THE LAST MEETING
The days that followed were some of the happiest of my life. There
was, as may be imagined, more than ordinary delight in having been the
instrument of that marvellous change from sorrow to joy, and such joy,
the like of which it has been few men's luck to witness. Then came the
happiness of my betrothal, and the sunny days seemed to glide by with
scarcely a cloud on our horizon. And, as though everything conspired
to complete our happiness, one that did seem in our graver moments
to threaten, was suddenly dispersed. One morning I saw in an Italian
newspaper a paragraph to the effect that the Count von Rallenstein had
on the previous day been seized with a paralytic stroke, and that the
famous Chancellor's state of health gave occasion for considerable
anxiety.
Under the circumstances we could hardly pretend to take as anything
but good fortune the news that the ruthless, vindictive autocrat's
power for harm was practically at an end. From Von Lindheim, now safe
in Paris, I had received news; the end of the Chancellor's reign
would make all the difference to him; for, however matters might
have otherwise changed (as by the failure of Rallenstein's marriage
scheme), he would never have dared to risk a return to his native
country under the old régime. I sent the good news to my friend, with a
suggestion that he should join us at Verona. Strode, now well again,
was expected; naturally Asta's parents were most anxious to make his
acquaintance and thank him personally for the indispensable part he had
taken in the rescue. We were going to be a very happy and merry party;
but the night before our friend's arrival a startling event happened
which showed me on the brink of what an awful danger we were trifling.
That night we were invited to a rather grand reception at the Guacini
Palace. Naturally the rooms were crowded, so crowded that Asta and I
made our way from the crush, and finding a little room leading out of
one of the salons we sat there cosily, out of touch, yet in sight of
the restless crowd just beyond.
"What a change," Asta remarked, "in my hopes, in my life, from only a
few days ago. Think of me in that dismal room, a prisoner expecting
every time the door opened that death would enter. Could I ever have
dreamt to have seen the world again like this?"
"You must not let your mind run on that gloomy time now that it is so
happily past," I remonstrated, clasping the hand which was slid into
mine. "We have now only joy to look forward to, for it shall not be my
fault if the future does not compensate for all you have gone through.
It is hard, but you must try, dearest, to dismiss it all as a hideous
dream."
"We are going to be so happy," she said lovingly, "that I am sure as
time goes on I shall think less of those terrible days. But can I
forget them without ignoring a certain dear brave Englishman who----"
I stopped her. "Asta, I wish you would forget that part of our
acquaintance. I don't want you to love me for that."
She laughed. "For that only, you mean, sir. But as to forgetting one
little incident--no; not if by that I might have no recollection of my
terror and sufferings. And now all is life and joy again. A few days
ago I had nothing before me but the choice of death--or worse." She
shuddered. "Of becoming the Countess Furello; the wife of a murderer.
Can I ever thank you, ever love you enough? It is so hot here," she
said, after a pause which was not altogether blank; "let us come and
see whether we can find our way to the garden."
As we rose I noticed that a jewel in her hair had become disarranged
and was in danger of falling out. She turned to a great mirror on
the wall and made the ornament fast. Suddenly, as she turned again,
she gave a little half-gasping cry. I thought she must have hurt her
head with the pin of the ornament, but soon saw that her cry had been
called forth by something much worse than that, for she clasped my hand
convulsively, and for some moments seemed speechless for very terror.
At length she could answer me, in a frightened whisper:
"Furello! I saw him there as I turned from the glass. His face there,
looking in at us. He is here."
"Here!" I echoed incredulously, though with an uneasy feeling that the
thing was quite possible.
"Here, yes; I saw the hateful face in the doorway, I tell you. He
looked into this room, only for a moment. Jasper, my darling, you will
save me from him, will you not?"
I reassured her as best I could, both on that point and on the
likelihood of her being mistaken. "Your mind is full of the man," I
argued. "Some one resembling him looked in, and your nerves not having
quite recovered made you think it was he."
But she insisted; she was sure. "Do you suppose I could ever be
mistaken in that face?" she said. "It was Count Furello."
"But what should he be doing here?" I reasoned. "Here in one of the
most exclusive gatherings in Verona. His evil reputation is such that
no decent countryman of his own would know him. Of that you may be
sure. And to think that Prince Guacini would admit him across his
threshold is absurd."
Reason as I would, nothing would shake her conviction that it had been
Furello and none other that she had seen. It was distressing to me to
see the mortal fear into which the sight, fancied or real, had thrown
my darling.
"I will settle this at once," I said. "Come back to your father while I
search the rooms. If the Count is here I will find him. But I think it
far more likely I shall light on the double who has frightened you."
She clung to me as we made our way through the crowd to where her
parents were sitting. So far no one in the least like Count Furello
came under my notice, though I kept a sharp look-out on all sides. I
gave General von Winterstein a hint of what had happened, and with a
word of encouragement to Asta went off on my search.
It was vain. The thorough scrutiny I made in the rooms and all likely
and unlikely places in the palace showed me no Count Furello or any one
resembling him closely enough to have deceived Asta. One man, indeed, I
pitched upon as being perhaps sufficiently near to the Count's general
appearance to have suggested that arch villain, especially when seen
casually for a moment. But upon my pointing him out to Asta she was
quite convinced that he was not the man she had seen, and that it had
indeed been Furello.
The episode, mysterious and disquieting enough, seemed suddenly to
plunge us from an unclouded happiness and confidence into fear. Not
that there was any danger of open violence there. It was quite certain
that if Furello was really among the guests, a word to the Prince would
be enough to have him turned out not only of the palace but probably
of the country. The worst part of it was, though, that the Count's
methods were essentially cunning and secret; had he been an open enemy
there would have been little ground for fear.
I was inclined, however, to regard the whole affair as the effect
of Asta's unstrung nerves. Rallenstein was now practically _hors de
combat_, and it was scarcely likely that the Count would have ventured
to follow us with any sinister purpose on his own account. The idea in
my mind was that he was somewhat of a coward who required the impelling
will of a stronger man behind his fell enterprises.
For the rest of the time I stayed at the palace I did not cease to look
about for the man; had he been there I certainly must have lighted upon
him. The report of my fruitless search at last reassured Asta a little,
and when I parted from her at her aunt's house I was glad to see that
she seemed to have got over the worst of her fear. We had arranged to
meet Strode next day, and I turned towards my hotel full of pleasant
anticipations.
When I arrived there it was past midnight; a sleepy porter let me in,
and I went straight to my apartment, which consisted of a sitting-room,
with a bedroom, _en suite_. Here I found a long letter awaiting me from
Von Lindheim. Tired as I was, I lighted the candles on my table and
began to read it, being eager to know what his plans were. This was
the first letter of any length I had received from him; it was closely
written, and contained an account of the incidents of his long journey,
including some narrow escapes he had had from being detected and
falling into the hands of Rallenstein's emissaries. I had drawn a chair
to the table and sat down to study the closely-written pages, when, in
turning over one and raising my eyes to the beginning of the next, they
caught on the opposite wall an arresting movement, a stirring of the
shadow thrown by a full moon on the opposite wall. My back was to the
window, and the phenomenon betokened that the drawn curtains behind me
were being stealthily moved apart. Realizing this, I raised the letter
to the level of my eyes, as though it were difficult to decipher.
Looking over the paper, I watched the wall before me. Slowly the
streak widened, and in the middle there appeared a shadow--the form,
unmistakably, of a man's head, framed, as it were, in the aperture.
Then, with a thrill, I knew that a crisis, the most desperate of all,
had come. Assuredly nothing but sheer presence of mind was between me
and death. This thought nerved me; every moment now was critical. A
suspicious movement on my part would mean a bullet through me; before
I could turn I should be a dead man. My one chance lay in taking my
concealed enemy by surprise.
"Tchut! I do wish, my dear friend, you would write legibly," I said
aloud. "Was there ever such a fist! I shall have to get a reading-glass
to you, mein Herr. Let's see, there was one on this table."
Muttering thus, always distinctly enough for my words to be heard,
I moved away quickly and crossed to a little writing-table that
stood in the corner of the room. By this I was somewhat out of that
uncomfortable direct line of fire. The bell was at the other side
of the room; to have attempted to reach it would have been madness.
Making a pretence of seeking the glass among the nick-nacks on the
writing-table I was able to get out my revolver, which events had now
taught me never to be without.
"Ah, here it is!" I said, going back as to my chair.
Next instant, by a quick movement, I had turned and flung aside the
curtain, my revolver covering the place where I knew the intruder must
be.
"Count Furello!" I cried. "Come out and show yourself, you cowardly
villain!"
I do not know why my revolver hung fire, for I had resolved to shoot
him on sight. But the moment's hesitation as I brought the Count--it
was he--to view, showed him to me standing against the window with
dropped hands, and none of the expected signs of attack. I could
not shoot, even him, like that; if only he had made the slightest
aggressive movement I would not have hesitated. As it was I stayed
looking at him. He stood there quite motionless, his arms by his side,
and, so far as I could see, with no weapon in his hand. His face looked
absolutely white, the mouth was drawn behind the bristling moustache
into the suggestion of an ugly grin, not reflected in the eyes, which
glittered with repressed viciousness.
I think we must have stared at one another for some seconds before I
spoke.
"What are you doing here, Count?"
The grin deepened. "A scarcely necessary question. You are going to
shoot. Please don't delay. I am ready to pay the penalty of my rashness
and your superior--luck."
The hatred with which he spoke the last words was indescribable.
"You will have to pay the penalty," I said, trying to bring myself
to press the trigger. His face was calm now except for the gleam of
desperation in his eyes. My better judgment told me to send a bullet
through that scoundrel's heart, yet I paused, perhaps in the very
certainty that the heart was covered by my pistol.
"We are rivals, it seems," Furello said calmly. "May we not settle our
differences in the approved fashion?"
"Rivals! you and I!" was my scornful answer. "Was that your intention,
Count?"
He gave a shrug and a look of devilish mockery. "I had not made up my
mind. I have not an Englishman's good fortune. But it is plain that the
time for one of us has arrived."
In talking to me like this he must have felt pretty confident of the
difference between my nature and his own; had the positions been
reversed, little time would he have given me for parley, except,
perhaps, as a cat prolongs a mouse's agony. I had evidently taken him
by surprise, and so at a disadvantage; no chance was left for him but
to calculate upon my sense of chivalry. Chivalry with that murderous
reptile! I wonder how I allowed such a consideration to influence me;
but somehow it seemed hard to pull the trigger in cold blood.
"Will you give me a chance, my dear Tyrrell?" he demanded again, but
without the ugly grin. "Or are you going to shoot me here as I stand
defenceless? If so, for Heaven's sake be quick about it."
Instead of taking him at his word, I, like a fool, began to retort. The
thought of Asta and all this loathsome brute had made her suffer came
to my mind with the recollection of the pitiable state of fear she had
shown that evening.
"Chance!" I cried. "What chance did you mean to give me when you
pressed me to eat poisoned sweetmeats at your cursed table? What chance
was I to have in that assassin's room you gave me to sleep in? What
chance did you give that poor priest whom you decoyed to your devil's
den--the man who, three hours after, was lying in his grave in the
wood. You talk to me of--ah! you----!"
He had suddenly stooped and made a desperate rush at me. Perhaps he saw
that I was working myself up to do what I should have done long before.
No doubt my vehemence had relaxed my alertness. His move was a clever
one, for in his stooping position, he offered a much worse mark for a
shot, and greatly reduced the certainty of a mortal wound. In that one
fierce crouching spring he was upon me and at close quarters, while my
advantage was almost gone. I must have fired, but have no recollection
of the shot. I only know that each seized the other's right wrist with
the left hand. So he was safe from my revolver, and I from something I
could see shining in his grasp.
I think the feeling uppermost in my mind at that supreme moment was
one of bitter disgust at my own folly; but, after the first pang of
discomfiture there was no room for any thought but of mastering the
human hyena that had fastened on me. It was evident to me that I was
the stronger and more athletic man, but then my adversary had the
strength of desperation; he had gained the first advantage, and would
naturally fight like a demon.
It was scarcely a violent struggle at first. We stood for a while
wrestling warily, confining our efforts almost entirely to the arms.
I can see now Furello's horrible face close to mine; it was as though
in those critical moments every evil passion of his life, every crime,
every knavery, sprang its index into his countenance. If ever the Devil
looked out of a man's eyes, there he was in that glare of desperate
vicious hatred and rage. Soon I put forth a greater effort, and to my
relief it confirmed the idea that my adversary's strength was less than
my own. I forced him backwards step by step till I held him against
the wall. Suddenly he pressed himself close against me, struggling
furiously to force towards me the hand I held. In it was an object
which scarcely suggested a weapon. A short metal instrument, square at
the butt and tapering to a very fine point. I could not tell what it
actually was, but the fact of the Count's using it was enough to give
me a shrewd idea of its purpose. At any rate I thought I would make
trial of its effectiveness on its owner. So, holding away from the
sting-like point, I forced Furello round from the wall, then against
the table, then backwards upon it, where naturally he was at my mercy.
Then I set myself to force down the hand with its mysterious weapon
upon him. As he realized my intention he, even at the disadvantage of
that almost helpless position, struggled with such convulsive fury that
for a time he baffled my purpose. Then gradually my greater strength
told, the point was forced down till it entered his cheek.
"A----h!"
Such a cry, as the stylet dug into the flesh. The grip on my revolver
hand relaxed so that with a sharp wrench I could release it. The
fingers of the Count's other hand still rigidly clutched the strange
weapon. I had now the pistol free and pressed to his temple.
"Let go!" I said, "or I'll blow your brains out!"
"Shoot!" he cried. "Shoot! I defy you, cursed Englishman! You dare not!"
He raised his head and tried furiously to bite my hand. I beat his head
back with the revolver and drove by sheer weight the stylet into his
neck. He screamed and wriggled like a wounded animal, but I had no pity
for him, only heartily wishing the part I was forced to play had fallen
to another man's lot. As I held him there an idea crossed my mind and
determined me to get from him the murderous little weapon which he held
so tenaciously. After a sharp struggle I succeeded in unloosening the
nervous fingers, and, obtaining possession of the instrument, flung it
to the farther end of the room.
The Count now lay absolutely still, except for his heaving chest.
Suspicious of his further power for mischief I began to feel for any
weapon he might have about him. There was a revolver in a pocket of his
coat. I took it out, and then drew a little away, contenting myself
with watching keenly for any suspicious movement.
He lay quite passive on the table just as I had forced him down: on
his back with his legs dangling, his feet scarcely touching the floor.
It seemed as though all the fight was beaten out of him. The situation
was a hideous one for me, and I began to speculate how long it would
last and how it would end, when suddenly a convulsive shudder seemed to
run through the man as he lay before me. His hands opened and clenched
thrice, then another convulsion shook him and he called me by name.
"Shoot me!" he gasped in a voice thick and hardly recognizable. "If you
are a man send a bullet through me and put me out of my agony."
The conjecture in my mind now became a certainty; I returned no answer;
simply waited in silence.
Another spasm seemed to madden him.
"Shoot me! Shoot me, curse you!" he cried, breaking out into a string
of hideous imprecations.
I said nothing, and sat quite still.
"Tyrrell!" he screamed; and then, by what seemed a terrible effort, sat
upright.
I sprang from my chair in horror. The face, which had been hidden from
me as he lay, was now dark purple, almost black. The blazing eyes
protruded from their sockets, the swollen lips, jet black were drawn
back into a frightful grin; the man was a human being no longer; it
seemed as though he were already a devil, as hideous as the imagination
of man ever conceived. The sight brought back to me poor Szalay's
appearance in his death agony, but the effect of the poison here was
indescribably more fearful.
For the first time in that perilous half-hour I felt fear--sickening
fear. The thing opposite to me was so unutterably loathsome that
the very idea of his breath reaching me was horrible. I recall that
in sheer panic, I raised my revolver, but before I could fire, the
Count, with a sound of words which the tumid tongue would not utter,
fell back. I could endure the terrible sight no longer, but rushed
from the room, locking the door behind me. When I had roused the hotel
people and the door was opened again, Count Furello lay still on the
table--dead.
* * * * *
So perished this villain by the horrible means he had prepared for me.
When I think of that hideous death, the idea of my narrow escape sends
a shiver through me. When we came to examine the lethal instrument
which inflicted it, we found it to be a hollow stiletto with a
collapsible handle, this forming a receptacle for the virulent poison
with which it was charged. A slight prick, as it must have been in the
case of poor Szalay, would be enough to cause death, and the venom
acted so rapidly that a remedy was out of the question. A very pretty
and effective implement of the great Chancellor's vaunted statecraft!
It appeared that the Count had taken a room on the same floor, whence
it had been easy for him to slip into mine and await my return. But Von
Lindheim's letter saved me.
There was, of course, an inquiry into the facts of that strange and
appalling tragedy. Happily for me, all the circumstances confirmed
my straightforward story, which was further corroborated by the dead
man's antecedents. It appeared that before he quitted Italy several
mysterious deaths of the same character as this one had occurred,
with which he had seemed closely connected; but nothing beyond strong
suspicion had been fastened upon him.
But at last the terribly appropriate retribution had overtaken him; and
surely no man had ever greater cause than I to be thankful for the gift
of a strong arm and an athletic frame.
With that night the story of my series of adventures ends. I had
certainly had my fill of them, and ever since then my appetite for that
sort of thing has been considerably less keen. But apart from the more
selfish advantage I derived, the winning of a most charming wife, it
has always been a satisfaction to me to reflect that what I did served
a useful purpose in ridding the world of a gang of precious villains. I
have since visited the Monastery of St. Tranquillin in the Geierthal;
it is now the innocent abode of a prosperous farmer, who occasionally
entertains stray sportsmen in rather different fashion from his
predecessors, and is, happily, ignorant of what lies beneath the ground
he plods over, or the dark history of the rooms in which his children
play.
After the death of Count Rallenstein the rule of the Jaguar was known
no more, and Von Lindheim, after spending several months with us in
England, was able to return to his estate, there to live in peace and
safety.
From the subsequent marriage of the poor Princess Casilde there sprang,
as every student of European affairs knows, the consort of one of the
most illustrious rulers; but the keenest and most diligent of students
has never found the name Von Orsova in her family tree, and yet that
was undoubtedly the Princess's name before her marriage. Still, I have
made a journey, more than once, to lay a wreath on the grave of the
handsome Rittmeister von Orsova, the man whose fate, though it brought
terror and death to others, yet gave supreme happiness to me.
THE END
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Transcriber's Notes:
Minor changes have been made to correct printer's errors and to
regularize hyphenation.
Words that were in italics in the paper edition of this book have been
shown with an underscore (_) enclosing them.
Words that were in bold font in the paper edition of this book have
been shown with an equal sign (=) enclosing them.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Red Chancellor, by Sir William Magnay