THE CONTENTS OF THE BOX
One day very soon thereafter my servant presented me a box, which he
said had been brought there by an Indian from Colonel d'Ortez, with the
request that it be delivered into my own hand. And further, to beg I
would make him a visit as soon as my duties would permit.
The evening being far advanced I could not go that night, so contented
myself with the promise I would cross the bay on the morrow.
Later, my company being my own, I gave attention to the box, such a
metal receptacle as was commonly used for articles of value. It
responded easily to the key, and opened without difficulty.
The reasons for d'Ortez's fear and retirement lay bare before me, if I
would but search them out. Within the box, bound together by deerskin
thongs, were many writings, some on parchment, some paper, of different
dates and degrees of preservation. Some were well worn from age and
handling, others more recent, were in better condition. Some there
were which appeared quite new and fresh; these must have been the
latest to find a resting place in his keeping.
All were arranged in due and systematic order; of whatever age, each
bore a careful superscription, giving in brief the contents of the
paper written by his own exact hand. Beside this, each document was
numbered and placed in sequence. Verily, it was most methodically
done, so any child could read and understand.
It was with much misgiving I approached the task of making myself
familiar with my old friend's secret. Had he committed some youthful
crime which weighed heavily upon his trembling age, and had driven him
to these savage shores, where, shut out from all companionship with his
kind, he did a lonely penance? If so, I preferred to remain in
ignorance, for his was a friendship so dear, so pure, I desired not to
taint it with the odor of guilt.
He had, however, made his request in such urgent terms, even pathetic,
I could not disregard it, and putting aside the reluctance I felt, I
took up the paper which lay on top, directed to myself, and began its
perusal. It was as follows:
My dear Placide:
The great feebleness of my worn-out frame warns me again that time for
me is almost past. It may be, when you recross the seas, I shall have
gone to final judgment. * * * remember my request, and carry on to the
end that work which generations of cowards have left undone. * * * All
is here contained in these papers, except some recent news I have of
the Pasquiers from the northern colonies.
Possibly if you went to Quebec and sought out the Cure of St. Martin's
(who wrote this last letter, No. 32) you may right it all, and give to
my soul its eternal peace. * * * With the strong affection which my
bodily infirmities have in no wise diminished, I am,
Your old friend.
RAOUL ARMAND XAVIER D'ORTEZ.
of Cartillon, Normandy.
Having carefully read this letter, I then proceeded to peruse the
various documents in the order he had arranged them.
The first, written by the hand of the Benedictine, Laurent of Lorraine,
Abbot of Vaux, told of the admission to the monastery of a child, son
of Henri d'Artin, to whom the good monks gave the name Bartholomew
Pasquier. This child, though designed for orders, left the monastery,
cast his fortunes with the King of Navarre, and became a great officer
in the household of King Henri the Fourth.
Other documents gave an account of the posterity of this child down to
one Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, who fled to America in 1674 to
escape the vengeance of a certain great lord whose son he slew in a
duel. This was he who was reputed to have been killed in battle, and
to have left no issue. And this was he whom I afterward found to be my
own good father.
There was also contained an account of the later life of Pedro d'Ortez,
who, profiting not by his blood-gotten gains, threw himself, while in
delirium, into the same old well whereon he had hanged his brother,
Henri d'Artin.
Some further notes by the good abbot told of how Raoul, the second son
of Pedro, slew his own brother, before their father's eyes, in order
that he, Raoul, might be Count of Cartillon. And this same Raoul, some
years later, did have the locket made and forced his own son to swear
that he would restore the real sons of d'Artin, the true children of
the Black Wolf's Breed, to their own again. All of these accounts are
of surpassing interest, old and quaint, to a perusal of which I
recommend my children.[1]
For the first time, in reading these manuscripts, did I begin clearly
to associate the name d'Ortez with the name used by the madman in his
story at the old Norman ruin. With this new light, link by link did
the whole knotted chain untangle. Curiously enough, the tale I had
heard at the ruined castle tallied in the main with the monkish
documents here preserved. Indeed it supplied me with knowledge of much
which otherwise I would not have comprehended so completely. The
horrible reality of that weird recital was still fresh and distinct
before me, undimmed by time and unforgotten through all my troubles.
I had sought refuge many times from brooding over my own affairs by
turning to this for interest and occupation. Every further detail was
supplied by a number of quaint documents, which Colonel d'Ortez had
digested into this:
TABLE SHOWING THE MALE DESCENDANTS OF
HENRI d'ARTIN AND OF PEDRO ORTEZ.
Henri Francois Placide Pedro d'Ortez, suicided 1604.
d'Artin, died Aug. 28, Charles Pedro, killed ) Sons
1572. by Raoul 1602. ) of
Bartholomew Pasquier (son Raoul, died 1618. ) above
of above), died 1609. Charles Francis Peter (son of
Bartholomew Placide ) Raoul), died without issue.
Pasquier killed in ) Sons Pedro d'Ortez (brother to
wars of the Fronde. ) of above), died 1663
Henri Louis John (brother ) above. Henry (son of above), killed
to above), died 1654. ) in battle.
Francois Rene Xavier de Pasquier Alphonze, killed in )
(ennobled), killed 1650. battle. )
Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, Felix, died in infancy. ) Sons
fled to America. Supposed to Raoul Armand Xavier ) of
have been killed about 1681. d'Ortez, born 1641 ) above.
No known descendants. Well (myself). Died ----. )
known to the Cure of St. No children. )
Martin's, Quebec. She who was born my daughter I
disowned, and she died without
issue.
It appeared that the only thing to be done was to visit the good Cure
of St. Martin's, and, enlisting him in the search, find whatever
descendants might have been left by this Francois Rene Alois de
Pasquier. The task need not be a difficult one, as many old people
should still be living who might have known of the man.[2]
I now bethought me of this enterprise as a fair excuse whereby I could
leave Biloxi for a space. I would, therefore, call upon my old friend,
and having obtained leave, matters now being safe with the colony, make
the journey to Quebec.
But, alas for the weakness of fallen humanity; my last act before
putting myself out of temptation's way was to run full tilt into it.
While this came so near to causing my dishonorable death, yet it was,
under Divine Providence, the direct means of spreading before me a long
life of happiness and honor. After a hard battle with my weaker self I
lost the fight.
Just as on the day I departed from Versailles, I determined, cost what
it would, to see Agnes once again. So I wrote her a note. Such a
blunt and clumsy billet as only a love-sick soldier or a country clown
could have written. It craved pardon for the heat and the haste
displayed by me when we parted at Sceaux; it implored one last
interview before I left the colonies forever. I had not the art to
conceal or veil my meaning, but told it out and plainly. Such a note
as an idiotic boy might pen, or a simpering school lass be set
fluttering to receive.
I bade my man deliver this to Madame de la Mora on the morrow, charging
him minutely and repeatedly to see it safe in her own hands. So
careful was I, I did not doubt that even so stupid a lout as Jacques
understood me perfectly.
His further instructions were to meet me at the Bay when I should
return in the evening from my visit to Colonel d'Ortez, and there
beside its rippling waters--or so I had arranged--I was to receive her
answer.
It had now turned late of the night, and I sought repose. Sleep evaded
my bed. What with my own restless desires, my chiding sense of
ill-doing, and the d'Ortez story I had read, I tossed and tumbled
through the remaining hours of darkness. Tumbled and tossed, whilst
the sins and sufferings of men long dead passed and repassed with their
spectral admonitions.
Early on the morrow, while the day was yet cool, I crossed the Bay, and
climbed the slope of sand before the lonely house. It looked more
deserted and desolate than I had ever seen it. The stillness of
solitary death clung as a pall about the place. Pachaco, the Indian
servant, sat beside the gate, as motionless as the post against which
he leaned.
"How is the master, Pachaco?" I inquired, passing in.
"Him die yesterday," came the stolid reply.
"What? Dead! When?"
"The shadows were at the longest," he answered, indicating by a gesture
the western horizon.
I hurried into the master's room. In the same position he had
occupied, when, months ago, he had beckoned me to remain, he sat there,
dead in his chair. His clothing hung about him in that sharply angular
fashion in which garments cling to a corpse. Long, thin locks were
matted above his brow, awesomely disarranged. But the pose of his
head, drooped a little forward, suggested a melancholy reverie, nothing
more.
The golden locket, which he had shown me that well-remembered night,
rested within his shrunken palm. I noted that the side was open which
revealed the blazing bar of red. As if absorbed in that same
unpleasant thought, there sat the master, dead; dead, and I alone knew
his story. How vividly the old man's sorrow came back; how it
oppressed me.
I bent down in tender sympathy to look again upon his wasted features,
and kneeling, gazed into his wide-open eyes. The calm of promised
peace upon his brow was distorted by the unsatisfied expression of one
who has left his work undone.
So are the sins of the fathers visited upon their children, for I was
no longer in doubt but that the murderer, Pedro Ortez, was the sinning
ancestor of my old-time friend. Even in his presence my thoughts flew
to Agnes; had she not spoken of her grandsire as being such a man? The
stiffening body at my side was speedily forgotten in the music of this
meditation.
I gained my feet again and looked down upon him, fascinated by the
changeless features of the dead. It was probably natural that standing
there I should revolve the whole matter over and over again, from the
first I knew of it until the last. A young man's plans, though, work
ever with the living; the dead he places in their tomb, covers them
with earth, bids them "God-speed," and banishes the recollection. I
was already busy with my contemplated search for the last d'Artin, and
stood there leaning against the oaken table pondering over the
question, "Where is the last d'Artin?"
My mind wandered, returning with a dogged persistence to that one
thought, "Where is the last d'Artin?" "Where could _I_ find him?" My
restless eyes roamed round the cheerless room, coming always back to
rest upon a long dust-covered mirror set in the wall across the way.
As wind-driven clouds gather and group themselves in fantastic shapes,
so, deep in that mirror's shadowy depths, a vague figure gradually took
form and character--myself.
With the vacant glance of a man whose mind is intensely preoccupied, I
studied minutely the reflection, my own bearing, my dress, my weapons.
I even noted a button off my coat, and tried dimly to remember where I
had lost it, until--great God--this chamber of death and revelation had
turned my brain.
What face was that I saw? My own, assuredly, but so like another.
Aghast, powerless to move or cry out, I stared helplessly into the
glass. Every other sensation vanished now before this new-born terror
which held my soul enslaved. I closed my eyes, I dared not look.
My body seemed immovable with horror, but a trembling hand arose and
pointed at the mirror. Scant need there was to call attention to that
dim, terrible presence; my whole soul shrank from the ghostly face
reflected in the glass. For there, there was the same pallid
countenance, death-distorted and drawn, which I had conjured up in many
a frightened dream as that of the murdered Count--there was Henri
d'Artin.
How long I stood transfixed, pointing into the mirror, I know not. As
men think of trifles even in times of deadly fear, so did my lips frame
over and over again the last question I had in mind before all sense
forsook me, "Where is the last d'Artin? Where is the last d'Artin?
Where--?"
And in answer to my question, that long, rigid finger pointed _directly
at me_ from out the dusty glass. It was as if the hand of the dead had
told me who I was.
It had been no blind chance, then, which led me to the Paris house of
the "Black Wolf's Head;" the girl's ring with the same device, and the
grewsome narrative beneath the shadow of the Wolf at the Norman
ruin--nothing less than fate had brought these lights to me.
Verily some more logical power than unreasoning accident must direct
the steps of men. A God of justice perhaps had placed these tokens in
my path. And soldiers call this "Fortune."
* * * * * *
I dispatched Pachaco to Biloxi with the news of death, and long before
the afternoon our few simple arrangements for his funeral had been made.
"Bury me here, Placide, beneath this great oak," he had said to me one
day. "The Infinite Mercy will consecrate the grave of penitence,
wherever it may be."
He had his wish.
[1] These documents have been included in an appendix to this volume.
[2] A very slight investigation showed that this last named Francois
Rene Alois de Pasquier was none other than my own good father, who
assumed the name de Mouret to avoid the consequences of a fatal duel in
France. This I learned from the pious Cure of St. Martin's, who knew
him well.