THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.
No two individuals could be more dissimilar as regards the essentials
which enter into the composition of human character, than Helen Enright
and Vivienne Batistelli. Helen’s education had been devoted chiefly to
the head, with but little attention to the finer sensibilities, and
virtually none at all to the passions of the heart. Mrs. Inchbald and
Mary Wollstonecraft had not voiced the rights, or rather the wrongs, of
women, so that her education was the result of an individual inspiration
instead of proceeding from a preconcerted and combined movement on the
part of her sex. She was fortunate in having a father who loved her so
well that he pushed aside the conventionalities of the time and allowed
his daughter to have her own sweet will in everything which did not
interfere with his personal comfort.
When he fully realised the extent of her acquirements, he became
intensely proud of her; but his praises in those days were more
calculated to drive away suitors than to attract them, for by the men of
that time a highly educated woman was looked upon as one to be avoided
and not likely to make, what Englishmen most desire, an obedient wife.
On the other hand, Vivienne’s education had been almost wholly of the
heart. She could read and write the French language quite well and had
also acquired a fair knowledge of the English. If her father and mother
had lived, she would, no doubt, have been sent to France to receive
fuller instruction, but when she arrived at the age of sixteen, she
became, by her brother Pascal’s wish, and with no opposition on her
part, mistress of the house; always subject, of course, in important
matters, to the will of her elder brother, who was master in all things.
Left fatherless and motherless within a few days of her birth, the
little Vivienne had grown up under the care of Clarine, her nurse, who
had been in the service of the Batistelli family since her mother had
been an infant. Stories about fairies, the folklore of the country, and
tales of bloody vendettas, had been poured into the child’s ears by
Clarine and Manassa. In this way her perceptive powers and sensibilities
were dominated by the physical rather than the mental. She had led a
retired life, for her brother Pascal was not social in his nature.
Julien was too much so, but his associates were never welcome to the
hospitalities of the house. If it had not been for the agreement, or
rather understanding, between the old Count Mont d’Oro and Pascal’s
father, regarding the marriage of Napier and Vivienne, the young girl
would have grown up fancy-free, so far as love of man was
concerned--meaning, of course, any particular man.
As Vivienne, although she avoided argument upon the subject with her
brother, had given the young Count Mont d’Oro no encouragement in his
suit, having met all his advances with mock disdain or cool rebuff--and
as Helen Enright’s heart had been regarded as unassailable--the young
god Cupid and his dangerous arrows never formed the subject of
conversation between the two young ladies. Helen told Vivienne about
England, its king and princes, its nobility and gentry. Despite the
English girl’s graphic description of England’s greatness and glory, the
young Corsican girl failed to gain an adequate conception of the scenes
described to her; but when her turn came to speak, when she talked of
Corsica, its traditions, its customs, and its people, the English girl
fully understood and made copious entries in the journal which she had
kept since her departure from England.
The two girls were naturally thrown into daily companionship. Like all
Englishwomen, Helen was fond of outdoor life, and a great lover of the
beauties of nature. Vivienne would have remained within doors, but Helen
induced her to accompany her in daily rambles, during which every part
of the extensive grounds surrounding the Batistelli mansion was visited,
and many excursions were made into the surrounding _maquis_, although
Pascal, upon one occasion, said he felt it was his duty to warn Miss
Enright, being a stranger, that she ran the risk of being captured by
banditti, carried off into the mountains, and held for a large ransom.
One day they were walking in the grounds when Helen espied a path which,
it occurred to her, had not yet been travelled. It was very short, not
more than thirty feet in length, and seemed to end in a mass of dense
foliage. When this was reached, however, a narrower path leading to the
left was disclosed which, when followed, brought them to the foot of a
great oak tree. Helen had previously seen and admired this tree and
spoken of it to Vivienne, but as the latter had made no comment, Helen
supposed that it was inaccessible.
“And does this grand old tree stand upon your estate?” asked Helen.
“Yes,” was the reply, “and they say, I do not know with how much truth,
that it is three hundred years old. It is called The Tree of the
Vendetta. Clarine says her mother told her that a terrible feud existed
between two Corsican families, each of which, it so happened, had six
grown-up sons. The father of one of the families killed the father of
the other. The sons of the latter, with other relatives, at night
attacked the house in which the father and his six sons lived and set
it on fire, and as their enemies ran out to escape the flames and smoke,
shot them down, the bright light of the fire exposing them to the shots
of their adversaries, who were in the shadows, or concealed behind
trees.”
“Oh, what barbarism!” ejaculated Helen.
“It is the custom of the country,” Vivienne remarked, and there was a
coolness in her tone which did not escape her companion’s notice. For
several minutes neither spoke. Then Helen asked:
“But how did the tree get its name? Was it close to the house?”
“More barbarism followed,” Vivienne replied, with a touch of sarcasm.
“As the family was virtually extinct, the victors buried them at the
foot of this tree. You see, we do not print history in this country, but
we remember it.”
“I hope with all my heart,” said Helen, “that you have no such memories
connected with the past.”
“There you are wrong,” cried Vivienne, and her voice, which up to this
time had been subdued, now became strong and impassioned. “I have a sad
memory and, as what I have said to you may cause you to misunderstand my
true feeling, I will tell you all. The very day that I was born my
father became the victim of an assassin. My brothers tell me that my
father had no quarrel with the man who murdered him and he must have
been hired by some one to do the cruel deed. He was a coward, for that
very night he took his only child, a little boy six years old, and fled
from the country, so that my brothers are deprived of the opportunity of
avenging the death of our father. There are none who dare to say
_Rimbecco_ to my brothers, but many think it in their hearts.”
“_Rimbecco!_” cried Helen. “What does that mean?”
“_Rimbecco_,” explained Vivienne, “is a reproachful word spoken to a
member of a Corsican family by another member of the family, or one of
its adherents, because the assassination of a relative has not been
followed, within a reasonable time, by the killing of the assassin or
some member of his family. _Rimbecco_ is the worst taunt that can be
thrown in the face of a Corsican, for it is considered as declaring him
to be even baser than a coward. If Manuel Della Coscia, who murdered my
father, and his son Vandemar, who must now be twenty-four years of age,
are still living, they must remain exiles or return to Corsica and
answer with their lives for the great crime which has been committed.”
“But you who are so kind to the unfortunate, so good to all, can you not
avert the doom which threatens an innocent victim? Young Vandemar, the
last of his race, is surely guiltless. Is it just that he should suffer
death for no fault of his own?”
“Men are killed in war for no fault of their own,” said Vivienne.
“Alas, yes,” replied Helen, “but that is unavoidable. Suppose that,
instead of your father becoming the victim, he had killed his
assailant?”
Vivienne responded quickly: “It would then rest with his son, now that
he has grown to manhood, to avenge his father by killing my brothers.”
“Oh, tell me,” cried Helen, “that you do not favour this cruel, wicked
custom! Tell me, dear friend, that you abhor it as I do!”
“I regret the necessity,” Vivienne replied.
“And according to the custom of your country, your elder brother must
commit this terrible deed?”
“He must.”
“But if he dies before accomplishing it?” asked Helen.
“It will then devolve upon my younger brother, Julien.”
“And in case he dies?” was Helen’s next inquiry.
“It will then devolve upon----”
“No, no, no. Do not speak, Vivienne! I cannot bear it! You do not mean
it. Oh, tell me that I am dreaming--that you did not mean to say----”
“If both should die and I should live,” cried Vivienne, excitedly, “it
would be my duty to avenge my father’s death, or his blood would be upon
my own hands. Manuel Della Coscia and his son Vandemar are enemies of my
family, and if no other hand can do it, mine must send the bullet or
handle the stiletto.”
* * * * *
Count Mont d’Oro had so far recovered from his injury that he was able
to get about with the help of a couple of walking-sticks. His progress
was necessarily slow and any little inadvertence caused him severe pain.
On such occasions, his thoughts naturally reverted to his antagonist. He
had heard from Villefort of the ill-success of his scheme to entrap
Victor, and of the terrible fate of the would-be murderers, both of whom
had been found dead in the _maquis_.
As soon as the Count acquired a limited degree of locomotion, he made
his way to the stables, ordered the carriage, and was driven at once to
the hotel in Ajaccio. A messenger was despatched in search of Villefort,
whose headquarters were at a _cabaret_ kept by Angelo Barbera.
Villefort came at once in response to the summons, and was soon closeted
with the Count.
“That young devil of an Englishman has a charmed life,” said Villefort.
“Perhaps so,” the Count replied, “but you know there is an old saying
that the third time never fails. In order that the saying may not be
disproved, we must make sure of our game this time.”
Wine and cigars were ordered, and the two worthies cudgelled their
brains to think of some plan by which Victor might be put in their
power. How he could be summarily disposed of was a matter which must be
decided later.
Villefort looked up suddenly and asked:
“What was the name of the man who killed Pascal Batistelli’s father?”
The Count replied: “Manuel Della Coscia--his son’s name was Vandemar.”
“Then the son’s initials would be V. D. C., would they not?”
“Certainly, but what are you looking at so intently?”
“By Saint Christopher!” cried Villefort, “but this is strange!”
“What is strange? Speak up and don’t sit there with your mouth open like
a stuck pig.”
“Spare me your compliments,” said Villefort, “or I may be forced to
demand an apology.”
The Count laughed. “Pardon me, Villefort, but the jolting of that clumsy
carriage over that infernally rough road has filled my foot with a dozen
toothaches. But what have you found?”
“They may mean something or nothing, but here, cut in the table, and the
cuts are fresh ones, are the initials V. D. C. They are a clue to
something--but what?”
“Go downstairs,” said the Count, “and find out who last occupied this
room.”
In a short time Villefort returned with the information that the room
had not been occupied since the young gentleman who was in the company
of the English admiral had left it.
“So our man put up here,” said the Count. “But why V. D. C.?”
“Perhaps his name is spelled D-u C-a-i-n,” suggested Villefort.
“Guessing won’t hit the mark,” the Count cried. “Have you no wits? Five
louis d’or if you prove that Vandemar Della Coscia and the Englishman
are one and the same person! Think of something. Use the carriage if you
need it. Come back in an hour. I am going to lie down and rest to see if
I can get rid of this damnable torture. If he had given me a cut with
his axe, it would have healed long ago.”
Villefort did not take the carriage, but walked slowly along the main
street, wondering how he could earn the promised reward.
“The price offered is very small,” he soliloquised, “but if I succeed, I
shall make bold to suggest to the Count that he double it.”
He stopped short and looked across the street. Right opposite stood
Barbera’s _cabaret_. A thought occurred to him. He entered the place,
and beckoning to the proprietor, they went upstairs to the latter’s
room.
“Do you want to make a louis d’or, Barbera?”
“I could make a good many if that English admiral would let his sailors
come ashore.”
“Well, if you wish to earn from me what you can’t earn from the sailors,
sit down here and write a letter which I will dictate to you.”
Villefort began:
“Monsieur Angelo Barbera solicits an immediate visit. He has learned of
a plot against your life, but prefers to disclose particulars to you in
person. Mention this matter to no one. Bring this letter with you for
identification.”
“Now fold it up and seal it,” said Villefort.
“To whom shall I address it?” asked Barbera.
“I will attend to that,” said Villefort. “Give me the letter.”
“Where is my louis d’or?”
“You shall have it within an hour,” said Villefort. “I will tell you
what I have been up to when I come back.”
He snatched the letter from Barbera’s hand, ran down-stairs and made
his way quickly to the quay. He engaged a boat and soon reached the
gangway of the _Osprey_, where he was met by the marine on guard.
“My friend, the Count Mont d’Oro, is acquainted with the Lieutenant who
is with your admiral on shore. He has purchased for him a present of
silver, of which he intends to make me the bearer, sending with it this
letter. He knows that the Lieutenant’s name is Victor Duquesne, but he
has thought that perhaps the young gentleman has another name besides
Victor, and, to speak frankly, the Count does not know exactly how to
spell his name.”
“You have come to the right man, sir,” said the marine. “I received word
at Malta that my poor old mother was dead; that she had been buried in
God’s Acre, and that she would have to remain there unless I sent home
some money to have her laid beside my father in the village
burying-ground. I told the Lieutenant that I had drank and gambled away
all my money at Malta and he very kindly started a subscription for me,
leading the paper with a pound. I remember that I asked him if the name
he had written was his full name, and he said--yes. I have the paper in
my pocket now.”
Villefort examined it carefully. “Victor Duquesne,” was what he saw.
“A thousand thanks,” said he, as he returned the paper, at the same time
giving the man a silver coin. “Oblige me, and my friend the Count, by
saying nothing about this to Lieutenant Duquesne. The Count is greatly
mortified at being obliged to discover his friend’s real name in such a
roundabout way, and it would add to his chagrin if the Lieutenant should
hear about it.”
“I understand,” said the man. “If a piece of silver is big enough, it
always closes my mouth.”
An hour had hardly elapsed before Villefort reported his finding to the
Count.
“I beg your pardon, Count, but in order to secure this valuable
information, which I think must convince you that Vandemar Della Coscia
is in Corsica, and a guest----”
“What are you begging my pardon for, Villefort? I can imagine as well as
you can. What did you do to obtain this supposed valuable information?”
and the Count’s voice had a marked tinge of sarcasm in it.
“I have promised to pay a louis d’or for valuable assistance.”
“Well, there are your louis d’or,” said the Count. “I did not promise to
pay for assistance. Come, help me down to the carriage. I must get home,
for my foot aches worse than ever.”
As they neared the _cabaret_, the Count said: “Villefort, have Barbera
send me out some brandy.”
Villefort gave the order and placed the louis d’or in Barbera’s hand,
saying at the same time, as he handed back the letter:
“I could not use it. The bird had flown. Tear it up, and may you always
earn a louis d’or as easily.”
The Count swallowed half a tumblerful of brandy at a gulp. As they rode
on he said to himself: “What a fine piece of news it will be for Pascal
Batistelli when I tell him that his guest, the English lieutenant, is
the son of the man who murdered his father. But he shall never know it
until his sister is my wife. She hates me, but I will make her suffer
for it. If she loved me, she might marry whom she chose.”
Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha had been greatly pleased when the young
Count became convalescent and was able to leave his room.
“I hope,” said the Countess, “that Napier will soon long for the
artificial delights of Paris and leave us alone to enjoy the natural
beauties of Corsica. I had intended to take you with me to visit many of
my old friends, but for this unfortunate and unforeseen accident
However, we shall begin our round of gaiety shortly, for I have to-day
received invitations for you and me to attend the party to be given in
honour of Mademoiselle Vivienne Batistelli, who will soon reach her
eighteenth birthday.”