THE AMETHYST RING
The topmost branches of the tree, protruding through the window,
rendered the centre of the room untenable, so Malartic and his three
aids ranged themselves two and two against the wall on either side of
it, armed with pistols and swords—ready to give the assailants a warm
welcome.
“You had better retire, my lord duke, or else put on a mask,” whispered
Malartic to the young nobleman, “so that you may not be seen and
recognised in this affair.”
“What do I care?” cried Vallombreuse, flourishing his sword. “I am not
afraid of anybody in the world—and besides, those who see me will never
go away from this to tell of it.”
“But at least your lordship will place this second Helen in some safe
retreat. A stray bullet might so easily deprive your highness of the
prize that cost so dear—and it would be such a pity.”
The duke, finding this advice judicious, went at once over to where
Isabelle was standing beside Chiquita, and throwing his arms round her
attempted to carry her into the next room. The poor girl made a
desperate resistance, and slipping from the duke’s grasp rushed to the
window, regardless of danger, crying, “Save me, de Sigognac! save me!”
A voice from without answered, “I am coming,” but, before he could
reach the window, Vallombreuse had again seized his prey, and succeeded
in carrying her into the adjoining room, closing and bolting the stout
oaken door behind him just as de Sigognac bounded into the chamber he
had quitted. His entrance was so sudden, and so swiftly and boldly
made, that he entirely escaped the pistol shots aimed at him, and the
four bullets all fell harmless. When the smoke had cleared away and the
“garrison” saw that he was unhurt, a murmur of astonishment arose, and
one of the men exclaimed aloud that Captain Fracasse—the only name by
which _they_ knew him—must bear a charmed life; whereupon, Malartic
cried, “Leave him to me, I’ll soon finish him, and do you three keep a
strict guard over the window there; for there will be more to follow
this one if I am not mistaken.”
But he did not find his self-imposed task as easy as he supposed—for de
Sigognac was ready for him, and gave him plenty to do, though his
surprise and disappointment were overwhelming when he found that
Isabelle was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” he cried impetuously. “Where is Isabelle? I heard her
voice in here only a moment ago.”
“Don’t ask me!” Malartic retorted. “_You_ didn’t give her into my
charge.” And all this time their swords were flashing and clashing, as
the combat between them grew more animated.
A moment later, before the men had finished reloading their pistols,
Scapin dashed in through the window, throwing a remarkable somersault
like an acrobat as he came, and seeing that the three ruffians had laid
down their swords beside them on the floor while attending to their
other weapons, he seized upon them all, ere their owners had recovered
from their astonishment at his extraordinary advent, and hurled them
through the broken casement down into the moat. Then, laying hold of
one of the three from behind, and pinning down his arms securely, he
placed him in front of himself for a shield—turning him dexterously
this way and that, in order to keep his body always between his own and
the enemy; so that they dared not fire upon him lest they should kill
their comrade, who was vehemently beseeching them to spare his life,
and vainly struggling to escape from Scapin’s iron grip.
The combat between de Sigognac and Malartic was still going on, but at
last, the baron—who had already wounded his adversary slightly, and
whose agony and desperation at being kept from prosecuting his search
for Isabelle were intense—wrested Malartic’s sword from his grasp, by a
dexterous manœuvre with his own, and putting his foot upon it as it lay
on the floor raised the point of his blade to the professional
ruffian’s throat, crying “Surrender, or you are a dead man!”
At this critical moment another one of the besieging party burst in
through the window, who, seeing at a glance how matters stood, said to
Malartic in an authoritative tone, “You can surrender without dishonour
to this valiant hero—you are entirely at his mercy. You have done your
duty loyally—now consider yourself a prisoner of war.”
Then turning to de Sigognac, he said, “You may trust his word, for he
is an honourable fellow in his way, and will not molest you again—I
will answer for him.”
Malartic made a gesture of acquiescence, and the baron let him
go—whereupon the discomfited bully picked up his sword, and with a
crestfallen air walked off very disconsolately to a corner, where he
sat down and occupied himself in staunching the blood that was flowing
from his wound. The other three men were quickly conquered, and, at the
suggestion of the latest comer, were securely bound hand and foot as
they lay upon the floor, and then left to reflect upon their
misfortunes.
“They can’t do any more mischief now,” said Jacquemin Lampourde,
mockingly; for it was that famous fighting man in person, who, in his
enthusiastic admiration, or rather adoration, for de Sigognac, had
offered his services on this momentous occasion—services by no means to
be despised. As to the brave Hérode, he was doing good service in
fighting the rest of the garrison below. They had hastened out and
crossed the moat in the little row-boat as quickly as possible after
the alarm was given, but arrived too late, as we have seen, to prevent
the assailants from ascending their strange scaling ladder. So they
determined to follow, hoping to overtake and dislodge some of them. But
Hérode, who had found the upper branches bending and cracking in a very
ominous manner under his great weight, was forced to turn about and
make his way back to the main trunk, where, under cover of darkness, he
quietly awaited the climbing foe. Mérindol, who commanded this
detachment of the garrison, was first, and being completely taken by
surprise was easily dislodged and thrown down into the water below. The
next one, aroused to a sense of his danger by this, pulled out a pistol
and fired, but in the agitation of the moment, and the darkness, missed
his aim, so that he was entirely at the tyrant’s mercy, and in an
instant was held suspended over the deep waters of the moat. He clung
desperately to a little branch he had managed to lay hold of, and made
such a brave fight for his life, that Hérode, who was merciful by
nature, though so fierce of aspect, decided to make terms with him, if
he could do so without injuring the interests of his own party; and
upon receiving a solemn promise from him to remain strictly neutral
during the remainder of the fray, the powerful actor lifted him up,
with the greatest ease, and seated him in safety upon the tree-trunk
again. The poor fellow was so grateful that he was even better than his
word, for, making use of the password and giving a pretended order from
Mérindol to the other two, who were some distance behind him and
ignorant of what had happened, he sent them off post-haste to attend to
an imaginary foe at some distance from the château; availing himself of
their absence to make good his escape, after heartily thanking Hérode
for his clemency. The moon was just rising, and by its light the tyrant
spied the little row-boat, lying not very far off at the foot of a
flight of steps in the steep bank, and he was not slow to make use of
it to cross the moat, and penetrate into the interior court of the
château—the postern having been fortunately left open. Looking about
him, to see how he could best rejoin his comrades within the building,
his eyes fell upon the porch guarded by the two huge, calm sphinxes,
and he wisely concluded that through it must lie his way to the scene
of action.
Meantime de Sigognac, Scapin and Lampourde, having a chance to look
about them, were horrified to find that they were prisoners in the room
where the battle had been fought. In vain they tried to burst open the
stout oaken door which was their only means of egress—for the tree had,
but a moment before, given way and fallen with a loud crash into the
moat; in vain they strove to cut through one of the panels, or force
the lock from its fastenings. To de Sigognac this delay was maddening,
for he knew that the Duke of Vallombreuse had carried Isabelle away,
and that he must still be with her. He worked like a giant himself, and
incited the others to redouble their efforts; making battering rams of
various pieces of furniture—resorting to every means that their
ingenuity could devise—but without making the least impression on the
massive barrier. They had paused in dismay, when suddenly a slight,
grinding noise was heard, like a key turning in a lock, and the door,
so unsuccessfully attacked, opened as if by magic before them.
“What good angel has come to our aid?” cried de Sigognac; “and by what
miracle does this door open of itself, after having so stoutly resisted
all our efforts?”
“There is neither angel nor miracle; only Chiquita,” answered a quiet
little voice, as the child appeared from behind the door, and fixed her
great, dark, liquid eyes calmly on de Sigognac. She had managed to slip
out with Vallombreuse and Isabelle, entirely unnoticed by the former,
and in the hope of being of use to the latter.
“Where is Isabelle?” cried the baron, as he crossed the threshold and
looked anxiously round the anteroom, which was dimly lighted by one
little flickering lamp. For a moment he did not perceive her; the Duke
of Vallombreuse, surprised at the sudden opening of the door, which he
had believed to be securely fastened and impenetrable, had retreated
into a corner, and placed Isabelle, who was almost fainting from terror
and exhaustion, behind him. She had sunk upon her knees, with her head
leaning against the wall, her long hair, which had come down, falling
about her, and her dress in the utmost disorder; for she had struggled
desperately in the arms of her captor; who, feeling that his fair
victim was about to escape from his clutches, had vainly striven to
snatch a few kisses from the sweet lips so temptingly near his own.
“Here she is,” said Chiquita, “in this corner, behind the Duke of
Vallombreuse; but to get to her you must first kill him.”
“Of course I shall kill him,” cried de Sigognac, advancing sword in
hand towards the young duke, who was ready to receive him.
“We shall see about that, Sir Captain Fracasse—doughty knight of
_Bohémiennes!_” said Vallombreuse disdainfully, and the conflict began.
The duke was not de Sigognac’s equal at this kind of work, but still he
was skilful and brave, and had had too much good instruction to handle
his sword like a broom-stick, as Lampourde expressed it. He stood
entirely upon the defensive, and was exceedingly wary and prudent,
hoping, as his adversary must be already considerably fatigued by his
encounter with Malartic, that he might be able to get the better of him
this time, and retrieve his previous defeat. At the very beginning he
had succeeded in raising a small silver whistle to his lips with his
left hand—and its shrill summons brought five or six armed attendants
into the room.
“Carry away this woman,” he cried, “and put out those two rascals. I
will take care of the captain myself.”
The sudden interruption of these fresh forces astonished de Sigognac,
and as he saw two of the men lift up and carry off Isabelle—who had
fainted quite away—he was thrown for an instant off his guard, and very
nearly run through the body by his opponent.
Roused to a sense of his danger, he attacked the duke with renewed
fury, and with a terrible thrust, that made him reel, wounded him
seriously in the upper part of the chest.
Meanwhile Lampourde and Scapin had shown the duke’s lackeys that it
would not be a very easy matter to put them out, and were handling them
rather roughly, when the cowardly fellows, seeing that their master was
wounded, and leaning against the wall, deathly pale, thought that he
was done for, and although they were fully armed, took to their heels
and fled, deaf to his feeble cry for assistance. While all this was
going on, the tyrant was making his way up the grand staircase, as fast
as his corpulence would permit, and reached the top just in time to see
Isabelle, pale, dishevelled, motionless, and apparently dead, being
borne along the corridor by two lackeys. Without stopping to make any
inquiries, and full of wrath at the thought that the sweet girl had
fallen a victim to the wickedness of the cruel Duke of Vallombreuse, he
drew his sword, and fell upon the two men with such fury that they
dropped their light burden and fled down the stairs as fast as their
legs could carry them. Then he knelt down beside the unconscious girl,
raised her gently in his arms, and found that her heart was beating,
though but feebly, and that she apparently had no wound, while she
sighed faintly, like a person beginning to revive after a swoon. In
this position he was found by de Sigognac, who had effectually gotten
rid of Vallombreuse, by the famous and well-directed thrust that had
thrown Jacquemin Lampourde into a rapture of admiration and delight. He
knelt down beside his darling, took both her hands in his, and said, in
the most tender tones, that Isabelle heard vaguely as if in a dream:
“Rouse yourself, dear heart, and fear nothing. You are safe now, with
your own friends, and your own true lover—nobody can harm or frighten
you again.”
Although she did not yet open her eyes, a faint smile dawned upon the
colourless lips, and her cold, trembling, little fingers feebly
returned the tender pressure of de Sigognac’s warm hands. Lampourde
stood by, and looked down with tearful eyes upon this touching
group—for he was exceedingly romantic and sentimental, and always
intensely interested in a love affair. Suddenly, in the midst of the
profound silence that had succeeded to the uproar of the mêlée, the
winding of a horn was heard without, and in a moment energetically
repeated. It was evidently a summons that had to be instantly obeyed;
the drawbridge was lowered in haste, with a great rattling of chains,
and a carriage driven rapidly into the court, while the red flaring
light of torches flashed through the windows of the corridor. In
another minute the door of the vestibule was thrown open, and hasty
steps ascended the grand staircase. First came four tall lackeys, in
rich liveries, carrying lights, and directly behind them a tall,
noble-looking man, who was dressed from head to foot in black velvet,
with an order shining on his breast—of those that are usually reserved
for kings and princes of the blood, and only very exceptionally
bestowed, upon the most illustrious personages.
When the four lackeys reached the landing at the head of the stairs,
they silently ranged themselves against the wall, and stood like
statues bearing torches; without the raising of an eyelid, or the
slightest change in the stolid expression of their countenances to
indicate that they perceived anything out of the usual way—exhibiting
in perfection that miraculous imperturbability and self-command which
is peculiar to well-bred, thoroughly trained menservants. The gentleman
whom they had preceded paused ere he stepped upon the landing. Although
age had brought wrinkles to his handsome face, and turned his abundant
dark hair gray, it was still easy to recognise in him the original of
the portrait that had so fascinated Isabelle, and whose protection she
had passionately implored in her distress.
It was the princely father of Vallombreuse—the son bearing a different
name, that of a duchy he possessed, until he in his turn should become
the head of the family, and succeed to the title of prince.
At sight of Isabelle, supported by de Sigognac and the tyrant, whose
ghastly pallor made her look like one dead, the aged gentleman raised
his arms towards heaven and groaned.
“Alas! I am too late,” said he, “for all the haste I made,” and
advancing a few steps he bent over the prostrate girl, and took her
lifeless hand in his. Upon this hand, white, cold and diaphanous, as if
it had been sculptured in alabaster, shone a ring, set with an amethyst
of unusual size. The old nobleman seemed strangely agitated as it
caught his eye. He drew it gently from Isabelle’s slender finger, with
a trembling hand signed to one of the torch-bearers to bring his light
nearer, and by it eagerly examined the device cut upon the stone; first
holding it close to the light and then at arm’s length; as those whose
eyesight is impaired by age are wont to do. The Baron de Sigognac,
Hérode and Lampourde anxiously watched the agitated movements of the
prince, and his change of expression, as he contemplated this jewel,
which he seemed to recognise; and which he turned and twisted between
his fingers, with a pained look in his face, as if some great trouble
had befallen him.
“Where is the Duke of Vallombreuse?” he cried at last, in a voice of
thunder. “Where is that monster in human shape, who is unworthy of my
race?”
He had recognised, without a possibility of doubt, in this ring, the
one bearing a fanciful device, with which he had been accustomed, long
ago, to seal the notes he wrote to Cornelia—Isabelle’s mother, and his
own youthful love. How happened it that this ring was on the finger of
the young actress, who had been forcibly and shamefully abducted by
Vallombreuse? From whom could she have received it? These questions
were torturing to him.
“Can it be possible that she is Cornelia’s daughter and mine?” said the
prince to himself. “Her profession, her age, her sweet face, in which I
can trace a softened, beautified likeness of her mother’s, but which
has a peculiarly high bred, refined expression, worthy of a royal
princess, all combine to make me believe it must be so. Then, alas!
alas! it is his own sister that this cursed libertine has so wronged,
and he has been guilty of a horrible, horrible crime. Oh! I am cruelly
punished for my youthful folly and sin.”
Isabelle at length opened her eyes, and her first look fell upon the
prince, holding the ring that he had drawn from her finger. It seemed
to her as if she had seen his face before—but in youth, without the
gray hair and beard. It seemed also to be an aged copy of the portrait
over the chimney-piece in her room, and a feeling of profound
veneration filled her heart as she gazed at him. She saw, too, her
beloved de Sigognac kneeling beside her, watching her with tenderest
devotion; and the worthy tyrant as well—both safe and sound. To the
horrors of the terrible struggle had succeeded the peace and security
of deliverance. She had nothing more to fear, for her friends or for
herself—how could she ever be thankful enough?
The prince, who had been gazing at her with passionate earnestness, as
if her fair face possessed an irresistible charm for him, now addressed
her in low, moved tones:
“Mademoiselle, will you kindly tell me how you came by this ring, which
recalls very dear and sacred memories to me? Has it been long in your
possession?”
“I have had it ever since my infancy; it is the only thing that my poor
mother left me,” Isabelle replied, with gentle dignity.
“And who was your mother? Will you, tell me something about her?”
continued the prince, with increasing emotion.
“Her name was Cornelia, and she was an actress, belonging to the same
troupe that I am a member of now.”
“Cornelia! then there is no possible doubt about it,” murmured the
prince to himself, in great agitation. “Yes, it is certainly she whom I
have been seeking all these years—and now to find her thus!”
Then, controlling his emotion, he resumed his usual calm, majestic
demeanour, and turning back to Isabelle, said to her, “Permit me to
keep this ring for the present; I will soon give it back to you.”
“I am content to leave it in your lordship’s hands,” the young actress
replied, in whose mind the memory of a face, that she had seen long
years ago bending over her cradle, was growing clearer and more
distinct every moment.
“Gentlemen,” said the prince, turning to de Sigognac and his
companions, “under any other circumstances I might find your presence
here, in my château, with arms in your hands, unwarranted, but I am
aware of the necessity that drove you to forcibly invade this mansion,
hitherto sacred from such scenes as this—I know that violence must be
met with violence, and justifies it; therefore I shall take no further
notice of what has happened here to-night, and you need have no fears
of any evil consequences to yourselves because of your share in it. But
where is the Duke of Vallombreuse? that degenerate son who disgraces my
old age.”
As if in obedience to his father’s call, the young duke at that moment
appeared upon the threshold of the door leading into what had been
Isabelle’s apartment, supported by Malartic. He was frightfully pale,
and his clinched hand pressed a handkerchief tightly upon his wounded
chest. He came forward with difficulty, looking like a ghost. Only a
strong effort of will kept him from falling—an effort that gave to his
face the immobility of a marble mask. He had heard the voice of his
father, whom, depraved and shameless as he was, he yet respected and
dreaded, and he hoped to be able to conceal his wound from him. He bit
his lips so as not to cry out or groan in his agony, and resolutely
swallowed down the bloody foam that kept rising and filling his mouth.
He even took off his hat, in spite of the frightful pain the raising of
his arm caused him, and stood uncovered and silent before his angry
parent.
“Sir,” said the prince, severely, “your misdeeds transcend all limits,
and your behaviour is such that I shall be forced to implore the king
to send you to prison, or into exile. You are not fit to be at large.
Abduction—imprisonment—criminal assault. These are not simple
gallantries; and though I might be willing to pardon and overlook many
excesses, committed in the wildness of licentious youth, I never could
bring myself to forgive a deliberate and premeditated crime. Do you
know, you monster,” he continued approaching Vallombreuse, and
whispering in his ear, so that no one else could hear, “do you know who
this young girl is? this good and chaste Isabelle, whom you have
forcibly abducted, in spite of her determined and virtuous resistance!
She is your own sister!
“May she replace the son you are about to lose,” the young duke
replied, attacked by a sudden faintness, and an agony of pain which he
felt that he could not long endure and live; “but I am not as guilty as
you suppose. Isabelle is pure—stainless. I swear it, by the God before
whom I must shortly appear. Death does not lie, and you may believe
what I say, upon the word of a dying gentleman.”
These words were uttered loudly and distinctly, so as to be heard by
all. Isabelle turned her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, upon de
Sigognac, and read in those of her true and faithful lover that he had
not waited for the solemn attestation, “in extremis,” of the Duke of
Vallombreuse to believe in the perfect purity of her whom he adored.
“But what is the matter?” asked the prince, holding out his hand to his
son, who staggered and swayed to and fro in spite of Malartic’s efforts
to support him, and whose face was fairly livid.
“Nothing, father,” answered Vallombreuse, in a scarcely articulate
voice, “nothing—only I am dying”—and he fell at full length on the
floor before the prince could clasp him in his arms, as he endeavoured
to do.
“He did not fall on his face,” said Jacquemin Lampourde, sententiously;
“it’s nothing but a fainting fit. He may escape yet. We duellists are
familiar with this sort of thing, my lord; a great deal more so than
most medical men, and you may depend upon what I say.”
“A doctor! a doctor!” cried the prince, forgetting his anger as he saw
his son lying apparently lifeless at his feet. “Perhaps this man is
right, and there may be some hope for him yet. A fortune to whomsoever
will save my son!—my only son!—the last scion of a noble race. Go! run
quickly! What are you about there?—don’t you understand me? Go, I say,
and run as fast as you can; take the fleetest horse in the stable.”
Whereupon two of the imperturbable lackeys, who had held their torches
throughout this exciting scene without moving a muscle, hastened off to
execute their master’s orders. Some of his own servants now came
forward, raised up the unconscious Duke of Vallombreuse with every
possible care and precaution, and by his father’s command carried him
to his own room and laid him on his own bed, the aged prince following,
with a face from which grief and anxiety had already driven away all
traces of anger. He saw his race extinct in the death of this son, whom
he so dearly loved—despite his fault—and whose vices he forgot for the
moment, remembering only his brilliant and lovable qualities. A
profound melancholy took complete possession of him, as he stood for a
few moments plunged in a sorrowful reverie that everybody respected.
Isabelle, entirely revived, and no longer feeling at all faint, had
risen to her feet, and now stood between de Sigognac and the tyrant,
adjusting, with a trembling hand, her disordered dress and dishevelled
hair. Lampourde and Scapin had retired to a little distance from them,
and held themselves modestly aloof, whilst the men within, still bound
hand and foot, kept as quiet as possible; fearful of their fate if
brought to the prince’s notice. At length that aged nobleman returned,
and breaking the terrible silence that had weighed upon all, said, in
severe tones, “Let all those who placed their services at the
disposition of the Duke of Vallombreuse, to aid him in indulging his
evil passions and committing a terrible crime, quit this château
instantly. I will refrain from placing you in the hands of the public
executioner, though you richly deserve it. Go now! vanish! get ye back
to your lairs! and rest assured that justice will not fail to overtake
you at last.”
These words were not complimentary, but the trembling offenders were
thankful to get off so easily, and the ruffians, whom Lampourde and
Scapin had unbound, followed Malartic down the stairs in silence,
without daring to claim their promised reward. When they had
disappeared, the prince advanced and took Isabelle by the hand, and
gently detaching her from the group of which she had formed a part, led
her over to where he had been standing, and kept her beside him.
“Stay here, mademoiselle,” he said; “your place is henceforth by my
side. It is the least that you can do to fulfil your duty as my
daughter, since you are the innocent means of depriving me of my son.”
And he wiped away a tear, that, despite all his efforts to control his
grief, rolled down his withered cheek. Then turning to de Sigognac, he
said, with an incomparably noble gesture, “Sir, you are at liberty to
withdraw, with your brave companions. Isabelle will have nothing to
fear under her father’s protection, and this château will be her home
for the present. Now that her birth is made known it is not fitting
that my daughter should return to Paris with you. I thank you, though
it costs me the hope of perpetuating my race, for having spared my son
a disgraceful action—what do I say? An abominable crime. I would rather
have a bloodstain on my escutcheon than a dishonourable blot. Since
Vallombreuse was infamous in his conduct, you have done well to kill
him. You have acted like a true gentleman, which I am assured that you
are, in chivalrously protecting weakness, innocence and virtue. You are
nobly in the right. That my daughter’s honour has been preserved
unstained, I owe to you—and it compensates me for the loss of my son—at
least my reason tells me that it should do so; but the father’s heart
rebels, and unjust ideas of revenge might arise, which I should find it
difficult to conquer and set at rest. Therefore you had better go your
way now, and whatever the result may be I will not pursue or molest
you. I will try to forget that a terrible necessity turned your sword
against my son’s life.”
“My lord,” said de Sigognac, with profound respect, “I feel so keenly
for your grief as a father, that I would have accepted any reproaches,
no matter how bitter and unjust, from you, without one word of protest
or feeling of resentment; even though I cannot reproach myself for my
share in this disastrous conflict. I do not wish to say anything to
justify myself in your eyes, at the expense of the unhappy Duke of
Vallombreuse, but I beg you to believe that this quarrel was not of my
seeking. He persistently threw himself in my way, and I have done
everything I could to spare him, in more than one encounter. Even here
it was his own blind fury that led to his being wounded. I leave
Isabelle, who is dearer to me than my own soul, in your hands, and
shall grieve my whole life long for this sad victory; which is a
veritable and terrible defeat for me, since it destroys my happiness.
Ah! if only I could have been slain myself, instead of your unhappy
son; it would have been better and happier for me.”
He bowed with grave dignity to the prince, who courteously returned his
salute, exchanged a long look, eloquent of passionate love and
heart-breaking regret, with Isabelle, and went sadly down the grand
staircase, followed by his companions—not however without glancing back
more than once at the sweet girl he was leaving—who to save herself
from falling, leaned heavily against the railing of the landing,
sobbing as if her heart would break, and pressing a handkerchief to her
streaming eyes. And, so strange a thing is the human heart, the Baron
de Sigognac departed much comforted by the bitter grief and tears of
her whom he so devotedly loved and worshipped. He and his friends went
on foot to the little wood where they had left their horses tied to the
trees, found them undisturbed, mounted and returned to Paris.
“What do you think, my lord, of all these wonderful events?” said the
tyrant, after a long silence, to de Sigognac, beside whom he was
riding. “It all ends up like a regular tragi-comedy. Who would ever
have dreamed, in the midst of the mêlée, of the sudden entrance upon
the scene of the grand old princely father, preceded by torches, and
coming to put a little wholesome restraint on the too atrociously
outrageous pranks of his dissolute young son? And then the recognition
of Isabelle as his daughter, by means of the ring with a peculiar
device of his own engraved upon it; haven’t you seen exactly the same
sort of thing on the stage? But, after all, it is not so surprising
perhaps as it seems at the first glance—since the theatre is only a
copy of real life. Therefore, real life should resemble it, just as the
original does the portrait, eh? I have always heard that our sweet
little actress was of noble birth. Blazius and old Mme. Léonarde
remember seeing the prince when he was devoted to Cornelia. The duenna
has often tried to persuade Isabelle to seek out her father, but she is
of too modest and gentle a nature to take a step of that kind; not
wishing to intrude upon a family that might reject her, and willing to
content herself in her own lowly, position.”
“Yes, I knew all about that,” rejoined de Sigognac, “for Isabelle told
me some time ago her mother’s history, and spoke of the ring; but
without attaching any importance to the fact of her illustrious origin.
It is very evident, however, from the nobility and delicacy of her
nature, without any other proof, that princely blood flows in her
veins; and also the refined, pure, elevated type of her beauty
testifies to her descent. But what a terrible fatality that this cursed
Vallombreuse should turn out to be her brother! There is a dead body
between us now—a stream of blood separates us—and yet, I could not save
her honour in any other way. Unhappy mortal that I am! I have myself
created the obstacle upon which my love is wrecked, and killed my hopes
of future bliss with the very sword that defended the purity of the
woman I adore. In guarding her I love, I have put her away from me
forever. How could I go now and present myself to Isabelle with
blood-stained hands? Alas! that the blood which I was forced to shed in
her defence should have been her brother’s. Even if she, in her
heavenly goodness, could forgive me, and look upon me without a feeling
of horror, the prince, her father, would repulse and curse me as the
murderer of his only son. I was born, alas! under an unlucky star.”
“Yes, it is all very sad and lamentable, certainly,” said the tyrant;
“but worse entanglements than this have come out all right in the end.
You must remember that the Duke of Vallombreuse is only half-brother to
Isabelle, and that they were aware of the relationship but for a few
minutes before he fell dead at our feet; which must make a great
difference in her feelings. And besides, she hated that overbearing
nobleman, who pursued her so cruelly with his violent and scandalous
gallantries. The prince himself was far from being satisfied with his
wretched son—who was ferocious as Nero, dissolute as Heliogabalus, and
perverse as Satan himself, and who would have been hanged ten times
over if he had not been a duke. Do not be so disheartened! things may
turn out a great deal better than you think now.”
“God grant it, my good Hérode,” said de Sigognac fervently. “But
naturally I cannot feel happy about it. It would have been far better
for all if I had been killed instead of the duke, since Isabelle would
have been safe from his criminal pursuit under her father’s care. And
then, I may as well tell you all, a secret horror froze the very marrow
in my bones when I saw that handsome young man, but a moment before so
full of life, fire, and passion, fall lifeless, pale and stiff at my
feet. Hérode, the death of a man is a grave thing, and though I cannot
suffer from remorse for this one, since I have committed no crime,
still, all the time I see Vallombreuse before me, lying, motionless and
ghastly, with the blood oozing slowly from his wound. It haunts me. I
cannot drive the horrid sight away.”
“That is all wrong,” said the tyrant, soothingly—for the other was much
excited—“for you could not have done otherwise. Your conscience should
not reproach you. You have acted throughout, from the very beginning to
the end, like the noble gentleman that you are. These scruples are
owing to exhaustion, to the feverishness due to the excitement you have
gone through, and the chill from the night air. We will gallop on
swiftly in a moment, to set our blood flowing more freely, and drive
away these sad thoughts of yours. But one thing must be promptly done;
you must quit Paris, forthwith, and retire for a time to some quiet
retreat, until all this trouble is forgotten. The violent death of the
Duke of Vallombreuse will make a stir at the court, and in the city, no
matter how much pains may be taken to keep the facts from the public,
and, although he was not at all popular, indeed very much the reverse,
there will be much regret expressed, and you will probably be severely
blamed. But now let us put spurs to these lazy steeds of ours, and try
to get on a little faster.”
While they are galloping towards Paris, we will return to the
château—as quiet now as it had been noisy a little while before. In the
young duke’s room, a candelabrum, with several branches, stood on a
round table, so that the light from the candles fell upon the bed,
where he lay with closed eyes, as motionless as a corpse, and as pale.
The walls of the large chamber, above a high wainscot of ebony picked
out with gold, were hung with superb tapestry, representing the history
of Medea and Jason, with all its murderous and revolting details. Here,
Medea was seen cutting the body of Pelias into pieces, under pretext of
restoring his youth—there, the madly jealous woman and unnatural mother
was murdering her own children; in another panel she was fleeing,
surfeited with vengeance, in her chariot, drawn by huge dragons
breathing out flames of fire. The tapestry was certainly magnificent in
quality and workmanship, rich in colouring, artistic in design, and
very costly—but inexpressibly repulsive. These mythological horrors
gave the luxurious room an intensely disagreeable, lugubrious aspect,
and testified to the natural ferocity and cruelty of the person who had
selected them. Behind the bed the crimson silk curtains had been drawn
apart, exposing to view the representation of Jason’s terrible conflict
with the fierce, brazen bulls that guarded the golden fleece, and
Vallombreuse, lying senseless below them, looked as if he might have
been one of their victims. Various suits of clothes, of the greatest
richness and elegance, which had been successively tried on and
rejected, were scattered about, and in a splendid great Japanese vase,
standing on an ebony table near the head of the bed, was a bouquet of
beautiful flowers, destined to replace the one Isabelle had already
refused to receive—its glowing tints making a strange contrast with the
death-like face, which was whiter than the snowy pillow it rested on.
The prince, sitting in an arm-chair beside the bed, gazed at his
unconscious son with mournful intentness, and bent down from time to
time to listen at the slightly parted lips; but no fluttering breath
came through them; all was still. Never had the young duke looked
handsomer. The haughty, fierce expression, habitual with him, had given
place to a serenity that was wonderfully beautiful, though so like
death. As the father contemplated the perfect face and form, so soon to
crumble into dust, he forgot, in his overwhelming grief, that the soul
of a demon had animated it, and he thought sorrowfully of the great
name that had been revered and honoured for centuries past, but which
could not go down to centuries to come. More even than the death of his
son did he mourn for the extinction of his home.
Isabelle stood at the foot of the bed, with clasped hands, praying with
her whole soul for this new-found brother, who had expiated his crime
with his life—the crime of loving too much, which woman pardons so
easily.
The prince, who had been for some time holding his son’s icy cold hand
between both his own, suddenly thought that he could feel a slight
warmth in it, and not realizing that he himself had imparted it,
allowed himself to hope again.
“Will the doctor never come?” he cried impatiently; “something may yet
be done; I am persuaded of it.”
Even as he spoke the door opened, and the surgeon appeared, followed by
an assistant carrying a case of instruments. He bowed to the prince,
and without saying one word went straight to the bedside, felt the
patient’s pulse, put his hand over his heart, and shook his head
despondingly. However, to make sure, he drew a little mirror of
polished steel from his pocket, removed it from its case, and held it
for a moment over the parted lips; then, upon examining its surface
closely, he found that a slight dimness was visible upon it. Surprised
at this unexpected indication of life, he repeated the experiment, and
again the little mirror was dimmed—Isabelle and the prince meantime
breathlessly watching every movement, and even the expression of the
doctor’s face.
“Life is not entirely extinct,” he said at last, turning to the anxious
father, as he wiped the polished surface of his tiny mirror. “The
patient still breathes, and as long as there is life there is hope, But
do not give yourself up to a premature joy that might render your grief
more bitter afterwards. I only say that the Duke of Vallombreuse has
not yet breathed his last; that is all. Now, I am going to probe the
wound, which perhaps is not fatal, as it did not kill him at once.”
“You must not stay here, Isabelle,” said the prince, tenderly; “such
sights are too trying for a young girl like you. Go to your own room
now, my dear, and I will let you know the doctor’s verdict as soon as
he has pronounced it.”
Isabelle accordingly withdrew, and was conducted to an apartment that
had been made ready for her; the one she had occupied being all in
disorder after the terrible scenes that had been enacted there.
The surgeon proceeded with his examination, and when it was finished
said to the prince, “My lord, will you please to order a cot put up in
that corner yonder, and have a light supper sent in for my assistant
and myself? We shall remain for the night with the Duke of
Vallombreuse, and take turns in watching him. I must be with him
constantly, so as to note every symptom; to combat promptly those that
are unfavorable, and aid those that are the reverse. Your highness may
trust everything to me, and feel assured that all that human skill and
science can do towards saving your son’s life shall be faithfully done.
Let me advise you to go to your own room now and try to get some rest;
I think I may safely answer for my patient’s life until the morning.”
A little calmed and much encouraged by this assurance, the prince
retired to his own apartment, where every hour a servant brought him a
bulletin from the sick-room.
As to Isabelle, lying in her luxurious bed and vainly trying to sleep,
she lived over again in imagination all the wonderful as well as
terrible experiences of the last two days, and tried to realize her new
position; that she was now the acknowledged daughter of a mighty
prince, than whom only royalty was higher; that the dreaded Duke of
Vallombreuse, so handsome and winning despite his perversity, was no
longer a bold lover to be feared and detested, but a brother, whose
passion, if he lived, would doubtless be changed into a pure and calm
fraternal affection. This château, no longer her prison, had become her
home, and she was treated by all with the respect and consideration due
to the daughter of its master. From what had seemed to be her ruin had
arisen her good fortune, and a destiny radiant, unhoped-for, and beyond
her wildest flights of fancy. Yet, surrounded as she was by everything
to make her happy and content, Isabelle was far from feeling so—she was
astonished at herself for being sad and listless, instead of joyous and
exultant—but the thought of de Sigognac, so infinitely dear to her, so
far more precious than any other earthly blessing, weighed upon her
heart, and the separation from him was a sorrow for which nothing could
console her. Yet, now that their relative positions were so changed,
might not a great happiness be in store for her? Did not this very
change bring her nearer in reality to that true, brave, faithful, and
devoted lover, though for the moment they were parted? As a poor
nameless actress she had refused to accept his offered hand, lest such
an alliance should be disadvantageous to him and stand in the way of
his advancement, but now—how joyfully would she give herself to him.
The daughter of a great and powerful prince would be a fitting wife for
the Baron de Sigognac. But if he were the murderer of her father’s only
son; ah! then indeed they could never join hands over a grave. And even
if the young duke should recover, he might cherish a lasting resentment
for the man who had not only dared to oppose his wishes and designs,
but had also defeated and wounded him. As to the prince, good and
generous though he was, still he might not be able to bring himself to
look with favour upon the man who had almost deprived him of his son.
Then, too, he might desire some other alliance for his new-found
daughter—it was not impossible—but in her inmost heart she promised
herself to be faithful to her first and only love; to take refuge in a
convent rather than accept the hand of any other; even though that
other were as handsome as Apollo, and gifted as the prince of a fairy
tale. Comforted by this secret vow, by which she dedicated her life and
love to de Sigognac, whether their destiny should give them to each
other or keep them asunder, Isabelle was just falling into a sweet
sleep when a slight sound made her open her eyes, and they fell upon
Chiquita, standing at the foot of the bed and gazing at her with a
thoughtful, melancholy air.
“What is it, my dear child?” said Isabelle, in her sweetest tones. “You
did not go away with the others, then? I am glad; and if you would like
to stay here with me, Chiquita, I will keep you and care for you
tenderly; as is justly due to you, my dear, for you have done a great
deal for me.”
“I love you dearly,” answered Chiquita, “but I cannot stay with you
while Agostino lives; he is my master, I must follow him. But I have
one favour to beg before I leave you; if you think that I have earned
the pearl necklace now, will you kiss me? No one ever did but you, and
it was so sweet.”
“Indeed I will, and with all my heart,” said Isabelle, taking the
child’s thin face between her hands and kissing her warmly on her brown
cheeks, which flushed crimson under the soft caress.
“And now, good-bye!” said Chiquita, when after a few moments of silence
she had resumed her usual _sang-froid_. She turned quickly away, but,
catching sight of the knife she had given Isabelle, which lay upon the
dressing-table, she seized it eagerly, saying, “Give me back my knife
now; you will not need it any more,” and vanished.