A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.
While Victor and Vivienne were participants in the exciting events which
took place in the _maquis_, Bertha Renville was seated in the cosey
little room which had been assigned to her, and in which she had passed
many happy hours. She derived much pleasure from the thought that Jack
was on the way. She had caught Count Mont d’Oro in one falsehood and did
not believe his statement that her guardian, Thomas Glynne, was in
Corsica. Since the Count’s accident, the real cause of which was unknown
to her, for he had told a plausible story of missing his footing when
stepping from his carriage, both the Countess and Bertha had passed an
hour each day with him; for what woman is there who does not have some
compassion for so helpless and harmless a creature as a man with a
sprained ankle?
Vivienne had not felt inclined to make a _confidante_ of Snodine, for
she knew that she was a great gossip, and that what she told her would
be retold the next day with many fanciful additions to the other
servants. But Vivienne could place implicit trust in her old nurse,
Clarine; so, the next morning, she went to her room, determined to
confide in her and to ask her what could be done, if anything, to induce
Julien to give up his evil ways.
She was obliged to postpone her disclosures, however, to a more
opportune time, for Old Manassa had made an early morning call on
Clarine and, according to his usual custom, had fallen asleep in the
easy-chair which he considered his personal property when he paid a
visit to the old nurse. His head had fallen forward and his wrinkled
hands were clasped tightly over the huge head of the big oaken staff
which was his constant companion. He declared that he was a hundred
years old, and there was no one to gainsay his claim to that advanced
age. He had, upon several occasions, when supposed to be asleep, evinced
a comprehension of, and a marked interest in, the conversation which was
going on about him. For that reason, Vivienne thought it best to put off
giving Clarine an account of her adventures until she could speak to her
alone.
Clarine, however, had something to say to Vivienne, being apparently
unmindful of the presence of Old Manassa, or willing to have him hear
what she said.
“Do you know,” asked Clarine, “that in two weeks you will be eighteen
years old?”
“I really had not thought of it,” Vivienne replied. “My birthdays have
never been occasions of particular enjoyment to me.”
“But this one will be,” cried Clarine. “You will not be a young girl
then, but a woman, and such events are always celebrated in Corsica, and
also, I have heard, in other parts of the world. Yes,” the old nurse
repeated, “in two weeks you will be eighteen years old.”
“How old are you, Clarine?” asked Vivienne.
“Manassa says his mother told him that he was four years old when I was
born. If his memory can be depended upon, I am ninety-six. How well I
remember the day your grandfather brought me to the castle! I came to
nurse your grandame. Your dear sainted mother was but two weeks old when
I first saw her sweet face. How swiftly the time has sped, and you, the
little weeny baby which she laid in my arms eighteen years ago, have
been spared to bless my old age. God is good! Yes--yes.”
“Oh, Clarine, you have acted a mother’s part to us all. We can never
repay you but by loving you dearly, as we do.”
“I know you do, child. I know it. But how vividly the old times come
back to me to-day. For Old Manassa there once asked me to be his wife,
but I had no heart to give. It was buried, years ago, in the grave of my
husband.”
“Dear Clarine, is love so tenacious as to wed a living heart to the
tomb?”
“Not all hearts, dear, but mine could never love again.”
“I suppose the times and the people have changed much since you were a
girl, Clarine.”
“Ah, yes, child,” said the nurse. “The people most of all. I remember
when this castle was a fortress for hundreds of brave warriors and, too,
when poor refugees sought safety within its strong walls. Ah, me, those
were dreadful times. I have seen a hundred soldiers upon the ramparts,
firing upon our enemies, and many a prisoner has ended his life in the
tower dungeon.”
“The dungeon! I never knew there was one. Do my brothers know about it?”
“No human being but myself knows. Even Old Manassa there is ignorant of
its existence. To my hands alone was intrusted the duty of carrying food
to the poor prisoners confined there, who were destined never more to
see the light of day.”
“Oh, Clarine, can this be true!” Vivienne cried. “You did but dream it.
You sometimes have bad dreams, you know, when you are not well.”
“Ah, child, you will soon know whether it be a dream. Now, listen to me,
darling; don’t lose a word I say, for I am about to impart a message
from the dead.”
“What? From the dead?”
“Yes, from your dead father. He called me into the library two hours
before he went out for the last time alive. He shut the door, took my
hand in his, and made me promise that upon your eighteenth birthday I
would impart to you a knowledge of the existence of the dungeon, and
also give you a paper of written instructions, telling you how to open
its great door--a door which can never be unfastened but by one
possessing the secret of its complicated springs and bars.”
“But why did my father desire this secret to be divulged to me alone?
Why not to my brothers as well?”
“He thought, no doubt, that they might, in some emergency, make bad use
of such knowledge. He knew not how headstrong they might become, or how
fiery their passions might be when they reached manhood. He had come to
abhor the spirit of revenge and murder which pervades our country. I
will repeat to you his very words: ‘My daughter’s gentle heart will
understand my motives when you say to her from me: Never open that door
except in case of great extremity, and never reveal the secret to any
living being unless it be to save human life!”
“To what extremity could I ever be driven which would oblige me to open
that terrible door? I shudder to think of it, Clarine.”
“Heaven knows, child--we do not. But I believe such a time will come.”
“What makes you think so? What good reason can you give?”
“Your father had a presentiment that he would die a violent death when
he was a comparatively young man, and he told me that when the door was
opened by your hand, he would be there to meet you.”
“Ah, Clarine, I think it is superstition rather than reason that leads
you to think as you do. I never saw my dear father, nor my mother to
know her, but my father’s words are sacred to me and I will be true to
the trust that he has confided to me.”
“You had a noble father and a beautiful mother. He was brutally murdered
by an assassin. When your poor mother heard the news, just after you
were born, she went out of her mind, and a few days later we laid her
beside the one whom she had loved so well. Their blood cried aloud for
vengeance, but the murderer was a coward. He ran away from Corsica and
the curse of _Rimbecco_ still rests upon our family. But come, child, we
have talked enough about such matters. Let us go into the garden and the
bright sunshine will drive away unhappy memories.”
When they had gone, Manassa opened his eyes, then, raising his oaken
staff, brought it down upon the floor with all the strength he
possessed.
“They say women cannot keep a secret, but Clarine has kept that one for
nearly eighteen years. She would have made a good wife, but she wouldn’t
have me, although I was only seventy-five when I proposed to her. I
think I know where that dungeon is and I will find out how to open the
door. But when I shut it, I hope that Manuel Della Corsica and his son
Vandemar will be on the inside. When they are, I shall never try to open
the door. No, I will let them starve and die there--then no one can say
_Rimbecco_ to the Batistellis, or to their servants who love them and
will ever be faithful to them.”