SCENE FIRST.--_Madame de Pompadour's salon._
Some dozen courtiers, male and female, are gathered in a group at a
little distance, but not too far away, from a sofa standing by an open
window, just where the breeze comes in pleasantly from without. A lady
dressed in negligee _robe de chambre_ of blue satin lies upon the sofa,
propped up with pillows. She is slowly fanning herself with a very
charmingly painted fan, listening the while impassively to the subdued
talk, and the occasional ripple of laughter that follows some more
than usually apt observation or repartee. She does not talk or smile
herself, but only continues fanning herself with slow impassiveness.
She is still beautiful, but she is somewhat haggard and worn, and
even the powder and rouge, and an occasional patch here and there,
cannot altogether hide the leaden pallor of ill health. It is Madame
de Pompadour, and it is one of the days in which she feels more than
usually unwell.
The conversation of those around chiefly concerns two lovers, whom
all Paris is just now petting and caressing, the young and charming
Monsieur de Monnière-Croix and his fiancée Mademoiselle de Flourens.
The match is altogether a singular and remarkable one. Those who have
seen the young man report him very handsome, but it is whispered
that he is of obscure origin. Were it not for his stupendous wealth,
the story of which is very well authenticated, it would have been a
dreadful misalliance. As it is, that wealth is so great as to level all
distinctions, and the world has not only forgiven the match, but has
been vastly interested in the love affair. The talk of it has reached
even Madame de Pompadour's ears, and she has been pleased to express
a desire to have them presented to her. The day and the time for that
presentation has arrived, and that perhaps is why the conversation just
now concerns the lovers.
Madame de Berry protests that they are the handsomest couple that she
has ever seen; their love so innocent, so deliciously childlike. They
are a new Corydon and Phyllis--Cupidon and Psyche. In them Arcadia
is come again. It is the prettiest thing in the world to see their
uneasiness when separated, their fond glances when together.
Monsieur de Gontat had heard the Duchesse de Choiseul speak of them the
other day. She declares them her latest passion, and says that they are
like that which the poets describe, and which nobody ever saw before.
She loves to have them near her--the dear Duchesse--and says that they
make her feel that life is not altogether like the new screen that
Monsieur Watteau has just finished for her, not altogether flat, not
altogether surface, not all pretended simplicity in powder and patches,
and with painted fan to hide a painted blush; she says they make her
have a better opinion of herself. So the buzz of talk goes on, and
Madame de Pompadour fans herself and listens impassively.
Then the talk suddenly turns to the Count de St. Germaine, who has
grown such a favorite, not only with Madame de Pompadour, but of late
with his Majesty himself.
Monsieur de Gontat tells of the last wonder relating to him. Yesterday
his Majesty sent for him.
"Monsieur Count," said he, "they say that you can remove flaws from a
diamond. Is it so?"
"Yes, sire," answered the count.
"Then here is a diamond that would be worth fifty thousand livres
except for this flaw; it is not worth five thousand now. Can you remedy
it?"
"I can try, sire," answers the count, and he slips it into his
waistcoat.
Would you believe it? He brings it in this morning sound and whole and
without flaw.
"I myself," says Monsieur de Gontat, "was present when the jeweller
appraised it. His Majesty said that he would keep it as one of the
greatest curiosities of his cabinet."
Monsieur de Gontat had hardly ended his story when Oliver and Céleste
were announced.
Madame de Pompadour ceased her fanning and turned her head languidly as
they were ushered across the room and presented.
The Marquis de Flourens, who had come with them, was also presented. He
paid his respects, and then immediately withdrew to one side, and was
absorbed in the little group of those in waiting.
Madame reached out her hand to Céleste. "Come hither, my child, and let
me look at you," said she.
Céleste came timidly forward, and Madame de Pompadour took her by the
hand. She drew her down until the girl kneeled upon the floor beside
the sofa. The poor sick woman looked long and earnestly into her young
face.
"You are beautiful, you are young, you are happy," she murmured. "You
are happy, are you not?"
[Illustration: "SHE DREW HER DOWN UNTIL THE GIRL KNEELED UPON THE FLOOR
BESIDE HER."]
"Yes," answered Céleste, in a whisper.
"And you love Monsieur de Monnière-Croix?"
"Yes," whispered Céleste again, and her voice thrilled.
Madame de Pompadour fetched a little half-sigh, which faded to a smile
before it had left her lips. "Ah!" said she, "it is the young who are
happy." Then, after a moment's pause, "Will you kiss me, child?"
Céleste bent forward, and her fresh young innocent lips met those
others--so soiled, so wan and faded. It was all as effectively done as
anything upon the boards of the Comédie Française.
Madame de Pompadour turned with a smile, and beckoned to Oliver.
"Come, Monsieur Count," said she, "your place should be here beside
your lady;" and she motioned to him to kneel beside Céleste.
Oliver saw the ladies and gentlemen who stood around smile. He was
embarrassed; he blushed like a school-boy; but there was nothing for
him to do but to kneel. Céleste saw his confusion, and furtively
reached out her little hand and gave his an encouraging squeeze. Madame
de Pompadour saw it and smiled. Yes, it certainly was Arcadian.
At that moment another arrival was announced, "Monsieur the Count de
St. Germaine!"
Now and then the name of the Count de St. Germaine, and the story
of his strange doings, reached even to the paradise of the lovers.
Occasionally Oliver heard a breath of these things, and when he heard
it he trembled--the breath was sinister and smelt from the pit. But he
was not troubled for long at a time; his cockle floated gayly along the
stream of fateful happiness; he was too absorbed in his love-dreams
to burden his thoughts with the fear of being overwhelmed in the dark
waters upon which that cockle swam. Nevertheless, the name, falling so
unexpectedly upon Oliver's ears, came with a certain shock of dread.
He bent his head as he kneeled, and for a time did not dare to look
around. The new-comer came forward with the well-assured air of a
favorite. Oliver could feel him coming nearer and nearer.
"Rise, my children," said Madame de Pompadour. And as they obeyed, she
presented Oliver to the other. "Monsieur de St. Germaine," said she,
"let me present to you Monsieur de Monnière-Croix."
Oliver slowly raised his eyes, and then his heart crumbled away within
him. _It was the master!_
[Illustration: "MONSIEUR THE COUNT DE ST. GERMAINE!"]
It seemed to Oliver as though the room darkened around him, and he
saw but one thing--that cold, handsome face. His ears rang as though
with a chime of bells. The floor seemed to rock beneath his feet,
for he knew what to expect when those thin lips parted--he would be
denounced, exposed, here before Madame de Pompadour and her court. His
heart shrunk together, but he steeled himself to face the coming blow.
But he was mistaken. The thin lips parted, the face lit up with a
smile. "Ah," cried the well-known voice, "it is Oliver; it is the
little Oliver! You do not remember me. No? Oh, well, it is not likely
you would; and yet I was the dearest friend that your poor uncle, who
is now in Paradise, had in the world." He turned to the others who
stood there, still holding Oliver by the hand, which he had taken when
he first began speaking. "The world," said he, "does not yet know half
the romance connected with this young man. His uncle Henri, Chevalier
de Monnière-Croix, was one of the richest men in France. Poor soul! he
is dead now, but when he lived he was the owner of one of the largest
diamond mines in Brazil. Diamonds! The world has never seen the like
of the Chevalier de Monnière-Croix's diamonds! And now this young man
has been left heir to them all. Henri de Monnière-Croix and I were
in Brazil together, and it was with him that I gained what little
knowledge I possess concerning precious stones; I may say, indeed, that
he was my teacher in that knowledge. I was intimately acquainted with
his affairs, and know that Oliver, as is reputed of him, is one of the
richest men in Europe."
All who were present listened to the count's speech with breathless
interest and in dead silence. But to Oliver the words he heard spoken
lifted him at a bound from the gulf of despair into which he was
falling. The master did not mean to ruin him just then. The rebound
from the tensity of the strain was too great for him to bear. The
ground beneath his feet heaved and rocked, the room spun around and
around. He heard some one, he knew not whom, give a sharp exclamation;
he felt a strong, sinewy arm clasp him about the body; he knew it was
the master's arm, and then--nothing.
SCENE SECOND.--_A room in the Hôtel de Flourens, whither Oliver has
been removed after having fainted in madame's salon._
It is the next day, and Oliver is discovered lying upon a sofa, limp,
heart-sick, overshadowed by the looming of coming misfortune. The
ladies have sent many inquiries as to his health, and two little notes
from Céleste are lying upon the table at his elbow. Enter suddenly
Henri, who is in attendance upon him.
"A gentleman to see monsieur," said the valet, and almost instantly
another voice, speaking from behind him, said:
"It is I, Oliver. I have taken the liberty of an old friend of your
dear uncle; I was anxious concerning your health, and so followed
immediately. You need not wait, Henri"--to the valet.
He entered as he spoke, and waiting for a moment to make sure that
Henri had gone, then closed the door and turned to Oliver, who now
sat speechless, motionless, fascinated, with eyes fixed, and a face
as white as wax. He drew forward a chair, and placing it close to
Oliver, sat for a long time looking fixedly and intently at him. At
last, without removing his eyes, he drew out his snuffbox--the famous
snuffbox that Madame de Pompadour had given him with her own hands--and
took a pinch of snuff with a deal of gusto.
"Well," said he, "have you nothing to say to me?"
"I thought," said Oliver, dully, "that it was you who had, perhaps,
something to say to me."
The Count de St. Germaine laughed. "Something to say to you?" said he.
"Oh! You mean, perhaps, about that looking-glass of mine, upon which
you drew that accursed sign with one of those very diamonds that I had
taught you to make? Perhaps you thought that by doing so you would
prevent my following your motions for the future. Well, as far as the
mirror is concerned, you were right; you have spoiled it for me. You,
who are generally so dull, sometimes surprise one with sudden gleams
of your bucolic cunning. I confess that you did most effectually what
you intended; you ruined that looking-glass forever. So far as I am
concerned, I can never see anything in it again. Are you not deserving
of punishment for that?"
Oliver strove to speak, but his white lips uttered no sound.
"Again," said the Count de St. Germaine, "I commanded you when
we parted that you should never return to Paris; I forbade you
imperatively, absolutely, from coming. I unbosomed myself to you and
told you all; I confessed to you that I feared your influence upon my
destiny. What has resulted? You, knowing that you have taken away all
my means of following your movements, did return here against those
express commands that I had laid upon you, braving all my threats of
punishment. Should you not be punished for that?"
[Illustration: "THE COUNT DE ST. GERMAINE, WITHOUT REMOVING HIS EYES
FROM HIS VICTIM, TOOK ANOTHER DEEP, LUXURIOUS PINCH OF SNUFF."]
"I could not help it," said Oliver, hoarsely; "the marquis compelled me
to come."
Once more the other laughed. "I know nothing of that," said he. "I only
know that you are here. Why you are here concerns yourself, and not me.
Now what do you think that I am about to do to you, Oliver?"
"I do not know," said Oliver. And he hid his face in his trembling
hands.
The Count de St. Germaine, without removing his eyes from his victim,
took another deep, luxurious pinch of snuff. Then he shut the lid with
a snap, and slipped the box again into his pocket, but all that time
his eyes never once moved from the cowering Oliver. Suddenly he burst
out laughing, and clapped the lad upon the shoulder. "I will tell you
what I will do to you, Oliver," said he; "I will forgive you! Do you
hear me? _I will forgive you!_"
Oliver slowly removed his hands from his face, and looked up with dumb
bewilderment. "You forgive me?" he repeated, stupidly.
"Yes, I forgive you."
A long pause of silence followed, during which Oliver looked intently
and earnestly into that smiling face, so close to his own. That
smiling face--it was an impenetrable mask, it was the face of a
sphinx, and Oliver might almost as well have tried to read the one as
the other. Yet there was a soul behind it, and that soul could not
entirely be hidden; one glimpse of it flashed out through the eyes.
Oliver saw it and shuddered.
"You forgive me?" he repeated. "What do you mean? I do not comprehend.
What would you have me do?"
The other shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "What would
I have you do?" said he. "You surprise me! I talk to you, and you do
not seem to hear me. I say that I forgive you, and you do not seem to
understand. What I mean is that you shall continue to live here, as
you have already done, in an atmosphere of happiness and love. It is
beautiful, as all Paris says; it is delightful! After all, I cannot
punish you, for I have not the heart to interfere with it. By-and-by
you shall marry Mademoiselle Céleste."
Oliver never removed his looks from the other's face. "Marry Céleste?"
he murmured, mechanically.
"Certainly," said the other, "I never saw you so dull. I said that you
were to marry Mademoiselle Céleste--to marry her. But, there! I see
what it is. You are not yet recovered from your illness in Madame de
Pompadour's salon. It was indeed insufferably hot. Poor lady! she is
like a green cockatoo, she cannot abide a touch of cold. But I weary
you; I will take another opportunity of visiting you. But remember, my
dear Oliver, I forgive you. _Au revoir!_"
He was gone; and Oliver sat as Monsieur de St. Germaine had left him,
clad in his dressing-gown, and seated upon the edge of the sofa,
leaning with his elbows upon his knees, his hands clasped before him,
and his eyes fixed dully upon the floor. Forgive him! His soul told
him that he need expect no forgiveness from that cold, iron heart.
What should he do? How should he escape the fate which he felt was
hanging over him? The master had said that he was to marry Céleste.
Upon the eve of that marriage, perhaps, he would come and proclaim
him the cheat, the charlatan that he was. He shuddered as he pictured
the shame of the humiliation of such a disclosure. Suddenly a thought
flashed upon him, like light upon the darkness: why not tell Céleste
his story? Why not confess all to her, and throw himself upon her
mercy? His shame would be less, and she would scorn him less, than if
he waited for the Count de St. Germaine to expose him. His heart stood
still at the thought of Céleste's grief and despair. And Paris! How
Paris would laugh at the denouement of that romance which it now petted
and approved. In a sudden rush of determination, and without giving
himself time for second thought, he drew paper and ink towards him, and
set himself to write a letter to Céleste. It was a blundering, blotted
letter. It took him a long, long time to write it, but at last it was
done; in it he told her all; and then, still without giving himself
time to think, he rang the bell, and Henri appeared. He hesitated, for
one last moment, with a shrinking heart.
"What will monsieur have?" said Henri.
"Take this letter," said Oliver, with one last, desperate resolve,"to
Mademoiselle Céleste, and--and wait her answer."
"Yes, monsieur."
Oliver watched the man as he crossed the room, as he noiselessly closed
the door; he was gone.
How long the answer was in returning Oliver never could tell. It might
have been only a few minutes that he walked up and down the room. It
seemed to him hours.
"Monsieur, a letter."
Oliver turned sharply. It was Henri, and he presented upon his tray a
little note. It was, as far as outward appearance was concerned, almost
exactly like those two others upon the table; but what was within?
Oliver hardly dared touch it. He opened it slowly, hesitatingly; there
were only three words, "I love you"--that was all. Yes, that was all.
Oliver sat looking at it with eyes that blinded more and more, until
at last one hot drop fell with a pat upon the open sheet. Then even
Henri's presence was not enough to inspire self-control. He broke down,
and began crying, and probably, if Henri thought anything at all, it
was that there had been a quarrel.
SCENE THIRD.--_The grand salon of the Hôtel de Flourens; the hour,
near midnight. Oliver is discovered walking rapidly and agitatedly up
and down the length of the great room, still illuminated by a thousand
and one candles._
And now the last guest has been gone for some time, the last huge
unwieldy coach has rumbled away, and the dull silence seems to hum
and buzz after the clatter of the afternoon and night. He is married.
Oliver is still bewildered. He is like one in a dream; he only half
knows what he does and says; he only half senses what he sees and
hears; his heart thrills almost agonizingly with joy and triumph.
Céleste is his, his very own, his wife; and what is more, it has been
arranged that he and she are to depart for Flourens--dear, sweet,
beautiful Flourens--the very next morning.
Some days before, Oliver had proposed the departure to the marquis, and
the marquis had made no objection. He had made but one stipulation,
that he himself should remain in Paris.
"There are many matters of business to attend to," he had said. "We
have as yet been able to dispose of only a minute portion of our
diamonds. The amount we have realized upon them has been enormous, yet
it is only a drop or two taken from the bucket."
It had been arranged that Oliver was to see the marquis upon some
final business that very night, and so it is that he is now discovered
walking so impatiently up and down the empty room at that hour, his
heart thrilling with joy and delight. But through all Oliver's joy and
delight there ran every now and then a discordant pang of uneasiness,
for suddenly, in spite of himself, his thoughts would flash back upon
the memory of the master, and under that vivid sinister flash of
recollection his soul shrank and trembled within him. Twelve hours
still stretched between him and that time of departure. What might not
happen in twelve hours?
"Twelve hours," muttered Oliver to himself. "I would give all my
diamonds if they were passed and gone." He thought of Céleste, and a
keen thrill pierced through his heart; he thought of the master, and
another keen thrill--this time heart-sickening--shot through him as
the other had done. "No matter," he muttered to himself, "the morning
will soon come and we will be miles away, with nothing to fear and with
nothing to think of but our love." He pressed his face against the
window and looked out into the night, then he turned and pulled out his
watch impatiently and looked at it; it was ten minutes of twelve. "I
wish he would make haste," he muttered.
As though in answer to his impatient murmur, the door opened and a
servant announced that the marquis was ready to see him now in his
closet.
Oliver found him seated at his escritoire, with books and papers spread
out before him. He took the chair that the marquis indicated, and then
the marquis began talking to him. Oliver did not know what he was
saying; whenever the other would pause for a reply, he would say, "Yes,
yes, that is so," or, "I think not," as the words seemed to demand;
sometimes he understood what was said, but more generally it might as
well have been spoken in Greek.
"Then," said the marquis, "if I understand correctly, you are entirely
satisfied with my management of your affairs?"
Oliver was beginning to grow weary of this business. "Yes," said he,
restlessly, "yes, I am entirely satisfied. Manage them as you choose; I
do not care; it is of no importance."
The marquis opened his arms. "Embrace me!" he cried. "You are
generosity itself; I admire generosity! Your confidence in me touches
me. You must know, Oliver, that I manage most discreetly. We have
lived here, as you are aware, without stint or economy--it would have
been wrong for me to limit that generosity of yours which I so much
admire--but yet I have not been extravagant; for not only have we
maintained the establishment here in Paris, but we have also paid off
the debts upon it, as well as upon Flourens. Yes, Flourens is freed;
and I--I am not to be outdone in generosity; those ancestral estates of
Flourens that have been in the hands of our family for generations"--he
waved his hand--"I give them to you, Oliver, and to Céleste for your
own."
"I thank you," said Oliver.
The marquis paused for a moment; his own generosity moved him
profoundly. "But I was about to say," continued he, presently, "that
the reason more especially why I called you here was to let you see how
few of our diamonds have been disposed of. I will show you."
"I do not care to see," said Oliver.
"Pardon me," said the marquis, "but you must see them, my dear Oliver.
It is business. Look! yonder is the chest of diamonds. I have had it
brought here to-day not only to show you how little of the contents we
have as yet disposed of, but also because I expect three merchants from
Amsterdam to visit me to-morrow and inspect the gems. They write to me
that they have formed a company for the purchase of a quantity of them."
While he was speaking he had taken a bunch of keys from a secret
compartment of the escritoire. One of them was the key of the chest. He
thrust it into the lock, drew back the bolts, and opened the lid. "You
see," said he, "there is not one-tenth of this first tray of diamonds
that we have as yet disposed of." Oliver glanced indifferently at them.
"The rest of the trays," continued the marquis, "have not yet been
touched. I will show them to you."
"I do not care to see them," said Oliver; "I will take your word for
it. If there is nothing further that you care to speak to me about, I
would like to be excused; there are many things that I have to prepare
for my journey."
"Ah!" said the marquis, "I see these dull affairs of business, they are
of no interest to you. Youth is so impetuous! It is better," said he,
as he locked the chest and replaced the keys in the secret compartment
of his escritoire--"it is better to possess youth and love than all the
wealth and gems of the Indies. Go, my dear Oliver, and trust in me. I
will manage your affairs, my child, as though they were my own."
Oliver did not wait for a second bidding; he flew from the place and
the tiresome talk of diamonds and business. As he was about to enter
the room which he had left only a little while before, he hesitated
for a moment, he knew not why. A sudden pang shot through him, and he
pressed his hand to his bosom. That instant a clock rang out sharply in
the silence. He counted the twelve strokes, and then opened the door.
Some one stood looking out of the window, his face close to the glass.
He wore a long black cloak, beneath which he carried a large oval
frame of some sort. Oliver walked mechanically up the room, and as he
advanced that other turned slowly towards him. Oliver's heart gave a
great bound, and then stood quite still within him. The next instant
every grain of strength seemed to slip away from him; his knees grew
suddenly weak and smote together; his hands dropped with a leaden
heaviness to his sides, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.
_It was the master!_
A moment or two of dead silence followed, and in the heavy, breathless
stillness the sharp ticking of a clock sounded with piercing
distinctness upon Oliver's tensely-drawn nerves. The master said not a
word, but he looked upon him with a cool, contained smile of ineffable
complacency.
At last, somehow, Oliver found his voice. "You!" he said, hoarsely; and
then again, with a gulp: "You! How came you here?"
The Count de St. Germaine laughed. "How came I here? I walked here.
That does not satisfy you? Well, no matter. I have, as you may know,
many, very many, ways of coming and going as I choose. Just now it is
sufficient that I am here."
"And for what have you come?" said Oliver, in that same slow, hoarse
voice.
For a while the master leaned against the deep window-casing, and
looked at him from under his brows, his eyes burning like green sparks.
"For what did I come, Oliver?" said he at last. "I will tell you. You
must know that I have a silly habit of keeping my promises. Did I not
make you the richest man in France? Did I not teach you the secret of
the water of wealth? Did I not teach you all that you know, and make
you all that you are? Very good. By so doing I fulfilled one part of a
promise I some time made you. Now I have come to fulfil the other part.
I promised you then that should you ever return to Paris I would ruin
you; I am going to ruin you. I promised that I would crush you; I am
about to crush you. I promised to make your life a hell; I will make
it a hell. I will make you wish a thousand times that you had never
been born. When I first met you in Madame de Pompadour's salon, I read
in your face your fear that I would betray you. Ah, no! that would
have been childish; it would have been petulant; it would have been
impatient and premature. No, Oliver; I have waited until now, and what
do you think I have waited for?"
Oliver's lips moved, but he could not answer. He stood leaning with
his hand upon the side of the table, stunned and dizzied. He felt as
though every word that the master spoke struck a leaden blow upon his
heart. But the other did not wait for a reply. He flung back his cloak,
and brought forth that which he carried beneath it. It was the magic
mirror, upon the face of which was drawn the sign that, as Oliver knew,
stood between his master and his supernatural power.
The master stood it upon the table beside Oliver, and then, brushing
the dust from his hands, turned a smiling face upon his victim.
"You cannot guess?" said he, returning to the question he had asked.
"Ah, well, it does not matter. I will tell you. I intend to pierce your
heart through that young wife of yours, Oliver."
The words struck upon Oliver's ears like a blow, and like a blow
shattered into fragments the dull, heavy, icy despair that rested upon
him.
"My wife!" he cried. "My wife! Oh God! You devil! You at least shall
die!" His dress-sword hung at his side, and as he spoke he flashed it
out.
But the Count de St. Germaine only laughed. "Come," said he, "we are
silly; we are childish. Do you think, then, that I am afraid of your
sword? Ha!"
As he uttered the exclamation he struck his hands sharply together, and
it seemed to Oliver as though the blow had fallen upon him physically.
Sparks of fire danced before his eyes; for a few seconds his head
spun like a teetotum, and the objects in the room flew around him in
a dizzy horizontal whirl. Suddenly the whirling stopped, and as his
brain recovered from its confusion, he saw before him again the pale,
smiling face of the master. He still held his sword in his hand, but he
was powerless. It was as though a leaden weight hung upon his will. He
could move neither hand nor foot.
"Put up your sword, my child," said the Count de St. Germaine.
Oliver strove to resist the command, but it was as though his body
was not his own--as though the master controlled it. His arm appeared
to rise of itself, stiffly, and the sword slid back again into the
scabbard.
"Now, then," said the master, "look into the mirror and see what you
shall see; it is spoiled forever to my sight, but for you its power is
as great as ever. Look!"
Oliver fixed his gaze upon the smooth, brilliant surface of the glass
as he was bidden to do. His own face stood there for a moment, then
blurred, faded, dissolved. Then on this brilliant surface he saw
Céleste.
She stood in her own room as he stood here before the glass--stiffened
in every limb--fixed, immovable, as though the same leaden power that
overmastered him overmastered her.
[Illustration: "OLIVER FIXED HIS GAZE UPON THE SMOOTH, BRILLIANT
SURFACE OF THE GLASS."]
The master stood with his eyes fixed upon Oliver's face, and perhaps
he saw in that face all that Oliver saw in the mirror.
"Ha!" said he, "it is as I had hoped, my dear Oliver. I congratulate
you; your wife is yours in heart and soul. That is the secret of my
power over her. I reduce you to my will by my occult power, and at the
same time I reduce her also. Observe now what comes of it."
He made a rapid pass in the air, and in an instant Oliver saw Céleste's
stiff and rigid form become soft and relaxed. Her face was still white
and stony, her eyes were still set intently as ever, but she began
moving. Reaching her hand out before her, as though feeling her way in
darkness, she passed out of the door of the room.
The master had ceased smiling now, and he stood motionlessly with his
gaze fixed upon Oliver's face. His brows were drawn together; his eyes
sparkled and glanced like those of a snake; his very head seemed to
flatten and broaden like a serpent's when it fixes its victim. He made
a quick gesture with his hands, and Oliver saw Céleste stop, take up a
cloak from a chair and wind it around her face and body until she was
completely disguised. Then she moved again, and presently Oliver saw
that she had passed out into the dark court-yard. As she drew near
the great gate-way, he saw that it stood open, although, no doubt, the
porter had long since closed it. Then, in a moment, Céleste stopped
short, and Oliver saw that a coach, with unlighted lamps, stood near
at the open gate-way. Suddenly the door of the coach opened, and some
one leaped out from within; swiftly, silently, like a hideous distorted
shadow. The lanterns at the gate were unlighted, but Oliver knew that
distorted, shadow-like figure at once, and as clearly as though he
saw it with the eyes of his soul--it was Gaspard. Gaspard thrust his
hand into his bosom and drew forth something long and dark. As he
approached her Céleste began struggling, as though with the inflexible
though invisible power that held her. In her struggles the cloak fell
away from her face, and Oliver had one dreadful glimpse of it. The
next instant it was hidden. Gaspard, with one sudden movement, and in
spite of her blind struggles, had drawn the black bag over her head and
shoulders. At that sight Oliver gave a shrill, piping, inarticulate
cry. The next instant he saw Gaspard pick her up bodily, and, running
forward, fling her limp, death-like form into the coach, leap in
himself, close the door with a crash that Oliver almost heard, and the
next moment rumble away into the darkness.
"Oh God!" whispered Oliver. "Oh God! Poor Céleste! poor Céleste!"
"That will do," said the master; "you need look no more;" and in answer
to his words Oliver turned towards him. A shadow of a dusky pallor lay
upon the master's face, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
"It is very difficult," he observed, "to psychologize two people at
once in this way, and they so far distant from one another. I am glad
that Gaspard has taken charge of the case, and removed the strain from
me."
Oliver heard the words with a certain dumb consciousness through the
agony that hummed in his ears. He felt his face twitching and writhing,
and drops of sweat trickled down his forehead. The master replaced his
handkerchief and took a pinch of snuff, looking keenly at his victim.
"You see," said he, "it is uncomfortable, this being ruined; but then
we should have thought of that before we came back to Paris. But I am
not yet done with you, Oliver. You have lost your wife; now your wealth
must follow. Do you see this?" and he drew something from his pocket
and put it upon the table beside him. It was the phial with the black
label, marked with this symbol--[Symb 169] that phial which Oliver had
brought from the mysterious chambers. "When you and I parted company,
Oliver, and I asked you whether you were satisfied with the result of
our twelve months of labor, and you said 'Yes,' you did not think of or
care for this other bottle; you were contented with the diamonds alone.
It would have been wiser, Oliver, if you had insisted upon knowing the
properties of this phial of liquor. What they are I will presently show
you. In destroying that mirror with your accursed signs you did me
irreparable harm. Nevertheless, I know that your diamonds are in this
house, for I have, through certain Amsterdam merchants, who are agents
of mine, taken care that they should be brought here at this time.
Through your present psychological condition, I can also read in your
mind that you know where they are. Take this phial, Oliver, and lead
the way to them. I will follow, and direct you what further to do."
Once more Oliver strove to resist, but he was powerless. It was as
though his will was held in bonds of steel. He took the phial as the
master directed, and with the same leaden, heavy steps led the way
to the marquis's cabinet, the master following behind him. With the
same stiff obedience to the master's will, he went to the escritoire,
opened it, brought out the keys, unlocked the chest, and flung back the
lid. The master took the bottle from his resistless hand, and uncorked
it with his gleaming teeth.
What followed, Oliver only partly saw. He heard a bubbling, hissing
sound; he saw a dull, heavy, yellow smoke arise to the ceiling, where
it spread out to slowly widening rings. Then it was done, and the
master closed the lid.
"And now, Oliver," said he, "since you have been so kind as to do with
your diamonds as I desired, I will ask you to do one thing more before
we leave this cabinet. Sit down at yonder table, and write a letter. I
will dictate it for you."
Again Oliver did as he was bidden; he drew a sheet of paper before him,
and dipped the pen into the ink.
"Monseigneur," said the Count de St. Germaine, and Oliver began
writing--"I thank you for all of your kindness to me. Those diamonds
were false, and more worthless than paste. What they are, you may see
for yourself by looking into the chest. I am a charlatan, monseigneur,
and have by a trick imposed these artificial diamonds upon you. They
have now resolved themselves back into their original form, and I,
in the mean time, have escaped from your impending wrath with your
daughter, whom I love. It will be useless, monseigneur, for you to
seek to discover our hiding-place. Where we have gone you can never
follow. Let me say here that my name is not Oliver de Monnière-Croix,
but that it is Oliver Munier, and that I am the son of Jean Munier, a
poor tailor of Flourens, as you yourself might have discovered had
you taken the trouble.
"Adieu, monseigneur, and may better luck attend you at cards than in
the choice of your son-in-law.
OLIVER."
"There, Oliver," said the Count de St. Germaine, "this letter will,
I flatter myself, put the finishing-touch to your ruin. Seal it and
address it, and then let us return to the other room. And you shall
call the servant and send the letter to papa-in-law."
Once more mechanically obeying, Oliver led the way to the apartment
they had quitted. The master pointed to the bell, and in answer Oliver
struck it. After some delay the servant appeared, looking with sleepy
wonder from Oliver to the visitor, and back again.
Oliver turned to the man, and then he heard his own voice speaking as
though it belonged to some one else. "Take this letter directly to
your master," said he. "It is of the greatest importance, and bid him
from me go instantly to his cabinet. Tell him something has happened to
his diamonds, and that he will see it all for himself. Go, I say!"
There was something in his tone, something in his look, that sent the
man off like a flash.
The master laughed as the fellow shut the door. "That man," said he,
"has never been so surprised in his life before. You should have
observed his face when you spoke to him; it was a study. But now I must
leave you, Oliver. I have some little matters to attend to, and then I
must go and see whether Gaspard has taken your wife to my apartments
as I bade him. I am obliged to you for having done everything that I
asked you in such an accommodating manner. In return I will give you a
piece of advice: go to the river, Oliver, and throw yourself into the
water; it is the easiest way to end your troubles. Your wife you shall
never see again as long as you live. Your fortune"--he drew his fingers
together, and then spread them quickly open with a puff--"it is gone;
and papa, the marquis--should you happen to fall into his hands it
might be very unpleasant. Yes, take my advice and throw yourself into
the water; the disagreeableness will be only for a moment, and then
your troubles will be over and done with. Adieu, my child. Now go; it
is my order that you drown yourself."
SCENE FOURTH.--_The marquis's dressing-room._
The marquis is discovered reclining in dishabille beside a table where
some five or six tapers are burning; he has been very wearied with the
excitement of the day. But, on the whole, he is satisfied with himself;
he is glad that Oliver is going back to Flourens, and still more glad
that he will have entire care of the diamonds. He holds a book idly
in his hand, and gazes upward at the ceiling as though through a
perspective of pleasant inward thoughts. A knock at the door awakens
him sharply from his reveries, and the next moment August enters with
Oliver's letter.
"What is it?" said the marquis. "Ah! a letter from Oliver, that dear,
simple Oliver. Let me see what he has to say." He laid aside his book,
and opening the letter, began reading. As he read, the smile faded from
his lips, his jaw dropped, his eyes glared, and a heavy, ashy, leaden
pallor fell upon his face. As he ended, the letter dropped from his
limp hand and fell fluttering to the floor.
Then the marquis rose to his feet; he placed his out-stretched fingers
to his forehead, and stood for a moment or two glaring about him.
Then the color came flaming back to his face; it grew red, it grew
redder, it became purple. Suddenly he roused himself with a choking,
inarticulate cry. He snatched up one of the candles from the table and
rushed from the room, flinging aside August, who stood in his way, and
sent him tumbling backward over a chair and falling with a tremendous
clatter to the floor.
He never stopped for an instant until he had reached his private
cabinet, into which he burst tumultuously. He tore open the escritoire,
and feeling blindly within it, found the key of the chest. Then he
dragged forth the chest, and thrust the key into the lock. He flung
back the lid, and, leaning over, gazed stupidly down and in.
Where was the glittering treasure that he had left lying upon those
velvet-covered trays? It was gone! Nothing left but a mass of muddy
charcoal, here and there whitened as though turned to ashes by the
touch of fire, and all wet with a pungent fluid that had stained the
purple velvet to a dirty reddish-yellow.
"Jean! Edward! François!" It was the marquis's voice, and it rang
terribly through the silence of the Hôtel de Flourens.
The next instant there came a crash and a heavy fall, and when the
frightened servants crowded around the open door and into the marquis's
cabinet, they beheld their master lying upon his face under the table,
with an overturned chair upon him, and one arm, with its clinched hand,
under his face. He was snoring with stertorous breathing.
[Illustration: "THEY BEHELD THEIR MASTER LYING UPON HIS FACE UNDER THE
TABLE."]