“LA GRANDE PASSION.”
After Jennie’s departure, the Countess gave herself up entirely to the
pleasure which she found in the company of her young guest.
“I knew your father, Oscar Renville, I may say, intimately. It was after
the death of your mother, but my husband was then living. I was in
Corsica when your father died. I would gladly have taken you as my own,
for I must confess that when my son was born I was very sorry he was not
a daughter instead. It was only a short time ago that I learned Mr.
Glynne had adopted you.”
“No,” said Bertha, “he never adopted me. He is, or rather was, my
guardian.”
“Has he more than one child?”
“Only one son, Clarence. His father wished him to marry me, but although
Clarence was always kind to me--really the best friend I had at
Buckholme--he never proposed to me. I thought several times that he was
on the point of doing so, but I can see now why he did not.”
“I think he would have done so,” said the Countess, “if it had not been
for a previous love affair.”
“Oh, it was not that,” cried Bertha. “He knew me long before he became
acquainted with his present wife; but it may have been so after all, for
I was only sixteen.”
* * * * *
If Clarence Glynne had been lukewarm in his love-making, Bertha soon
found that Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the exact reverse. On his part,
at least, it was a case of love at first sight. He declared to his
friend, the Marquis Caussade, that for the first time in his life he had
an attack of _la grande passion_. He tried in every way to make himself
agreeable to Bertha.
“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, one morning. “Paris never
looked more beautiful than it will to-day. The environs are even more
attractive than the city itself.”
“I will ask the Countess,” said Bertha.
“And so my son wishes you to go driving with him, does he?” was the
Countess’s reply to Bertha’s question. “I have no right to command you,
but my advice is to refuse. Some people have told me that my son is a
very bad young man. I am not personally cognisant of his misdoings, nor
do I wish to be, but I do not think it best for you to become too well
acquainted with him.”
“I shall certainly do as you say,” replied Bertha.
All of the Count’s attempts to make Bertha his companion were flat
failures and he decided to adopt another course. A new opera was about
to be given. The tickets were held at extravagant figures, but the Count
secured a box.
“Oh, you are musical!” he exclaimed, one day as he entered the
drawing-room and found Bertha seated at the piano.
“I play a little for my own amusement,” said she.
“Have you any objection to my listening?”
“Oh, not at all! I trust you will not find it irksome.”
He was extravagant in his praises of her performance, but Bertha had
learned to take his remarks at their true value.
He did not ask Bertha to go to the opera with him, but invited his
mother instead.
“I have a box,” he said.
“Are you going to make up a party?”
“Oh, no, I will go with you.”
“Have you asked Bertha?”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I have asked her to accompany me on
several occasions, but she has always refused; I presume at your
instigation. To speak plainly, I do not care whether she goes with us to
the opera or not.”
He knew that this would pique his mother.
“Well, if Bertha cannot go, I shall not go,” said the Countess.
“If you choose to ask her to accompany you, I certainly shall not
object, but, as I said before, I do not care whether she goes or not.”
He did not repeat this conversation to Bertha and the Countess herself
was too politic to refer to it.
Every day, thereafter, the Count virtually haunted the drawing-room in
the hope of finding Bertha at the piano. On one occasion he was
successful.
“Will you not play for me?” he asked.
“You have heard my repertoire.”
“Do you not sing?”
“Very little; only the simplest of English ballads.”
He took a piece of music from the rack and placed it before her. “Can
you play that?”
“I can try.”
“If you will, I shall be your debtor.”
“I cannot sing it.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I did not ask you to.”
It was a tenor song. Bertha played the prelude, but was astonished when
she struck the first note of the vocal score to hear the Count’s voice
take up the melody. He had a pure, sweet voice, and sang with great
power and expression.
“It is a beautiful song; do you not think so?” he asked.
“Very,” was her laconic reply.
“Now, will you not sing for me one of those English ballads?”
Bertha had enjoyed the Count’s song, and she felt it would be
discourteous to refuse under the circumstances.
The piece was a solo, but when she had sung several lines the Count
joined in, singing in English.
“Encore! Encore!!” he cried, and they sang the second stanza together.
“You must be a good musician,” said Bertha, “to sing a part so well that
is not in the music.”
“I am glad to hear that there is some good in me,” he remarked, gravely.
“I am a thousand times your debtor, Miss Renville, both for your singing
and your compliment, which I shall never forget.”
The night for the opera came, and as the Count, with his dark, handsome
face, leaned forward, from time to time, to discuss the performance with
the fair-haired English girl, scores of opera-glasses were turned in
their direction. Count Napier Mont d’Oro had scored the point for which
he had been working so long--he had been seen in public with the
beautiful woman whom he loved, for the time being at least, and that
satisfied him.
The next day the Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading the
criticisms of the opera and the performance. At the close of the article
in one of the papers were some items referring to the prominent
personages who were present on the opening night. Her own name caught
her eye, and she read an item which caused her to clench her hands until
her finger-nails almost cut into the flesh, as she exclaimed: “The
villain! I was a fool to trust him.” Then she read the item again:
“It is rumored that a certain young Count, one of the _jeunesse dorée_,
and member of a prominent Corsican family, has become greatly enamoured
of a beautiful young English girl who is visiting here. They were seen
together at the opera, and if what was apparent in the past is an
indication of what will take place in the future, Parisian society will
be adorned, at no distant date, by another of England’s fairest
daughters.”
Before the Countess had recovered from the vexation which the perusal of
the item had caused her, the boudoir door was suddenly opened and Bertha
ran into the room. She threw herself upon her knees, buried her face in
the Countess’s lap, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Why, what’s the matter, my dear?” exclaimed the Countess. “What has
happened?”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” cried Bertha.
“But, really, you must,” said the Countess. “Who in my house has dared
to offend you?”
“He did not mean it as an offence--they never do--but it was so
unexpected--I have never given him any reason.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the now astonished
Countess. “Do be explicit. I have just read something in the paper that
has made me very angry.”
The girl wiped away the tears from her reddened eyes and said: “Why did
he do it?”
“Do what?” exclaimed the Countess. “Do speak, or I shall have to cry
myself.”
Bertha began to weep again, but through her tears she managed to say:
“Your son--the Count--asked me to be his wife.”
“Oh, the young scapegrace!” said the Countess, jumping to her feet.
“Why, my dear, he is engaged to another woman, where we live, in
Corsica. You stay here. I will go downstairs and have a talk with him.
He shall leave the house this very day.”
“Oh, don’t turn him out on my account,” cried Bertha. “Do not, my dear
Countess. I will go instead. This is his home and I have no right
here.”
“Well, I have,” said the Countess, defiantly. “This is my house, and
while I live it has a mistress, but no master.”
The Countess soon discovered that her son was in the drawing-room where
the avowal of love had been made. He was seated at the piano, touching
the keys lightly and humming an air.
“So, my young man,” the Countess exclaimed, “you are at your old tricks
again.”
“Yes,” said the Count. “You had me taught to play the piano, and I have
always loved it.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. If you would give more time to music
and less to making love to people who do not appreciate it, it would be
better for yourself and for me. What did you mean by insulting my
guest?”
“Is it an insult,” he asked, “to ask a young lady to become a Countess?”
The Countess paused. “Perhaps not,” she said, “if you had any right to
ask her, but you have not. What would you say if I told Vivienne?”
“I should say,” said the Count, “what would, no doubt, seem to be very
impolite.”
“You would tell me to mind my own business, I presume,” said the
Countess; “it is not an uncommon remark with you. Well, I am going to
mind it. This is my house and I have only allowed you to remain here on
sufferance. Either you or I must go.” She thought for a moment before
she spoke again. “Yes, we will go. Bertha has never seen the world and I
will give her an opportunity. You may stay in Paris. I shall not tell
you where we are going, for, to borrow the words which you thought but
did not speak, I do not consider it is any of your affair. If you
discover where we are, and follow us, and speak a word of love to my
guest, or even hint at it, I will tell Pascal Batistelli.”
The Countess was as good as her word. On the second day her preparations
were completed, and on the morning of the third she left Paris, without
informing her son as to her destination.
The Count really felt his rejection severely. He had been attracted to
Bertha and as far as it lay in him to feel affection for any one, he
really loved her. Night after night of dissipation followed his
rejection and the consequent departure of Bertha from Paris. It was
nearly one o’clock when he returned home one morning. His latch-key gave
him admission to the house, and he would have gone upstairs at once to
his room if he had not noticed a long, thin ray of light coming from the
library. He went on tiptoe to the door and listened. He heard a sound
like that of a file upon metal. His first thought was that it was a
burglar. He was unarmed, but he had a sturdy frame and a pair of stout
fists. He kicked the door open violently, rushed into the room, and
pounced upon a man who was on his knees before the safe, which contained
the family papers and valuables. He caught the man by the collar and
threw him violently upon his back.
“Ah, Jacques, it is you, is it? What the devil are you up to?”
When the Countess left Paris, only three servants were retained. These
were Jacques, the coachman; Timothée, the butler, or _major domo_; and
Francine, the cook, who was Timothée’s fiancée. It was but natural that
Timothée should spend his evenings in the kitchen with Francine, and
this fact, the Count quickly reasoned, was what had given Jacques his
opportunity to rob the safe.
“Why don’t you speak, you rascal?” cried the Count. “Were you trying to
rob the safe?”
The man sat up. In one hand he held a key and in the other a small file.
“No, sir. Not quite so bad as that. I don’t suppose you will believe me,
but I will tell you the truth. Before the young lady went away she gave
me a letter and said if a certain young gentleman called for it, to give
it to him. I have carried it in my pocket so long that it was becoming
crumpled and soiled, and I thought I would put it in the safe. I had
this key and it nearly fitted; that is why I was filing it.”
“I may believe it,” said the Count, “but I don’t think the judge will
to-morrow. But where’s the letter? You may get up.”
Jacques passed the letter to the Count. The handwriting was Bertha’s and
it was addressed to Mr. De Vinne.
“You may get up,” repeated the Count. “Give me that key. I will take
charge of the letter and see that it is delivered when the young
gentleman comes for it. I don’t believe a word you have told me except
that you had the letter. Thieves always leave some loophole to crawl
through.”
The man went out. The Count examined the safe to see that it was
securely locked, and then went upstairs to his room.
“Mr. De Vinne! I suppose he is her English lover. But why should he come
here? What a foolish question! Of course if he knew she was here he
would come. I would go to the ends of the earth to see her if I knew
where she had gone. Perhaps this letter will tell. Well, I have done
worse things than open a letter addressed to another man.” As he spoke
he broke the seal and read:
“MY DEAR MR. DE VINNE:
“I am very sorry to hear of the sudden death of your brother, and
you have my deepest sympathy in your affliction. I came here with
Mrs. Glynne, the wife of Mr. Clarence Glynne, the son of my
guardian. You have, no doubt, heard that our little craft was run
down in the Channel by a large vessel. By God’s providence we
escaped. The vessel was under orders to proceed at once to
Marseilles, and we could not land until they reached there. We
arrived safely in Paris and I have been the guest of Countess Mont
d’Oro. She has invited me to go with her to her estate in Corsica
and we shall leave to-morrow. She says that a letter addressed to
Alfieri, near Ajaccio, Corsica, will not fail of delivery.
“Your friend,
“BERTHA RENVILLE.”
“Ha!” said the Count. “A very fortunate find. So they have gone to
Corsica. Well, I have as much right to visit Corsica as they have and I
think I will go. Vivienne says that she does not love me and that if I
make love to anybody else our engagement is off; but I don’t believe it
will turn out that way. Corsican women are all jealous. If she finds
that I am flirting with some one else, she will probably begin to love
me a little, and if I keep up the affair, in time she may become madly
infatuated. By St. Christopher, what fun it will be, and how my honoured
mother will enjoy it.”
The next day there was a violent storm of wind and rain. The Count did
not venture out. “I will get ready for my visit to Corsica,” he said to
himself. About noon he was summoned by Timothée, who said a gentleman
wished to see him in the library.
The visitor was a stout man with a full, round face, made even fuller
and rounder by a thick beard.
“I wish to see the Countess Mont d’Oro.”
“I regret to say, sir, that she is absent from the city. I am Count Mont
d’Oro, her son.”
“Is Miss Renville here?” was the next inquiry.
“She has been my mother’s guest--they have gone together.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the stout man. “I am Mr. Thomas Glynne,
of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I am the young lady’s guardian. She ran away
from home with the intention, I think, of marrying a chance
acquaintance--an unworthy young man--and I have come to Paris to take
her home with me as I have a right to do, under the law.”
“Who is this unworthy young man?” asked the Count.
“His name is De Vinne.”
“I judge,” said the Count, “from something I have heard, that she is in
love with him. I know that she writes to him and that she was expecting
him here before she left Paris.”
“Shall I presume too much upon your kindness,” said Mr. Glynne, “if I
ask you where my ward has gone?”
The Count did not answer the question. “You say, Mr. Glynne, that your
ward and this young man were but chance acquaintances; why is he so
anxious to marry her--because she is beautiful, because she is rich, or
both?”
Mr. Glynne thought that the truth might improve his position. “She has a
large fortune in her own right--forty thousand pounds in our money;
about a million francs in yours.”
The Count gave a long, low whistle. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but that
would make a fine dowry.”
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris, I presume you will tell him where my
ward has gone?”
“Well, really, I do not think I shall,” said the Count. “The information
came into my possession in rather a peculiar manner and I must protect
the person who gave it to me. You will be surprised, sir, at something I
am going to tell you. I have met Miss Renville and I have fallen in love
with her myself. I did not know at the time that she was wealthy, but
that makes little difference to me; in fact, no difference at all, for
I have money enough of my own and would marry her without a dowry as
soon as with one. Who has charge of her fortune?”
“I have,” answered Mr. Glynne.
“And no doubt you would like to keep it.” The Count smiled as he uttered
the words. The smile was contagious and one flickered across Mr.
Glynne’s fat, round face.
“I should not be human,” he replied, “if I would not.”
“Well,” said the Count, “two heads are better than one. I will make a
bargain with you. If you will give your consent to my marrying your
ward, and will help me to bring about that happy event, I will take her
without a dowry and you may keep the money. Is it a bargain?”
“I must confess that such a course of action would be very agreeable to
me.”
“Well, I shan’t tell you,” said the Count, “where your ward is. I will
take you with me, if you will go. I will leave you in a place several
miles distant from where I know she is living, and you must remain there
until I have had time to prosecute my suit. At the critical moment I
shall call upon you for your assistance. Is that plan satisfactory to
you?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr. Glynne.
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris,” said the Count, “he will find it
difficult to ascertain your ward’s whereabouts. We shall leave for our
destination to-morrow morning; in the meantime I shall be pleased to
have you as my guest.”
The next day the allies started upon their journey, one influenced by
thoughts of love, the other by thoughts of gold.
It is an old saying that the devil leaves his followers half-way. Even
the most astute of men will do some foolish thing that upsets his
plans. Count Mont d’Oro was no exception to the rule.
Jacques, the coachman, had told the truth. He was devoted to the
Countess and she trusted him implicitly. No sooner was Jacques certain
that the Count had left the house than he made his way to his master’s
rooms. He ransacked them from one end to the other. “He would not take
it with him,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps he destroyed it. I have looked
over carefully everything that came from his room, but it was not there.
He has had no fire and he could not have burned it. Ah! I have not
looked into that,” he exclaimed, as he espied a square wooden box on the
top of a chiffonier. In a moment it was in his possession. It was
locked, but Jacques had brought a screw-driver with him for possible
use, and the cover was soon wrenched off. It was full of letters.
“He read my letter,” said Jacques, “I will read his.” There were
daintily written and perfumed epistles, love letters from ladies of the
_haut ton_, both married and single, who now wished, no doubt, that
their missives were back in their own hands or burned. Jacques threw
them aside one after another. “Bah!” he exclaimed, “what a miserable
flirt he is. I am so sorry he caught me and found out where that
beautiful young lady is gone; but the Countess will protect her.”
Suddenly he gave a cry of delight. At the bottom of the box was the
letter for which he had been searching.
As fate willed it, on the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Jack De Vinne,
heir to the Earldom of Noxton, presented himself at the residence of
Countess Mont d’Oro in Paris. He had been to Buckholme, had seen
Clarence, and learned from his wife that Mr. Thomas Glynne had gone to
Paris in search of his ward.
“He is gone to bring her back,” said Jennie. “I do not know whether
English law holds in France or not, but they say possession is nine
points of the law, and I am sure the Countess will not give her up if
there is any way of keeping her.”
It so happened that it was the French Jacques who admitted the English
Jack.
The Countess’s faithful servitor placed the letter in the hands of the
one for whom it was intended, explaining, as best he could, how it came
to be opened.
“The Count and a big, stout man went away this very morning. They may
have gone to Corsica, but I do not know.”
Jack felt sure that they had, and the next morning he was on his way
thither.