"Is Nita unwell, Emma?" asked Lewis early one morning, not long after
the sad event narrated in the last chapter.
"I think not. She is merely depressed, as we all are, by the melancholy
death of poor Le Croix."
"I can well believe it," returned Lewis. "Nevertheless, it seems to me
that her careworn expression and deep despondency cannot be accounted
for by that event."
"You know that her father left last week very suddenly," said Emma.
"Perhaps there may be domestic affairs that weigh heavily on her. I
know not, for she never refers to her family or kindred. The only time
I ventured to do so she appeared unhappy, and quickly changed the
subject."
The cousins were sauntering near their hotel and observed Dr Lawrence
hurry from the front door.
"Hallo! Lawrence," called out Lewis.
"Ah! the very man I want," exclaimed the Doctor, hastening to join them,
"do you know that Miss Horetzki is ill?"
"How strange that we should just this moment have referred to her
looking ill! Not seriously ill, I trust," said Emma, with a troubled
look in her sympathetic eyes.
"I hope not, but her case puzzles me more than any that I have yet met
with. I fancy it may be the result of an overstrained nervous system,
but there appears no present cause for that. She evidently possesses a
vigorous constitution, and every one here is kind to her--her father
particularly so. Even if she were in love, which she doesn't seem to be
(a faint twinkle in the Doctor's eye here), that would not account for
her condition."
"I can't help thinking," observed Lewis, with a troubled look, "that her
father is somehow the cause of her careworn looks. No doubt he is very
kind to her in public, but may there not be a very different state of
things behind the scenes?"
"I think not. The Count's temper is gentle, and his sentiments are
good. If he were irascible there might be something behind the scenes,
for when restraint is removed and temper gets headway, good principles
may check but cannot always prevent unkindness. Now, Emma, I have
sought you and Lewis to ask for counsel. I do not say that Nita is
seriously ill, but she is ill enough to cause those who love her--as I
know you do--some anxiety. It is very evident to me, from what she
says, that she eagerly desires her father to be with her, and yet when I
suggest that he should be sent for, she nervously declines to entertain
the proposal. If this strange state of mind is allowed to go on, it
will aggravate the feverish attack from which she now suffers. I wish,
therefore, to send for the Count without letting her know. Do you think
this a wise step?"
"Undoubtedly; but why ask such a question of me?" said Emma, with a look
of surprise.
"First, because you are Nita's friend--not perhaps, a friend of long
standing, but, if I mistake not, a very loving one; and, secondly, as
well as chiefly, because I want you to find out from her where her
father is at present, and let me know."
"There is something disagreeably underhand in such a proceeding,"
objected Emma.
"You know that a doctor is, or ought to be, considered a sort of pope,"
returned Lawrence. "I absolve you from all guilt by assuring you that
there is urgent need for pursuing the course I suggest."
"Well, I will at all events do what I can to help you," said Emma.
"Shall I find her in her own room?"
"Yes, in bed, attended, with Mrs Stoutley's permission, by Susan Quick.
Get rid of the maid before entering on the subject."
In a few minutes Emma returned to the Doctor, who still walked up and
down in earnest conversation with Lewis. She had succeeded, she said,
in persuading Nita to let her father be sent for, and the place to which
he had gone for a few days was Saxon, in the Rhone valley. The Count's
address had also been obtained, but Nita had stipulated that the
messenger should on no account disturb her father by entering the house,
but should send for him and wait outside.
"Strange prohibition!" exclaimed Lawrence. "However, we must send off a
messenger without delay."
"Stay," said Lewis, detaining his friend; "there seems to be delicacy as
well as mystery connected with this matter, you must therefore allow me
to be the messenger."
Lawrence had no objection to the proposal, and in less than an hour
Lewis, guided by Antoine Grennon, was on the road to Martigny by way of
the celebrated pass of the Tete-Noire.
The guide was one of Nature's gentlemen. Although low in the social
scale, and trained in a rugged school, he possessed that innate
refinement of sentiment and feeling--a gift of God sometimes transmitted
through a gentle mother--which makes a true gentleman. Among men of the
upper ranks this refinement of soul may be counterfeited by the
superficial polish of manners; among those who stand lower in the social
scale it cannot be counterfeited at all, but still less can it be
concealed. As broadcloth can neither make nor mar a true gentleman, so
fustian cannot hide one. If Antoine Grennon had been bred "at Court,"
and arrayed in sumptuous apparel, he could not have been more
considerate than he was of the feelings and wishes of others, or more
gentle, yet manly, in his demeanour.
If, on an excursion, you wished to proceed in a certain direction,
Antoine never suggested that you should go in another, unless there were
insurmountable difficulties in the way. If you chanced to grow weary,
you could not have asked Antoine to carry your top-coat, because he
would have observed your condition and anticipated your wishes. If you
had been inclined to talk he would have chatted away by the hour on
every subject that came within the range of his knowledge, and if you
had taken him beyond his depth, he would have listened by the hour with
profound respect, obviously pleased, and attempting to understand you.
Yet he would not have "bored" you. He possessed great tact. He would
have allowed you to lead the conversation, and when you ceased to do so
he would have stopped. He never looked sulky or displeased. He never
said unkind things, though he often said and did kind ones, and, with
all that, was as independent in his opinions as the whistling wind among
his native glaciers. In fact he was a prince among guides, and a
pre-eminently unselfish man.
Heigho! if all the world--you and I, reader, included--bore a stronger
resemblance to Antoine Grennon, we should have happy times of it. Well,
well, don't let us sigh despairingly because of our inability to come up
to the mark. It is some comfort that there are not a few such men about
us to look up to as exemplars. We know several such, both men and
women, among our own friends. Let's be thankful for them. It does us
good to think of them!
From what we have said, the reader will not be surprised to hear that,
after the first words of morning salutation, Lewis Stoutley walked
smartly along the high road leading up the valley of Chamouni in perfect
silence, with Antoine trudging like a mute by his side.
Lewis was too busy with his thoughts to speak at first. Nita's illness,
and the mystery connected somehow with the Count, afforded food not only
for meditation, but anxiety, and it was not until the town lay far
behind them that he looked at his guide, and said:--
"The route over the Tete-Noire is very grand, I am told?"
"Very grand, Monsieur--magnificent!"
"You are well acquainted with it, doubtless?"
"Yes; I have passed over it hundreds of times. Does Monsieur intend to
make a divergence to the Col de Balme?"
"No; I have urgent business on hand, and must push on to catch the
railway. Would the divergence you speak of take up much time? Is the
Col de Balme worth going out of one's way to see?"
"It is well worthy of a visit," said the guide, replying to the last
query first, "as you can there have a completely uninterrupted view--one
of the very finest views of Mont Blanc, and all its surroundings. The
time required for the divergence is little more than two hours; with
Monsieur's walking powers perhaps not so much; besides, there is plenty
of time, as we shall reach Martigny much too soon for the train."
"In that case we shall make the detour," said Lewis. "Are the roads
difficult?"
"No; quite easy. It is well that Monsieur dispensed with a mule, as we
shall be more independent; and a mule is not so quick in its progress as
an active man."
While they chatted thus, walking at a quick pace up the valley, Antoine,
observing that his young charge was now in a conversational frame of
mind, commented on the magnificent scenery, and drew attention to points
of interest as they came into view.
Their route at first lay in the low ground by the banks of the river
Arve, which rushed along, wild and muddy, as if rejoicing in its escape
from the superincumbent glaciers that gave it birth. The great peaks of
the Mont Blanc range hemmed them in on the right, the slopes of the
Brevent on the left. Passing the village of Argentiere with rapid
strides, and pausing but a few moments to look at the vast glacier of
the same name which pours into the valley the ice-floods gendered among
the heights around the Aiguille Verte and the Aiguille du Chardonnet,
which rise respectively to a height of above 13,400 and 12,500 feet they
reached the point where the Tete-Noire route diverged to the left at
that time, in the form of a mere bridle-path, and pushed forward towards
the Col, or pass.
On the way, Antoine pointed out heaps of slabs of black slate. These,
he said, were collected by the peasants, who, in spring, covered their
snow-clad fields with them; the sun, heating the slabs, caused the snow
beneath to melt rapidly; and thus, by a very simple touch of art, they
managed to wrest from Nature several weeks that would otherwise have
been lost!
As they rose into the higher grounds, heaps and rude pillars of stone
were observed. These were the landmarks which guided travellers through
that region when it was clad in its wintry robe of deep snow, and all
paths obliterated.
At last they stood on the Col de Balme. There was a solitary inn there,
but Antoine turned aside from it and led his companion a mile or so to
one side, to a white stone, which marked the boundary between
Switzerland and France.
It is vain to attempt in words a description of scenes of grandeur.
Ink, at the best, is impotent in such matters; even paint fails to give
an adequate idea. We can do no more than run over a list of names.
From this commanding point of view Mont Blanc is visible in all his
majesty--vast, boundless, solemn, incomprehensible--with his Aiguilles
de Tour, d'Argentiere, Verte, du Dru, de Charmoz, du Midi, etcetera,
around him; his white head in the clouds, his glacial drapery rolling
into the vale of Chamouni, his rocks and his pine-clad slopes toned down
by distance into fine shadows. On the other side of the vale rise the
steeps of the Aiguilles Rouges and the Brevent. To the north towers the
Croix de Fer, and to the north-east is seen the entire chain of the
Bernese Alps, rising like a mighty white leviathan, with a bristling
back of pinnacles.
Splendid though the view was, however, Lewis did not for a moment forget
his mission. Allowing himself only a few minutes to drink it in, he
hastened back to the Tete-Noire path, and soon found himself traversing
a widely different scene. On the Col he had, as it were, stood aloof,
and looked abroad on a vast and glorious region; now, he was involved in
its rocky, ridgy, woody details. Here and there long vistas opened up
to view, but, for the most part, his vision was circumscribed by
towering cliffs and deep ravines. Sometimes he was down in the bottom
of mountain valleys, at other times walking on ledges so high on the
precipice-faces, that cottages in the vales below seemed little bigger
than sheep. Now the country was wooded and soft; anon it was barren and
rocky, but never tame or uninteresting.
At one place, where the narrow gorge was strewn with huge boulders,
Antoine pointed out a spot where two Swiss youths had been overwhelmed
by an avalanche. It had come down from the red gorges of the Aiguilles
Rouges, at a spot where the vale, or pass, was comparatively wide.
Perhaps its width had induced the hapless lads to believe themselves
quite safe from anything descending on the other side of the valley. If
so, they were mistaken; the dreadful rush of rock and wrack swept the
entire plain, and buried them in the ruin.
Towards evening the travellers reached Martigny in good time for the
train, which speedily conveyed them to Saxon.
This town is the only one in Switzerland--the only one, indeed, in
Europe with the exception of Monaco--which possesses that great blight
on civilisation, a public gambling-table. That the blight is an
unusually terrible one may be assumed from the fact that every civilised
European nation has found it absolutely necessary to put such places
down with a strong hand.
At the time Lewis Stoutley visited the town, however, it was not so
singular in its infamy as it now is. He was ignorant of everything
about the place save its name. Going straight to the first hotel that
presented itself, he inquired for the Count Horetzki. The Count he was
told, did not reside there; perhaps he was at the Casino.
To the Casino Lewis went at once. It was an elegant Swiss building, the
promenade of which was crowded with visitors. The strains of music fell
sweetly on the youth's ear as he approached.
Leaving Antoine outside, he entered, and repeated his inquiries for the
Count.
They did not know the Count, was the reply, but if Monsieur would enter
the rooms perhaps he might find him.
Lewis, remembering the expressed desire of Nita, hesitated, but as no
one seemed inclined to attend to his inquiries, beyond a civil reply
that nothing was known about the Count he entered, not a little
surprised at the difficulty thrown in his way.
The appearance of the salon into which he was ushered at once explained
the difficulty, and at the same time sent a sudden gleam of light into
his mind. Crowds of ladies and gentlemen--some eager, some anxious,
others flippant or dogged, and a good many quite calm and cool--
surrounded the brilliantly-lighted gaming tables. Every one seemed to
mind only his own business, and each man's business may be said to have
been the fleecing of his neighbour to the utmost of his power--not by
means of skill or wisdom, but by means of mere chance, and through the
medium of professional gamblers and rouge-et-noir.
With a strange fluttering at his heart, for he remembered his own
weakness, Lewis hurried forward and glanced quickly at the players.
Almost the first face he saw was that of the Count. But what a changed
countenance! Instead of the usual placid smile, and good-humoured
though sad expression about the eyes, there was a terrible look of
intense fixed anxiety, with deep-knotted lines on his brow, and a
horribly drawn look about the mouth.
"Make your play, gentlemen," said the presiding genius of the tables, as
he spun round the board on the action of which so much depended.
The Count had already laid his stake on the table, and clutched his rake
with such violence as almost to snap the handle.
Other players had also placed their stakes, some with cool calculating
precision, a few with nervous uncertainty, many with apparent
indifference. With the exception of the Count and a lady near him,
however, there was little of what might indicate very strong feeling on
any countenance. One young and pretty girl, after placing her little
pile of silver, stood awaiting the result with calm indifference--
possibly assumed. Whatever might be the thoughts or feelings of the
players, there was nothing but business-like gravity stamped on the
countenances of the four men who presided over the revolving board, each
with neatly-arranged rows of silver five-franc pieces in front of him,
and a wooden rake lying ready to hand. Each player also had a rake,
with which he or she pushed the coins staked upon a certain space of the
table, or on one of the dividing lines, which gave at least a varied, if
not a better, chance.
The process of play was short and sharp. For a few seconds the board
spun, the players continuing to place, or increase, or modify the
arrangement of the stakes up to nearly the last moment. As the board
revolved more slowly a pea fell into a hole--red or black--and upon this
the fate of each hung. A notable event, truly, on which untold millions
of money have changed hands, innumerable lives have been sacrificed, and
unspeakable misery and crime produced in days gone by!
The decision of the pea--if we may so express it--was quietly stated,
and to an ignorant spectator it seemed as if the guardians of the table
raked all the stakes into their own maws. But here and there, like
white rocks in a dark sea, several little piles were left untouched. To
the owners of these a number of silver pieces were tossed--tossed so
deftly that we might almost say it rained silver on those regions of the
table. No wizard of legerdemain ever equalled the sleight of hand with
which these men pitched, reckoned, manipulated, and raked in silver
pieces!
The Count's pile remained untouched, and a bright flush suffused his
hitherto pale cheeks while the silver rain was falling on his square,
but to the surprise of Lewis, he did not rake it towards him as did the
others. He left the increased amount on exactly the same spot, merely
drawing it gently together with his rake. As he did so the knotted
haggard look returned to his once again bloodless brow and face. Not
less precise and silent were his companions. The board again spun
round; the inexorable pea fell; the raking and raining were repeated,
and again the Count's stake lay glittering before him. His eyes
glittered even more brightly than the silver. Lewis concluded that he
must have been brought down to desperate poverty, and meant to recover
himself by desperate means, for he left the whole stake again on the
same spot.
This time the pea fell into black. The colour was symbolic of the
Count's feelings, for next moment the silver heap was raked from before
him, along with other heaps, as if nothing unusual had happened; and, in
truth, nothing had. Wholesale ruin and robbery was the daily occupation
there!
For a few seconds the Count gazed at the blank space before him with an
expression of stony unbelief; then springing suddenly to his feet, he
spurned his chair from him and rushed from the room. So quick was the
movement, that he had reached the door and passed out before Lewis could
stop him.
Springing after him with a feeling of great alarm, the youth dashed
across the entrance-hall, but turned in the wrong direction. Being put
right by a porter, he leaped through the doorway and looked for Antoine,
who, he knew, must have seen the Count pass, but Antoine was not there.
As he quickly questioned one who stood near, he thought he saw a man
running among the adjacent shrubbery. He could not be sure, the night
being dark, but he promptly ran after him. On dashing round a turn in
the gravel-walk, he found two men engaged in what appeared to be a
deadly struggle. Suddenly the place was illumined by a red flash, a
loud report followed, and one of the two fell.
"Ah! Monsieur," exclaimed Antoine, as Lewis came forward, "aid me here;
he is not hurt, I think."
"Hurt! Do you mean that he tried to shoot himself?"
"He had not time to try, but I'm quite sure that he meant to," said
Antoine; "so I ran after him and caught his hand. The pistol exploded
in the struggle."
As the guide spoke, the Count rose slowly. The star-light was faint,
but it sufficed to show that the stony look of despair was gone, and
that the gentle expression, natural to him, had returned. He was deadly
pale, and bowed his head as one overwhelmed with shame.
"Oh pardon, Monsieur!" exclaimed poor Antoine, as he thought of the
roughness with which he had been compelled to treat him. "I did not
mean to throw you."
"You did not throw me, friend. I tripped and fell," replied the Count,
in a low, husky voice. "Mr Stoutley," he added, turning to Lewis, "by
what mischance you came here I know not but I trust that you were not--
were not--present. I mean--do you know the cause of my conduct--this--"
He stopped abruptly.
"My dear sir," said Lewis, in a low, kind voice, at the same time
grasping the Count's hand, and leading him aside, "I was in the rooms; I
saw you there; but believe me when I assure you, that no feeling but
that of sympathy can touch the heart of one who has been involved in the
meshes of the same net."
The Count's manner changed instantly. He returned the grasp of the
young man, and looked eagerly in his face, as he repeated--
"_Has_ been involved! How, then, did you escape?"
"I'm not sure that I _have_ escaped," answered Lewis, sadly.
"Not sure! Oh, young man, _make_ sure. Give no rest to your soul till
you are quite sure. It is a dreadful net--terrible! When once wrapped
tightly round one there is no escape--no escape. In this it resembles
its sister passion--the love of strong drink."
The Count spoke with such deep pathos, and in tones so utterly hopeless,
that Lewis's ready sympathies were touched, and he would have given
anything to be able to comfort his friend, but never before having been
called upon to act as a comforter, he felt sorely perplexed.
"Call it not a passion," he said. "The love of gaming, as of drink, is
a disease; and a disease may be cured--has been cured, even when
desperate."
The Count shook his head.
"You speak in ignorance, Mr Stoutley. You know nothing of the
struggles I have made. It is impossible."
"With God _all_ things are possible," replied Lewis, quoting, almost to
his own surprise, a text of Scripture. "But forgive my delay," he
added; "I came here on purpose to look for you. Your daughter Nita is
ill--not seriously ill, I believe," he said, on observing the Count's
startled look, "but ill enough to warrant your being sent for."
"I know--I know," cried the Count, with a troubled look, as he passed
his hand across his brow. "I might have expected it. She cannot
sustain the misery I have brought on her. Oh! why was I prevented from
freeing her from such a father. Is she very ill? Did she send for me?
Did she tell you what I am?"
The excited manner and wild aspect of the gambler, more than the words,
told of a mind almost, if not altogether, unhinged. Observing this with
some anxiety, Lewis tried to soothe him. While leading him to an hotel,
he explained the nature of Nita's attack as well as he could, and said
that she had not only refrained from saying anything about her father,
but that she seemed excessively unwilling to reveal the name of the
place to which he had gone, or to send for him.
"No one knows anything unfavourable about Count Horetzki," said Lewis,
in a gentle tone, "save his fellow-sinner, who now assures him of his
sincere regard. As for Antoine Grennon, he is a wise, and can be a
silent, man. No brother could be more tender of the feelings of others
than he. Come, you will consent to be my guest to-night. You are
unwell; I shall be your amateur physician. My treatment and a night of
rest will put you all right, and to-morrow, by break of day, we will hie
back to Chamouni over the Tete-Noire."