hid in ivy, from which a

view of the peaceful village could be had. A well was also in the

village. Evenings we young girls used to go there to get water, and

then--then he went past. How he frowned. He wore a black coat, and the

bald spot on his shaved head shone like ivory. When he came near, we

made the sign of the cross. We must honor the embassadors of God!"

The dying woman with trembling hands made the sign of the cross, and

Anselmo groaned and moaned.

"I had not yet gone to confession," continued the delirious woman; "my

father used to laugh at me and say: 'Stay at home, little Jane, you

haven't any sins to confess yet.' I stayed. I was only sixteen. But one

day as I was sitting in front of our door the man addressed me.

"'Why do you not come to confession?' he asked sternly.

"'Because my father said I was too young, and have no sins to confess.'

"'We are all sinners in God,' he earnestly replied. 'Do not forget that

you will be eternally damned if you do not confess.'

"I got frightened; no, I did not wish to be damned, and so I went

secretly to confession. He always gave me absolution and I was happy. He

sometimes met me when I went walking, and was always very friendly to

me."

Anselmo leaned his head against the hard bed-post and sobbed--they were

the bitterest tears he had ever wept.

"He told me I was so pretty," continued the woman. "He promised me

dresses, books and sweetmeats--my father must not know that I saw his

reverence almost every day, and then--then he suddenly disappeared from

the village--his superiors had transferred him, and I--I wept until my

eyes were red. And then--then came a terrible time. The girls at the

well pointed their fingers in scorn at me--my father threw me out of the

house! I ran as far as my feet would carry me--I suffered from hunger

and thirst--I froze, for it was a bitter cold winter; and when I could

no longer sustain my misery, I sprang into the water.

"I was rescued," she laughingly continued, "and then my child, my little

Jane, was born, and to nurse her I had to keep on living. Yes, I lived,

but how? The fault was not mine, but that of the hypocrite and scoundrel

in clergyman's dress!"

"Mercy," implored Anselmo. "Mercy, Jane!"

"Ha! who--is it that--calls me?" stammered the dying woman, faintly. "I

should know--that--voice!"

"Oh, Jane, it is I--the wretched priest!" whispered Anselmo; "forgive me

for my crimes against you and tell me if that girl there is," he pointed

to the other room--"my--our daughter?"

But the invalid could not speak any more; she only nodded, and then

closed her eyes forever.

When day dawned a broken-down man rose from the bedside of the deceased.

He had spent the night in torture, and now went to wake the daughter of

the dead woman--wake his daughter! He must take care of her without

letting her know that he was her father.

When he told the girl her mother was dead, she threw herself upon the

corpse, covered the pale face with tears and kisses, and yet--curious

phase of this girl's soul--when she thought she was not observed, she

whispered faintly:

"God be thanked that your troubles are over, poor mother--now I can love

you without blushing for you."

Anselmo ordered a respectable funeral, and when he returned from the

cemetery with the young girl he said with deep emotion:

"Jane, I knew your mother--I promised her that I would look out for you.

Will you stay with me?"

Jane Zild sorrowfully said "Yes." Anselmo left Lyons in company with the

lonely child. He worked hard to place Jane above want, and tenderly

loved her. Gradually he tried to win the young girl's confidence; he

comprehended that Jane was on the brink of despair, and to distract her

he began to educate her.

The result was well worth the work. Jane learned with the greatest

facility, and took pleasure in study. Yet she remained pale and

melancholy, and Anselmo knew what troubled her--the memory of the

horrible past. It seemed as if she were branded--as if every one could

read on her forehead whose daughter she was.

An accident revealed to Anselmo that Jane possessed eminent musical

talents, and a magnificent contralto voice. He worked, saved and

economized to be able to give Jane the best teachers. He removed with

the young girl to a German city which possessed a celebrated

conservatory; there Jane studied music and singing.

Three years father and daughter remained in Leipsic, and then Jane felt

homesick--homesick for France. Anselmo selected Paris as their place of

residence, and hoped that she would succeed in conquering a position at

the Opera.

But Jane refused all offers from the managers, and when Anselmo

reproached her she said, in bitter tones:

"If I were not my mother's daughter the matter would be different. Shame

would kill me if some one were to discover in me the daughter of Jane

Zild. No, I must remain in seclusion until God sees fit to end my

miserable existence!"

It therefore surprised him when the young girl told him she thought of

visiting the young painter's soiree and singing there. Was she in love

with the painter, or did she expect to meet some one in his parlor?