SCENE FIRST.--_The Seine at midnight._
Darkness as of death, and, excepting for the hollow murmur of the
river, silence as of the grave, utter and profound.
The sky above is a dim, misty opalescence of moonlit stillness; against
it rise great, towering, crazy buildings, sharp-roofed, gabled, as
black as ink. Across the narrow stretch of intervening water tower
other buildings--crazy, sharp-roofed, gabled, as black as ink--and
above all loom the great spires of the church into the pale sky,
ponderous, massive, silent. One broken strip of moonlight stretches
across parapet and roadway of the bridge, white and still. All around
it is gaping blackness. Suddenly there is a little movement in the
darkness, the sound of a stumbling step, halting and uneven, and then
some one appears in the white patch of moonlight. It is Oliver, pale,
hollow-eyed, dishevelled, his hair tangled, his lace cravat torn open
at the throat, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his silk stockings stained
and spattered with mud. He reels like a drunken man as he struggles
against the invisible power that holds him relentless as fate. Step
by step that power thrusts him, struggling and shuffling, towards the
parapet of the bridge. He mounts it and flings one leg over the edge.
Beneath him in the inky blackness he can hear but not see the water
rushing onward under the arches.
Suddenly some one touched Oliver lightly upon the shoulder, and
instantly he felt the same physical effect that had happened when
the master had struck his hands together in the room at the Hôtel de
Flourens. It was as though a blow had fallen upon him. Bright sparks
danced and flashed before his eyes, his brain spun like a teetotum in
a dizzy horizontal whirl, and he clutched the cold stones with his
fingers to save himself from falling. Then suddenly the sparks vanished
and the whirling ceased, and he awoke sharply as though it were from
some horrid nightmare. He gazed stupidly around him, still sitting upon
the parapet of the bridge; the figure of a woman stood within ten paces
of him, her waxy-white face turned full upon him, her unwinking eyes,
sparkling in the moonlight, fixed full upon his.
[Illustration: "SUDDENLY SOME ONE TOUCHED OLIVER SLIGHTLY UPON THE
SHOULDER."]
Oliver's heart leaped within him. It was the woman whom he had seen
in the streets of Flourens that night when the pretended American uncle
lodged with him and his mother, and her face looked upon him now just
as it had looked upon him when he peered down upon her from the garret
window. He slipped from the parapet of the bridge, and, crouching in
the shadow on the foot-way, ran rapidly and noiselessly away from that
dreadful, impassive presence. Then, reaching the end of the bridge,
and without slacking his speed, he plunged into and wound in and out
through the crooked streets, leading he knew not whither. Why he ran
he did not know, but something seemed to impel him onward. Suddenly he
passed across another patch of moonlight, and as he ran plunging into
the shadow upon the farther side, he turned his head and looked over
his shoulder. A keen thrill shot through the very marrow of his bones;
she was following him--silently, noiselessly, swiftly. He quickened
his gait into a run, winding his way in and out through the by-ways.
As he passed into and out of the dull red glare of a solitary lantern,
he looked over his shoulder again. He could see that dim shape still
following him, silent, ghost-like. His heart gave another great leap
as it had done at first, and then began to thump against his ribs. The
sweat was running down his face in streams, his breath came thick and
heavy, and he felt as though he were stifling, but still he ran onward
in swift headlong flight, though his feet felt heavy and leaden, as
they do in a nightmare dream.
On he dashed through mud and puddles in the crooked streets or on
the side-way, for he did not choose his path now through the empty
blackness, now across a patch of moonlight, now under the dull glare
of a lantern. He had no need to look behind, for his soul knew that
she still followed. Suddenly he saw a narrow, crooked passage-way in
front of him. Without pausing to think, he doubled like a hare and shot
into it. It opened into a stony court surrounded with squalid houses,
huge, black, silent. At the farther end was a blind wall, and Oliver's
heart crumbled away within him, for an escape was at an end. He darted
one look over his shoulder--she was there; he could just see the dim
outline of her form flitting through the darkness. The next moment he
ran headlong against the wall and there flattened himself, spreading
out his palms over the rough surface, hiding his face against his
hands, panting and sobbing like a dumb creature.
Five seconds passed, ten, twenty. Oliver looked fearfully over his
shoulder, and then hid his face again; she was there, silent,
motionless; the faint glimmer of her white face turned full upon
him. Again he looked; she neither approached him nor drew away, and
by-and-by the impassive harmlessness of her stillness seemed to breathe
a breath of softness upon the black rigor of his terror. A faint spark
of courage began to glimmer in his heart, and one by one the scattered
forces of his will, torn asunder by the tumult of his blind terror,
began to gather together and to cohere into some form.
Suddenly there came a quick flash of thought to his mind. It was plain
she meant him no harm, and she was in some mysterious way connected
with the strange dark life of the master: might she not give him some
news of Céleste? He turned suddenly around towards the woman, and
instantly as he did so, exactly timing her movements with his, she also
turned. Fearing she might escape, he stepped quickly forward; instantly
she began to move away; he quickened his pace, she also quickened hers;
he began to run, her feet moved quickly, silently; she seemed to make
no exertion, but he neither gained nor lost a foot. At last, seeing the
uselessness of this crazy race through the silent and deserted streets,
he finally stopped; instantly he did so, she also stopped.
"What is it you want of me?" said Oliver. Then, again, receiving no
reply, "What is it you want of me?"
Still she made no answer, but stood there motionless, silent.
"Then go your way!" he burst out, desperately, at last. "I know you
now. You are like all the rest; you are a devil!"
As he spoke he turned and began to walk away, but he had not gone
twenty steps when, looking over his shoulder, he saw that she was
following him again, as she had followed him at first. Again he stopped
and turned, and again, as though she were his shadow, she also stopped
and turned. A long pause of silence followed.
"Madame," said Oliver, at last, "I do not know why you thus choose to
dog my footsteps; is there anything that you desire of me?"
No answer.
He waited for a while; the silence weighed upon him like lead. "I
have done you no harm," said he, at last; "why do you follow me thus
persistently? Are you set as a spy upon me? Surely the master has
ruined me enough! Does he desire that I should take my own life? I was
about to destroy it when I saw you at the bridge over there."
He waited breathlessly for a reply, but there was no answer.
"Who are you?" he burst out after a while. "You frighten me with your
dreadful, mysterious presence! What have I to do with you, or you with
me?"
She remained as motionless and as silent as a statue.
"Listen!" said Oliver. "It is less dreadful to follow you than to have
you pursue me. Yes, I will follow you. It is but of little consequence
whither you take me, for nothing worse can happen to me than that which
I have already suffered. Yes, I will follow you." He advanced as he
spoke; the woman moved away.
This time Oliver did not hasten his steps as he had done heretofore,
but, keeping his eyes upon her, followed her doggedly and stubbornly.
Once more they came out upon the street which they had at first left,
and so to the bridge, which they crossed. Now and then, dreading lest
he might lose her in the blackness of the night, Oliver hastened his
steps, but invariably she quickened hers, so that at last he gave over
any fear that she might escape. A hope began to grow and expand in his
bosom: whither was she leading him? On and on they went; Oliver took no
heed whither. The streets now became broader and better lighted; they
had come to a better quarter of the town. But Oliver did not look about
him; he kept his eyes fixed upon his mysterious guide; now he did not
dare to lose her.
Suddenly she turned at right angles and entered a narrow, closed
alley-way. Oliver hurried after, and as he emerged into a little,
stony court lit by the dull red glow of a lantern, he saw her whom he
followed pause for an instant before a door-way, and the next moment
enter.
He leaned against the wall beside which he stood, shuddering and
trembling in the rush of a blinding hope. But there was no time for
hesitation; he must follow instantly if he would not lose sight of his
silent guide. He advanced boldly, and without a moment's hesitation
pushed open the door and entered the passage-way within.
SCENE SECOND.--_The master's apartments._
His guide must have been waiting for him, for, by the light of the
lantern without, he saw that silent and mysterious figure moving before
him, like a part of the shadowy darkness itself. For some distance he
made his way along the gloomy passage, feeling with his hand against
the wall. Suddenly he fell, with a noisy rattle and clatter, upon the
lower steps of a stair-way that led steeply up into a yawning blackness
above.
He did not hesitate a moment, but began ascending the stairs, still
feeling his way with one hand against the wall and the other stretched
out in the darkness before him. So he came at last to a little
landing-place, and advancing slowly, his other hand presently touched
the panels of a door. He fumbled for a second or two until he found the
latch, then lifting it with a click, he entered.
The bare, plastered passage-way through which he had come must have
been the rear entrance to the apartments above, for, passing through
the door, he found himself in what appeared to be a small dining-room,
as well as he could see from the light that came from the stair-way
beyond. It also seemed to be richly and luxuriously furnished, and he
saw the multiple glimmering twinkle of the light in the passage-way
beyond flickering upon polished silver and glass.
But he had no time for observation, for before him he saw the figure
which he followed just passing through the door upon the other side of
the apartment, and he hurried forward without stopping.
Beyond the dining-room he came out upon a broad landing-place of a
stair-way, which upon the one hand led to the apartments above, and
upon the other to the ground-floor beneath. The flitting, shadow-like
figure of his mysterious guide crossed this landing-place to a door-way
opposite, and as Oliver, without a moment's hesitation, followed, he
found himself in a dressing-room. By the ruddy light of the fire that
glowed cheerfully in the grate, he saw that the room was empty; the
woman had evidently passed through the door-way upon the other side
of the apartment, and so into the room beyond. Again Oliver hurried
forward, and laid his hand upon the knob of the door. He tried it; the
door was locked.
A hat with a black feather lay upon the table; his eyes fell upon it,
and then his heart leaped into his throat. It was the first spark of
recognition, and then in a flash that recognition was complete: it was
to the Count de St. Germaine's apartments that he had been led by this
strange, silent guide.
[Illustration: "'CÉLESTE!' BREATHED OLIVER THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE
DOOR."]
As Oliver stood there looking about him, a faint sound broke through
the stillness--a dull, stifled, moaning cry. Again his heart bounded
within him. He bent his head and listened at the crack of the door.
Could he have been mistaken? He fancied that he heard a faint rustling
in the room within, and then--yes, there could be no mistake this time!
It was the sound of some one crying. "Céleste!" breathed Oliver through
the crack of the door.
No answer; even the faint rustling that he had heard had ceased.
Oliver's heart throbbed as though it would stifle him; the blood hummed
in his ears.
"Céleste!"
"Who is there?" answered a faint voice from within. That voice was
sodden and husky with tears, but Oliver recognized it. For a moment or
two, in the revulsion of his feelings, he turned giddy and faint. Then
he began to cry.
"Oh, Céleste," he sobbed, "it is I--it is Oliver! I am come to save
you. Open the door, Céleste, and let me in!"
"I cannot," said Céleste. "It is locked; there is no key."
"But the woman who has just entered," said Oliver, "has she not the
key?"
"The woman?" said Céleste. "Of whom do you speak, Oliver? No one has
entered here since that dreadful man who brought me here went away and
left me."
Oliver looked around him. Could she--that mysterious woman--have left
the room by any other way? No; there were but two doors--the door
through which he had followed her and the door at which he now stood.
She could have left the room in no other way. It was very strange, but
Oliver dismissed the subject from his mind. This was no time to wonder
over the many mysteries that involved the dark life of the Count de St.
Germaine. He must save Céleste. "Courage, Céleste!" he breathed through
the door. "I must go and leave you, but I go to bring help to you. I
will save you, Céleste!"
He had no plan for saving her, as he thus promised to do; but in
the elation of his feelings upon having thus found her, and in the
elasticity of his youthful confidence, he felt sure of his ability to
do something.
"But, tell me, Oliver," said Céleste, "where am I? Why have I been
brought here? What is to happen to me? Who was the horrible man that
drew that awful black hood over my face in the garden?"
"You are in the apartments of the Count de St. Germaine," answered
Oliver. "He of whom you speak was that Gaspard, and--and I--do not know
what they will do to you, Céleste. But courage, my love. I _must_ go;
but do not be afraid; I will save you, I swear it! But I must go. If
they find me here they will kill me--What was that?"
It was the sound of the closing of a door below; of footsteps crossing
the landing upon which Oliver had followed his silent guide.
"Gaspard!"
_It was the voice of the Count de St. Germaine!_
Oliver stood as though turned to stone.
He cast his despairing eyes around. Where should he escape? To leave by
the door was to face the master, whose footsteps he could hear already
climbing the stairs towards the room. The window? That meant horrible
death upon the pavement beneath.
The wardrobe! The thought was an inspiration. It stood against the
farther wall of the room, a huge, ponderous structure of carved and
polished wood, inlaid with arabesque patterns of lighter colors. There
was no time to lose; the master was almost at the door.
The wardrobe was divided into two compartments separated by a wooden
partition, against which the folding doors closed. Oliver climbed into
one of the sides and among the clothes that hung from the hooks above,
closing the door behind him. As he did so he heard the footsteps of
the Count de St. Germaine enter the room.
Gaspard, with his usual silent, cat-like step, must have accompanied
the master, bearing a light, for a bright yellow ray fell through the
key-hole and traversed the clothes amid which Oliver stood, as though
some one crossed the room with a candle.
Oliver scarcely dared breathe as he stood there with palpitating
heart, the sweat trickling down his face in streams. He swallowed and
swallowed; his mouth was dry and clammy.
The Count de St. Germaine spoke; his voice sounded loud and resonant
upon Oliver's tensity of nervous strain.
"Put the lights upon the table there, Gaspard, and bring me my
dressing-gown and slippers from the wardrobe yonder."
The words fell upon Oliver's ears like a death-knell. He braced himself
to bear the coming shock. It seemed to him that his brain swelled like
a soap-bubble, with a hollow, ringing expansion. He heard Gaspard's
soft footfalls approaching the closet; it seemed as though it took
minutes for him to cross the room. He heard the clever servant's
fingers fumbling at the door, and then the wardrobe was opened--but
not the side upon which he stood; the dressing-gown and slippers hung
in the other compartment.
Oliver's heart gave a great leap, and then he fell to trembling in
every joint. Gaspard closed the door of the wardrobe again, and Oliver
could hear his soft footfalls recrossing the floor, and then the silky
rustling as the master put on the dressing-gown and slippers.
"That is good," said the count. "Now go and bring my chocolate, and
then we will look at the girl in the room yonder. She is very pretty."
Oliver heard the words as clearly as though he had been standing
beside the speaker. In an instant his prostrating terror vanished like
a flash, and in its place blazed up a consuming flame of rage. He
clinched his hands together until his finger-nails cut into his palms.
He was upon the point of flinging open the door of the wardrobe and
bursting out into the room--of clutching that smooth, complacent devil
by the throat. Luckily for him, his reason still had some governance
over his action. What could he, Oliver Munier, do against the powers
of hell that the master had at his command? No; he must wait, he must
suffer to the last.
"Yes, monsieur," said Gaspard, and Oliver could almost see the wretch
leer.
Then he heard Gaspard close the door. A little time of silence
followed. Then the Count de St. Germaine began walking restlessly up
and down the room, and after a while he fell to muttering to himself,
and as he passed and repassed close by the wardrobe, Oliver could catch
snatches of what he was saying.
"What is it that lies upon me to-night? Yes; I feel an influence in
this room.--Bah! I am a fool! Why should I fear? I have crushed and
annihilated the only one who the stars say could harm me.--Those stars
lied. What harm could a heavy, loutish peasant lad do to me?--Yes; he
must be drifting down the waters of the Seine by now, rolled over and
over, perhaps, in the mud at the bottom.--Peste! To think of his having
the wit to destroy that mirror of mine! If I could only consult it now
I could make sure that he is out of my way.--Those fools are sometimes
possessed with certain cunning of their own." So he continued muttering
to himself, passing and repassing the wardrobe.
Presently he stopped in his walk and his soliloquy, and Oliver heard a
tinkling chink of china. It was Gaspard bringing in the chocolate. Then
he heard the sound of a chair drawn back, and then the faint gurgle of
the liquor poured into the cup, the rattle of the sugar in the bowl,
and the click of the spoon. There was a pause, and he could distinctly
hear the master take a sip. He replaced the cup.
"Now, then, Gaspard, the girl," said he; "bring her--" He stopped
abruptly, and a long pause of silence followed. "What!" at length
exclaimed the Count de St. Germaine. "Is it you again? What, then, do
you desire? This makes the third time this week. Listen! I have warned
you, I have besought you, but it seems that I can influence you neither
by the one nor the other. I am weary of this importunity. I will reason
no more. Gaspard!"
Oliver heard a quick step, a rustling, and then the sound of a fierce,
silent struggle. Heretofore he had been afraid to move in the wardrobe;
now he could resist no longer. He stooped, and peered through the
hole. Just across the room from him was Gaspard, grinning horribly as
he struggled silently with some one. Yes; it was with the woman whom
Oliver had followed there.
But that struggle lasted only for a moment. The next, Gaspard had drawn
his black bag over her head, as Oliver had seen him do once before.
Then the struggle instantly ceased, and she stood silent, immovable.
Gaspard picked her up, flung her over his shoulder, turned, and the
next moment had vanished out of the narrow range of Oliver's outlook,
who, however, still remained with his eye glued to the key-hole.
Suddenly an object intervened; it was the back of the master's
dressing-gown. Oliver could see nothing but just that little circle
of cashmere cloth; the master was not four feet away from him. The
cashmere cloth was innocent enough, but the sight of it filled Oliver
again with that blind, ungovernable rage. He straightened himself from
his observations at the key-hole. But as he did so his elbow struck
against the partition alongside of him. He heard a rustle, and knew as
well as though he had seen it that his master had turned quickly.
"What is that?" said the Count de St. Germaine's voice, sharply.
Oliver knew that he was discovered, and thereupon his blind rage broke
through all restraints of reason and caution. "It is I!" he roared; and
flinging wide the door of the wardrobe, he sprang like a cat at the
throat of the other. As he sprang he clutched, and as he clutched he
felt his fingers instinctively close not only around the soft folds of
the cravat, but also around the links of a chain beneath.
[Illustration: "HE FOUND IN HIS CLINCHED HAND A LACE CRAVAT."]
The master went staggering back at the unexpected attack, and as he did
so his slipper heel caught in the edge of the rug behind him, and he
fell. But as he fell he shouted aloud, "Gaspard! Help!"
It was all over in an instant. The master lay prostrate on the floor,
and as Oliver staggered back from the recoil of the attack, he found in
his clutched hand a lace cravat and the chain, which had parted from
the Count de St. Germaine's neck with a sharp snap. Something hung by
the chain. It was a little silver case, thicker than, but about half as
long, as a snuffbox.
There was a momentary pause as Oliver stood glaring at the master,
still unconsciously clutching the cravat and the chain in his hand. The
other had raised himself, and was now staring back at Oliver with wild,
dilated eyes, and a face haggard and white as death. The next instant
he sprang to his feet.
"My talisman!" he shrieked. "Give it to me!" and he raised his
quivering fist in the air as though he would strike Oliver with it.
At the same instant a shrill, exultant voice sounded at the door: "Keep
it, Monsieur Oliver, keep it! Do not give it to him! It is his life!"
It was Gaspard who spoke. And as Oliver turned his dazed eyes, he saw
the clever servant standing in the door-way, hopping up and down,
grinning, wagging his head, and waving his bony, sinewy hands madly
hither and thither.
Oliver was stupefied with the tempest of passions that raged in and
about him. The master might have taken what he chose, and he could not
have moved to resist him. But this the master did not do. He gave a
shrill, piping, despairing cry, and the next moment made a rush for
the door, his cashmere dressing-gown flying behind him like brilliant
wings. He flung Gaspard aside, and the next instant Oliver heard his
pattering feet flying up the stairs.
"What does it all mean?" said Oliver, stupidly.
"What does it mean?" cried Gaspard. "Are you a fool? Open the box! open
the box!"
Oliver mechanically obeyed him.
Within was a little roll of soft linen, yellow with age. He unrolled
it, and within that again found a little crystal ball about the size
of a dove's egg. He could see that it contained what appeared to be a
dull, phosphorescent mass that, as he held it in his hand, seemed to
pulse and throb in the light of the candle; now glowing with a bluish
light, now fading away to a dull, milky opalescence.
Again, for the third time, Gaspard's snarling voice broke on his ear.
"Oh, thou fool! See him stand like a lump! Pig! Do you not know that
the master is busy with his books? A moment more and all is lost! Crush
that ball, or you are a dead man!"
His words spurred Oliver to sudden action. He raised the globe high in
the air, and flung it upon the floor with all his force. It burst with
a flash of light and a report like a pistol, and instantly the air was
filled with a pungent, reddish vapor.
The next instant, as the thunder follows the flash of lightning, there
came a dull, heavy rumbling, as from the cellar, and the floor swayed
beneath Oliver's feet, as though the house were toppling. He looked
around; the door-way at which Gaspard had stood was empty; the clever
servant was gone.
Then suddenly a confusion of sounds broke upon the stillness of the
house: struggles and scuffles, snarling of voices, and squeaking
as though of rats, the rattle and crash of furniture pushed about,
thumping and banging as of people wrestling and falling against the
doors. The next instant there was a sound of a heavy fall, a shrill,
long-drawn, quavering scream, and then the lull of dead silence.
Oliver stood like a statue, listening, as though he had been turned
to stone. He heard a door open, and then the sound of footsteps, and
a strange clacking and clattering upon the stairs without; a heavy
panting and breathing. Oliver ran to the door and looked up the
stairs. Gaspard was coming down out of the black gloom above. Over his
shoulders he carried something limp, like an empty skin or a bundle of
clothes tied together. Part of what he carried he dragged clattering
down the steps behind him; another part, a round lump the size of a
man's head, hung down over his shoulder, wagging from side to side.
The next moment the clever servant had come into the square of light
from the open door-way of the room. That light fell full upon the round
lump that hung wagging from his shoulder, and in the one instant of
passing, Oliver saw a dreadful, a hideous face, ashy-white, and with
eyes rolled, one upward and one downward, so that only a rim of the
pupils showed. The jaws gaped and clapped as the head wagged from side
to side. It was the face of the Count de St. Germaine.
[Illustration: "OVER HIS SHOULDERS HE CARRIED SOMETHING LIMP, LIKE AN
EMPTY SKIN, OR A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES TIED TOGETHER."]
Oliver stood spellbound, horrified, watching Gaspard as he descended
the steep flight of steps, bearing that ghastly burden. As the clever
servant passed under the dull light of the lamp below he turned his
head and looked up. His mouth gaped wide with impish, noiseless
laughter; he thrust his tongue into his cheek, and with an ugly leer
and wink of one of his black, bead-like eyes, he passed by and down the
steps beyond, the feet of the figure clicking from step to step behind
him.
Oliver watched him until he reached the bottom of the steps and passed
out from the house into the night beyond; there was the bang of a
closing door, and then dead silence.
The next moment Oliver was at the door of the room wherein Céleste was
confined. "Céleste!" he screamed, "for God's sake, come! Leave this
awful place!"
"What is it?" answered Céleste from within. "Am I then saved?"
"Yes," cried Oliver, in the same shrill voice, "you are saved! But
come! come!"
"But the door," said Céleste. "It is locked, Oliver."
"Ah, peste! I had forgotten. Stand away from it." As he spoke, he
rushed against the door, flinging himself bodily upon it. It shook, but
did not open. Again he dashed himself against it, and this time with
better success. The lock snapped, and as it flew open inward Oliver
plunged headlong into the room beyond.
Céleste stood, white and terrified, in the middle of the floor. "But am
I indeed saved?" said she. "Where, then, is Monsieur de St. Germaine?"
"Do not ask me, Céleste," cried Oliver, hoarsely. "Come!"
As they passed through the room beyond, Céleste looked up into his face.
"What is it?" she cried. "What has happened, Oliver? Tell me."
But Oliver could not answer; he only shook his head.
Upon the landing without, Céleste suddenly stopped and laid her hand
upon his arm. "Hark!" said she. "What is that?"
Oliver listened breathlessly. A dull, monotonous sobbing sounded
through the house. It came from the apartment above.
"Oh, Oliver!" cried Céleste, "go and see what it is."
Oliver shook his head. "I cannot go," said he, huskily. "I am afraid.
You do not know, Céleste, what an awful place this is! If you had seen
what I have just beheld--"
"But you must go," said Céleste; "perhaps it is another in trouble like
myself. I will wait for you here, Oliver; I am not afraid."
Oliver could not resist such an appeal; he turned, and began heavily
ascending the stairs to the floor above. A door at a little distance
stood ajar; it was thence that the monotonous sounds came. He advanced
hesitatingly towards it, and reaching out his hand, pushed it, and it
gaped slowly open upon the room beyond. Oliver only looked within for
a moment, and then turned and walked stupidly away, but what he saw in
that one glance was impressed upon his mind in an image never to be
erased.
Tables and chairs were overturned; books lay torn and scattered upon
the floor. In the middle of the room sat the woman whom he had first
seen in the moonlit street at Flourens, and her pale, vacant eyes were
fixed blankly upon him. Her white lips were slightly parted, but there
was never a twitch upon the face that uttered those monotonous sobs
that sounded dully through the silence.
Upon the floor lay stretched, bruised, battered, and bleeding, the
withered, shrunken figure of an aged man, his limbs a mass of dried
skin and bones. The yellow, parchment-like skin was stretched over his
head and his face so tightly that it seemed as though it would crack.
The shadow of death brooded upon him as he gazed with filmy, sightless
eyes into the dark hollow of eternity that lay beyond. His breast,
for a long time motionless, now and then heaved convulsively with the
laboring breath. Such was the vision that Oliver saw in that one
glance. Then he turned and walked away.
"Who was it, Oliver?" said Céleste.
Oliver answered never a word, but taking her by the hand, led her
forcibly down the stairs and out of the house.
EPILOGUE
There was a seven days' gossip in Paris. All manner of rumors were
afloat, for strange things had happened at the Hôtel de Flourens. The
marquis had had a sudden stroke of apoplexy upon the very day of his
daughter's wedding. But when they had called the family, she and that
handsome young husband of hers were nowhere to be found. They had left
the hôtel, and did not return again until long after nightfall. Where
they had been was a profound secret which they kept locked within their
own breasts. But the poor marquis, he was dying. He had never once
spoken since he had fallen under the attack. Dr. Raymond-Brasse, and
the other physicians who attended him, said that it would be little
less than a miracle if he lasted until Wednesday.
Presently other rumors began to get abroad. That vast, fabulous wealth
of the interesting Count de Monnière-Croix had vanished; not a crumb
of it was left. The debt had been paid off, both upon the château and
upon the hôtel, but that was all. It was almost inconceivable that the
marquis had squandered that stupendous fortune away in three months,
but how else could the matter be explained? It was all very strange and
mysterious.
Another thing agitated the world. The Count de St. Germaine had
vanished! He had gone! It was rumored that the Prince of Hesse-Cassel
had sent for him, and that he had departed. Certainly the Paris world
saw him no more.
AFTER THE PLAY.
Ting! A-ling! A-ling! Bring down the curtain, the extravaganza is
ended. The red and blue flames are quenched, the pasteboard scenery
is pushed back against the wall, the mock jewelry is tumbled into the
bandbox, and all the characters have gone into their dressing-rooms to
wash the paint off their faces. The lights are out, and nothing is left.
But what does it mean? Who was Monsieur de St. Germaine? Who was
Gaspard? Who was the old man who died just now? And that mysterious
woman, was she the better life of Nicholas Jovus, which he had
materialized along with the evil life? Was it possible that he could
not materialize the one without the other? Does it all mean--
"My good friend, why do you ask me? You have seen just as much of this
extravaganza as I."
By HOWARD PYLE.
MEN OF IRON. Illustrated by the Author. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 00.
A MODERN ALADDIN; Or, The Wonderful Adventures of Oliver Munier. An
Extravaganza in Four Acts. Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. (_Just Ready._)
THE WONDER CLOCK; Or, Four-and-Twenty Marvellous Tales: being One for
each Hour of the Day. Illustrated by the Author. Embellished with
Verses by KATHARINE PYLE. Large 8vo, Ornamental, Half Leather, $3 00.
THE ROSE OF PARADISE. Being a Detailed Account of Certain Adventures
that happened to Captain John Mackra, in Connection with the famous
Pirate, Edward England, in the Year 1720, off the Island of Juanna,
in the Mozambique Channel, writ by himself, and now for the first time
published. Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Ornamental Cloth, $1
25.
PEPPER AND SALT. Or, Seasoning for Young Folk. Superbly Illustrated by
the Author. 4to, Ornamental Cloth, $2 00.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
[Hand] _Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid,
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of
the price._
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
These are not books for boys alone, but well-arranged and carefully
prepared histories of war, profusely illustrated, with authentic
sketches of battle-fields, historic places, and buildings.--_Observer_,
N. Y.
Mr. Coffin avoids the formality of historical narrative, and presents
his material in the shape of personal anecdotes, memorable incidents,
and familiar illustrations. He reproduces events in a vivid,
picturesque narrative.--_N. Y. Tribune._
THE BOYS OF '76. A History of the Battles of the Revolution.
THE STORY OF LIBERTY.
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BUILDING THE NATION. Events in the History of the United States from
the Revolution to the Beginning of the War between the States.
DRUM-BEAT OF THE NATION. The First Period of the War of the Rebellion,
from its Outbreak to the Close of 1862.
MARCHING TO VICTORY. The Second Period of the War of the Rebellion,
including the Year 1863.
REDEEMING THE REPUBLIC. The Third Period of the War of the Rebellion
in the Year 1864.
FREEDOM TRIUMPHANT. The Fourth Period of the War of the Rebellion,
from September, 1864, to its Close.
=Profusely Illustrated. Sq. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3 00 per volume.=
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
[Hand] _Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid,
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of
the price._
Transcriber's Note:
Italics are indicated by _underscores_.
Bolds are indicated by =equal signs=.
Small capitals have been rendered in full capitals.
Ligatures [oe] have been converted into oe.
A number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note.