THE QUEST OF THE BEAUTIFUL
It is unfortunate that, with a physical appearance so repellent that it
is wont to inspire dislike before others of my attributes are known,
I should be further handicapped at the beginning of my narrative by
the fact that every reference made to me by those whose stories have
preceded mine has seemed to invest me with a malevolent influence.
Profoundly interested as I have been in the adventures which we have
heard described on the Barge of Haunted Lives, you readily will
understand that it was inevitable that the story of the Hypochondriacal
Painter should impress me most, because of its exposition of the theory
that human features owe their contour to the quality and activity of
the human mind. Though the Painter, dedicating all those years to its
demonstration, appears to have been the first to attempt to endow man
with the physical attributes of divinity, the theory long has been
accepted as a fact by physiognomists.
It does not require the discernment of a carefully trained observer to
find in the portraits of famous men the expression of those qualities
which made their work distinctive. How strangely like, in their
suggestiveness of that mental power that finds expression in analysis,
are the features of Michelangelo and Auguste Rodin! Who would look
upon the pictures we have of Newton, William Blake and Swedenborg
without knowing they were ever peering into the rumbling depths or
up at the mist-enshrouded altitudes of the infinite? Who would find
aught but the spirit of a conqueror behind the visages of Caesar,
William of Normandy, Richard I, Peter the Great and Napoleon? In the
faces of Scott, Byron, Tennyson, Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven how
simple it is for us to see and identify their temperamental differences
in the fields of poetry and music, but when we come to look upon
those of Carlyle and Schopenhauer can we be blind to that which they
express--that hopelessness which comes to men, who, having sunk their
ideals in the turbid current of materialism, recognize only the follies
and sorrows of our world?
When we think upon all this, it would seem, my friends, that it is a
law of Nature that physical and mental grace must go hand in hand,
and, indeed, careful observation will assure us that, so far as men
are concerned, physiognomy, in nine cases out of ten, is a fairly true
index of character. As indicative of feminine qualities, however, it
means little, for well we know that the fairest women often are the
most faithless, unreasoning and immoral. And Nature, itself, is as
changing in its moods as is a woman. Ever mocking its own masterpieces,
it creates only that it may destroy. At times it seems to exult over
its own contradictions. It makes jests of its own laws, which men have
been wont to regard as immutable. Its sweetest songs come from the
throats of the most insignificant birds. Its rainbows are the products
of storms. Its precious stones are found embedded in hoary rocks, which
men must blast with gunpowder in order that sunlight may reveal the
beauty of the gems. Less often to the stately mansions of the rich than
to the wretched hovels of the poor does genius come to breathe her fire
into the soul of the youth who is destined to yield to men some of the
treasured knowledge of the gods.
Shakespeare has said “Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a
toad, ugly and venomous, hath yet a precious jewel in its head.” And,
my friends, though Nature, in a mischievous mood, did fashion me in a
mould that made me scarcely less repulsive than adversity or a toad,
it gave to me such a jewel as that of which Shakespeare spoke. It is
because of my possession of this, as you shall see, that the world has
seemed very fair to me, and my life well worth the living.
Despite the fact that my grotesque face has caused me to be regarded
as a monstrosity, my father and mother were noted for their physical
graces. Why I should have come into the world with such a terrible
visage not even men of science have been able to understand. But, from
the moment of my birth, in a small city in France, my mother, fond as
she was of her other children, found the sight of me so hateful that
she scarcely could be brought to look upon me.
Before I was a year old I was committed to the care of a peasant and
his wife, who lived many miles from the chateau in which I was born. I
remained there for the first eight years of my life, then I was sent
to a school near Tours. There the ridicule to which I was subjected by
reason of my grotesque appearance became so unbearable that I fled.
I soon was overtaken, however, and my parents caused a tutor and his
wife to be installed in a cottage that was situated in the heart of an
old French forest. There I remained until I was twenty years of age.
Then, for the first time in many years, I saw my father. He stayed
with me only a few minutes, during which time my future was discussed.
My father told me that if I would consent to assume the name of Leon
Grenault, and never reveal my relationship with my family, I would
receive an income of ten thousand dollars a year. I accepted the
condition, and, bidding farewell to my kind old tutor and his wife, I
set out for Italy. Since then I have been an indefatigable traveller,
but not until recently did I make my first visit to the United States.
I have said that, in fashioning me so unkindly, Nature gave to me
something that was akin to the mythical jewel in the head of the
repulsive toad. It is a sense of beauty. Since my early childhood
I have been an inordinate lover of all that is beautiful. With me
the search for the most beautiful faces, landscapes, flowers, gems,
porcelains, pictures and poems has constituted the dominant purpose
of my life. I will not pause to tell you to what absurd lengths my
searches often took me, and what insupportable burdens of ridicule they
have laid on my shoulders. There was nothing that was beautiful that
did not charm me. There were many beautiful things for which I gladly
would have sacrificed my life, merely to look upon.
With features so forbidding that all human beings shrink from me
instinctively, I move among things of earth as the fallen angel moved
among the shades of Paradise. The angel knew the reason of his fall,
but what heinous sin I committed in some former period of existence,
and for which I should be punished so cruelly, I know not. The sight
of human happiness thrills me with sympathetic pleasure, while the
suffering and sorrows of others drive me, sometimes, almost to madness,
and I shrink from them as did Mephistopheles from the upraised cross.
Incapable of inspiring affection in the breast of man, woman or child,
it has seemed to me that I have craved love more than any creature of
the earth. Only in my dreams does love come to me--from my mother,
from laughing children and--another. When I wake it is to seek things
that are beautiful.
And it was in this quest for the beautiful that I found myself one day
in Constantinople. It matters not to others what particular object it
was that led me there, but, one day, while I was sitting in my room
in a hotel, I was informed that Glyncamp, an American mind-reader, had
called to see me. As no man or woman ever before had expressed a desire
to see me privately on other than business matters my surprise took the
form of curiosity. Accordingly, I sent word to Glyncamp that I would
see him.
My visitor greeted me cordially as he entered the room, and, frankly
and without embarassment, he told me that, having observed me as I was
passing along a street, he had been so impressed by my strange physical
appearance that he desired to learn something of my mental qualities.
I took the explanation in good part, and from that hour the remarkable
American and I were friends. His vast store of learning filled me with
even more wonder than did that mysterious power which enabled him to
read the thoughts of human minds.
One day, while we were chatting together, Glyncamp asked me what was
the dominant purpose of my life. I replied:
“When I have seen the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman and
the most wonderful gem that the earth now holds, I shall die content.”
Glyncamp laughed quietly.
“In that case you may prepare to die within the next two years, for I
think I shall then be in a position to show all these to you,” he said.
I looked at him incredulously.
“You have seen them?” I asked wondering.
“I have seen the woman,” he replied, “and I know where, hidden in a
wonderful valley, the man may be found--a man so handsome that he is
said to believe himself a god. But the gem of which I speak, I have not
seen. It soon will be mine, however.”
“How did you come by this knowledge?” I asked.
The American looked at me sharply.
“That, my friend, is my affair,” he answered, curtly.
Perceiving that I had been indiscreet, I apologized for the rudeness of
my question. It pleased him to make light of the matter, however; then,
suddenly, a look of gravity overspread his features.
“Would you take a journey to see this wonderful man?” he asked.
“I would travel around the world to see such a man,” I replied
enthusiastically.
“You would go to the United States.”
“Yes.”
“And report to me concerning what you saw?”
“Yes, yes.”
He told me, then, that once, while he was testing his skill on an old
painter, who had ridiculed his pretensions, he had learned his secret.
“Follow Nathan Bonfield when he goes into a great range of mountains,
and he will lead you to the place where he guards his secret so
jealously,” Glyncamp explained. “But in no circumstances must Bonfield
know that he is followed. If he were to discover you, it is more than
probable that you would meet with a serious misadventure. Take with you
a camera, and if you return to me with photographs of this remarkable
young man, I will give to you the opportunity of seeing the most
beautiful young woman who is on our earth to-day.”
I accepted the conditions, and two days later I was on my way to the
United States. Greatly to my surprise, Glyncamp offered to pay the
expenses of my journey in the event of my proving successful in my
quest.
Upon arriving in the United States, I had considerable difficulty
in locating the strange old artist, but, at last, I succeeded in
discovering his haunts. Then I found the house in which he had his
room. At length came a day when, having followed him, as I had done on
several former occasions, I saw him enter the Grand Central Station. He
was about to travel without luggage. So would I.
I boarded the train without a ticket, for, as yet, I had not the
slightest idea what my destination was to be. I took a seat behind the
car which Bonfield had entered, and it was while I was looking out of
the window to assure myself that the painter was not leaving the car
that I beheld, for the first time, the young woman whose beauty was
destined to have such an important influence on my life. She, too,
boarded the train--she and her escort entering the second car ahead of
me.
I was now confronted by the greatest dilemma I ever had faced in my
life. Should I follow the painter or the young woman?
I decided to follow the woman.
In the course of that long journey to the mountains I saw the young
woman four times. Twice she and her escort left the train and took
another. I, unobserved, did likewise, and on each occasion I was amazed
to find that the painter made similar changes.
At last the young woman and the man who was with her alighted at a way
station. I saw that buckboards were in waiting to take them and their
luggage away, and, satisfied that I would have little difficulty in
tracing them in the event of my return in the course of twenty-four
hours, I remained on the train to follow the painter. At the next
station he, too, alighted. Here no vehicle of any description was in
waiting, and from Bonfield’s actions it soon became apparent that he
expected none. Still wearing the same garments in which he had left
New York, he entered the wilderness with all the assurance of a sturdy
mountaineer. Once I saw him halt to fashion a stout stick into a staff,
then, with this in his hands, he continued on his way.
Hour after hour I followed him, passing through one valley after
another. Twice or thrice he turned to look behind him, but I kept
myself concealed from his view.
At last, however, more than an hour after the evening shadows began to
fall, we entered that strange mountain fastness that has been described
to you--Deadwood Valley--and I knew by the action of the old painter
that our journey was well-nigh done. Removing his hat, he wiped his
forehead, then, placing his fingers to his mouth, he emitted a series
of long, shrill whistles. These evoked from the other end of the valley
sounds which were so similar that I fancied at first that they were
only echoes of those I had heard before. The old man now resumed his
journey with quickened steps. As I made my way along the narrow path
and among the thick brush, I started as, moving around a great boulder
that lay at the foot of the mountainside, I found myself within thirty
paces of him. He was standing still, and it was apparent that he had
decided to await there the coming of the man who had answered his
signals. Moving stealthily nearer, I crouched down among the stones.
I had not long to wait, for scarcely five minutes passed before I heard
the sounds of low voices, the swishing of branches and the snapping of
twigs. Then, overcome by wonder and delight, I half rose and was about
to utter an expression of admiration when I realized my danger and
restrained my emotions.
The mysterious young man whom I had come so many thousand miles to see
was before me. Glyncamp was right. There could not have been a more
splendid type of manhood in all the world!
If I had expected to see any demonstration of affection between this
remarkable young man and the patriarch who had made this long journey
to see him, I was disappointed. The painter saluted the younger man
with marked respect. The intelligent features of the newcomer lightened
for a moment, but neither by a bow nor the offer of a hand did he bid
the graybeard welcome.
“I had not expected you so soon, Nathan,” was all he said.
Then, as the two walked off together, I saw that an Indian was
following them. At last they came to the door of a cavern through which
they passed from my view.
Such, then, was my first view of Rayon Demain.
Having carefully noted the entrance to the cavern, and taken a view of
the valley in order that I might carry certain landmarks in my mind, I
set out again for the railroad. I was in no danger of losing my way,
for it lay along a watercourse for a considerable distance, and, while
I had been following the painter, I carefully noted in a memoranda book
the position of landmarks that would serve for my future guidance.
By this time night had closed in on the wilderness, and, after going
a little way, I lost the narrow path. I spent several minutes seeking
it and, when I found it, I decided to wait until moonrise before
proceeding further.
But by the time the moon rose I altered my purpose. Though I came
to the mountains without luggage, I had with me a pocket camera. I
now decided that I would spend the following day in this valley and
accomplish the purpose that had led me thither, before I undertook the
task of finding the beautiful young woman I had seen on the train.
I reflected that people do not make long journeys to mountainous
districts to remain for only a few days, and there was little doubt
that I would be as well able to trace the young woman two days hence as
I would be to-morrow.
Accordingly, when the light of the moon streamed into the valley, I
approached the cavern cautiously, then passed it and made my way along
the shore of the lake to where the waters narrowed.
Heaven guided my steps that night, for, fatigued as I was, I walked on
and on, vainly seeking something that would afford me shelter. And so,
at last, I came to another valley.
Ah, how can I describe the sensations that overcame me as I beheld that
vast moonlighted Paradise? But one who was quite as appreciative as I,
and far more eloquent, has pictured its glories to you, so I will not
weary you with my impressions. The names of these two valleys were, of
course, unknown to me, so I called one the Valley of the Perfect Man,
and the other the Valley of the Garden.
For nearly an hour, as I gazed upon the magnificent prospect that lay
before me, I forgot my fatigue, and the very thought of sleep in the
presence of so much beauty seemed impious. On and on I walked along the
shore, now and then crossing, on stepping stones, little brooks whose
murmurs seemed to be hymned eulogies of the loveliness around me.
At length, however, I stopped abruptly. Stealing softly to me through
the forest-odored air came the sweet notes of one of Chopin’s
nocturnes. For two or three minutes they held me spellbound, then all
was still. My heart was beating wildly. Had I been dreaming? Had the
notes I heard been the sighing of the nightwinds and the singing of the
brooks that had echoed in the composer’s fancy in the hour in which he
had committed to paper that sweet, spirit-haunting air?
But, as I strode quickly onward, I knew that my senses had not deceived
me. Before me rose the dark, shadowy outlines of a house that was
constructed of roughly hewn forest logs. Glints of lamplight around
the lowered shades indicated that within those walls were persons,
happier than I, who had been watching the musician while the notes were
stealing from the piano to where I stood listening in the forest.
For several minutes I halted and looked around me. I saw a stable and
other outbuildings in the clearing, and, faintly outlined on the lake
shore, were several small boats. Then, retreating into the woodland
shadows, I listened expectantly. But from the house there came no
sound. At last the glints of lights disappeared from the windows, and I
knew that the occupants of the house had retired for the night.
In the forest fringe, just beyond the clearing, was a large,
three-walled shed in which were standing several pieces of farm
machinery and a covered wagon. On the seat of the wagon was a folded
blanket. Here was the shelter I sought.
The open front of the shed faced the lake, and, having unfolded the
blanket, I was preparing to wrap it around me and lie down on the
bottom of the wagon, when I turned for a last look at the beautiful
moonlit waters.
Once more I was on the point of turning away from the enchanting scene
when something moving on the lake caught my eye. Then I saw it was
a canoe which was slowly approaching the beach. Crouching low in the
wagon, I watched the little craft curiously. I saw it held only one
person.
As the bow of the canoe touched the shore, its occupant leaped out and
drew the boat up on the beach. This done, he stole noiselessly toward
the house.
It was the Indian I had seen in the Valley of the Perfect Man!
Moving stealthily toward the darkened log-house, he tried the door. I
saw him retreat from this, and then disappear in the shadow. Two or
three minutes passed before he reappeared. Now he strode quickly to
where he had left his canoe on the beach. Thrusting this back into the
water, he leaped lightly aboard and seized his paddle. A few moments
later boat and boatman had disappeared in the shadow cast over the
water by a thick cluster of trees. So noiseless and stealthy had been
his movements that, at times, one might have fancied that he was
nothing more than the shadow of some great bird flying overhead.
This mysterious visit excited within me a feeling of uneasiness, and I
watched for nearly half an hour longer, then, yielding at last to the
fatigue of the day, I folded the blanket around me, and, lying down on
the wagon floor, I slept.
I was awake at dawn, and, fearing discovery, I carefully refolded the
blanket, and, after returning it to the seat on which I had found
it, I left the shed. A healthy appetite was now beginning to assert
itself, but curiosity still held me to the place. I was resolved to see
something of the occupants of the log-house before I turned my back
upon it, for I knew that it was no ordinary musician whose hands had
swept those piano keys while the notes of that wonderful nocturne were
floating out to mingle with the forest airs. The thought had come to
me that, perhaps, here I would find the woman I sought. Accordingly, I
took my station in a leafy covert and waited.
My patience was at length rewarded. Something white appeared suddenly
between the curtains of an open window. My blood leaped exultantly in
my veins, and my eyes were almost dazzled by the fairest sight they
ever had looked upon.
Before me, clad in the snowy, lace-trimmed gown that she had worn
during the night, was the young woman whose beauty had enchanted me on
the day before. The darkness of the night still lingered in the great,
luxuriant mass of flowing hair, but on her face and in her eyes were
reflected all the glowing splendors of the dawn. And, as I watched her,
the house in which she stood assumed the aspect of a shrine around
which sweet odors, whispering winds and the feathered singers of the
forest were paying homage to their divinity.
Was Glyncamp wrong when he told me that he had seen the most beautiful
woman in the world? Or was it possible that he indeed had seen the
woman on whom I was gazing now?
For two or three minutes the fair creature stood at the window, looking
at forest, lake and turquoise sky. Then she disappeared, and I,
overwhelmed and intoxicated by her wondrous beauty, rose, turned and
went staggering like a drunkard through the forest.
This, then, was the beginning of that love which so suddenly came to me
and lighted all the candles in the gloomy hall of my life. Before, like
a prisoner in a cell, I had been groping at each beautiful ray that had
filtered in through my barred windows, but now--now I was blinded by
an effulgence that was more dazzling than the noonday sun.
On and on I strode until I came to a mountain trail, which, it was
plain, led from the log-house in the Valley of the Garden. I had
no thought of hunger now, and I travelled quickly, only pausing
occasionally to drink at some laughing mountain brook. Leaving the
log-house further and further behind me, I did not doubt that the trail
I was following would bring me at last to the station at which I had
seen the young woman and her escort alight from the train the preceding
day.
My surmise proved to be correct, but, as I drew near the little village
in which the station was situated, I hesitated. My face always had
inspired fear and distrust among country people, and I asked myself
whether it was wise for me to show myself at a place to which occupants
of the log-house must come for their supplies. I did not want it known
that there was a man of my appearance in the neighborhood, for, in
such circumstances, all my movements would be carefully watched, and,
without doubt, false stories concerning me would be circulated by
superstitious persons who would suspect that I was none other than the
devil himself.
I remembered that the next mountain hamlet was about ten miles further
down the railway line, so, skirting the little village, I directed my
steps to the station below.
Arriving at last at my destination, I disregarded the expressions of
horror on the faces of the persons I met, and, after enjoying a hearty
meal, I purchased a couple of mules, a kit of tools, firearms, fishing
tackle, a compass and enough provisions to last me for a week. These
purchases I made into stout packs and placed on the mules, then, with
a dull-looking Swedish boy who, for a generous sum, found it possible
to forgive the physical abnormalities of his new master, I followed a
trail which, for a considerable distance, ran parallel with the railway.
By nightfall I had found a site for my camp--in the wilderness about a
mile north of the log-house, and a half a mile from the path that led
from the Valley of the Perfect Man to the Valley of the Garden.
Carl, my boy, soon learned that I was not nearly so bad as Nature had
painted me, and, after that difficulty was overcome, it was not long
before I felt that I had his confidence.
A shack soon was constructed, but the first night the boy occupied it
alone. Directing my steps again to the log-house, I took a station in
the covert from which I had observed the beautiful stranger in the
morning.
The action of the Indian on the night before had excited my distrust,
and now that I knew whose safety might be menaced by anyone who had
evil designs on the house or its occupants, I resolved to watch the
place while it was otherwise unguarded.
The night passed without adventure, but, when morning dawned, I saw the
young woman appear again at the window as I had seen her before. Now,
however, I remained in my place of concealment, and later I saw her,
clad in a dainty morning dress, step out into the clearing. I watched
her while one of the menservants taught her how to handle the paddle of
a canoe. In the afternoon I followed her as she walked along the beach
or through the leafy aisles of the forest. But the man who had come
with her to the mountains I did not see, and I wondered whether he was
her brother or her husband.
Once I heard an elderly woman call to her--addressing her as “Paula.”
The servants addressed her as “Miss.” But why should I, who was so
afflicted with the most hideous human features in all the world, exult
to find that she still was unwed?
Night after night I kept vigil near the log-house, and once, waxing
bold, I pinned some verses to one of her windows. Ah, how can I
describe the sensations that overwhelmed me when I saw her take them
from the envelope--when a rush of color came to her face, and a bright,
wondering light slowly kindled in her eyes. Then, as I watched her
closely, I saw she was not offended, and I wondered who it was she
thought had written the lines.
I saw her leave the house a little more than an hour afterward, and
enter her canoe, and my gaze followed her as, in the gleaming little
craft, she glided over the waters of the lake. But when the canoe was
headed for the northern shore my heart grew cold. Did she suspect the
mystery that lurked amid the awe-inspiring shades of the Valley of the
Perfect Man?
Then, with a rapidly beating heart, I ran along the shore, and, as I
ran, I saw the canoe enter the stream that flowed through the mountain
pass.
Before I succeeded in getting to this stream the storm broke. Strong as
I am physically, the vigor of this baffled me. Blinded by lightning,
battered by rain, deafened by thunder, and blocked by brooks, which,
overflowing their banks, had become fiercely whirling torrents, my
strength was spent at last, and I sought refuge between two rocks under
a widespreading tree.
When the storm subsided, I saw two men leave the log-house and put out
in a boat. That these were menservants starting in search for the young
woman was plain. The water was still too rough for the task they had
undertaken, however, and before the boat was a hundred yards from the
shore it was overturned. The men succeeded in swimming ashore.
I now continued on my way to the upper valley, and, in time, I arrived
at the mountain pass. There I beheld the object of my search, but,
loth to see her recoil from me, I did not reveal myself to her eyes. I
resolved to watch her until the men from the log-house should succeed
in getting to her.
At length, when twilight fell, I saw her move forward. Then, in the
most wonderful voice I had ever heard, she sang to a beautiful air the
words of the verses I had pinned to her window curtain in the morning,
and I knew that it was to me--the unknown writer--that she sang.
And now, for the first time, the idea came to me that perhaps,
after all, I might devise some means of making this wonderful woman
mine--that we might love in spirit, as the angels love. I knew,
however, that this would be impossible if she were to see me.
Scarcely had this thought taken form in my mind when I observed that
the mysterious young man of the upper valley had approached and was
watching the singer.
All of the strange words and scenes which followed were heard and
witnessed by me. When the young woman was again alone, I spoke to her,
and, unseen, I took her across the lake in the manner she has related.
The next day I left the valley behind me and secured the services of
a clergyman who lived in a distant town. In the night shadows of the
wilderness, Paula Trevison became my wife.
I was resolved that, from that moment, only in spirit should we meet. I
would write to her and talk with her at times when she would be unable
to see me. Taking advantage of her Eastern superstitions, I would make
her believe that I was a spirit bridegroom.
Thus far all had gone well, but, in less than five minutes after the
conclusion of the ceremony, my dream fabric began to totter. My
boy had just set off on muleback with the clergyman, when, from the
direction of the log-house came the sounds of firearms. My heart seemed
to leap to my throat, and a great fear held me spellbound. Then, from
the brushwood rushed the figure of a man. For only a moment did I see
his face in the moonlight.
It was Rayon Demain!
I hurried after him, and thus came to the log-house.
Many of the incidents that followed already have been described to you.
Rayon acted like a frenzied demon. I dragged from the burning log-house
the woman he had hurled into it, and I smote him down when he attacked
the young woman who was now my wife. But those whom I served shrank
from me appalled. Among them I had no friend. Then Rayon and I met for
a second time. We grappled and fought--Hyperion with a satyr, and the
satyr once more triumphed. Rayon again lay at my feet. I could have
killed him then, but who was I that I should reduce to senseless dust
that masterpiece of nature?
While I hesitated, Rayon rose suddenly to one of his elbows. Then he
levelled a revolver at me, and fired. The ball entered my chest, and I
fell.
I did not lose consciousness, but a great numbness overspread my body
and I felt half-dazed. I forgot what had happened, and, rising, I went
stumbling through the forest. Instinct led me to the shack. Two days
before, I had caused my boy to purchase a third mule, for one of the
others had gone lame. I mounted the lame one now, and rode along the
trail to the railway. There I boarded the way car of a freight train,
and fell unconscious on the floor.
When my senses returned to me I was in a comfortably furnished
bungalow which, I soon learned, was the Summer home of a New York
physician--thirty miles distant from Deadwood Valley. I told my host I
had been shot accidentally by a friend who doubtless had mistaken me
for a deer.
Three weeks later I was in New York. There, after many unsuccessful
efforts, I learned that Miss Trevison had gone to Europe.
In her confession to me on the lake, Paula had told me of her
relationship with Prince Maranotti, and, believing that she had gone
to him, I set out for Italy. There, of course, I failed to find her. I
tried to get into communication with Glyncamp, but he had mysteriously
disappeared.
For several months, amid the most harrowing disappointments, I
continued my search, then I learned that in New York Miss Paula
Trevison had become the wife of Philip Wadsworth. This information so
affected me that I nearly lost my reason. Three or four times I was
almost on the point of taking my life. How she had come to wed again
while the man she believed to be her husband still was living, I could
not understand. And yet, believing herself to be the wife of Rayon
Demain, it was possible that, overcome with horror and loathing as the
result of his mad acts on the night of the burning of the log-house,
she had sought and obtained a divorce.
I now resolved to seek the young woman out and confess to her the
manner in which I had deceived her. Accordingly, I went to New York and
there learned she had parted from Wadsworth scarcely more than an hour
after the wedding ceremony. Having obtained her address, I wrote to
her, asking her to see me on the following day. In this letter I told
her I had something of importance to reveal. Not only did she fail to
answer my letter, but she disappeared the day after she received it,
and I learned she had gone to Europe. Once more I went to Italy.
I found Prince Maranotti at Basselanto, and informed him that his
sister had become my wife. Not for a moment, however, did he believe
I was speaking the truth, and he treated me as if I were a harmless
lunatic. I called on him several times after this, but he refused to
see me.
At dawn one morning I hid myself in the garden, thinking to meet him
when he took his accustomed stroll before breakfast. The effort was
successful, but he warned me that if I did not leave the grounds at
once he would have me committed to an asylum. I knew he would keep his
word, but, angered as I was, I was not disposed to offer violence to
Paula’s brother. So, with bowed head, I hurried to the railway station.
Convinced that my wife was not in Italy, I decided to return to New
York. The following day I boarded a steamer at Naples, and it was
not until I reached the United States that I learned of the death of
Paula’s brother on the morning I had left him.
Two days ago I was visited by a stranger, who informed me that Mr.
Westfall was in possession of certain facts that it would be in my
interest to know. Accordingly I called upon him and received the
invitation which has resulted in my presence on the Barge of Haunted
Lives.
* * * * *
“And so the Princess is the wife of the Gargoyle, after all,” hissed
the Whispering Gentleman, as he turned toward Westfall.
“No, no, it is impossible!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom,
distractedly.
“If she isn’t, it’s not you, who deserted her, but the man who went
through fire and water to get the Rajiid diamonds for her, who ought
to have her,” growled the one-eyed Duckhunter.
“The law will quickly relieve her of her present desperate plight,”
said the Nervous Physician, complacently. “The law will not compel a
woman to accept as her husband the man who killed her brother.”
“Killed her brother!” exclaimed the Decapitated Man, wonderingly.
The Nervous Physician nodded, then, giving a sudden start, he glanced
apprehensively over his left shoulder.
“You knew you were under suspicion, did you not?” asked Westfall,
addressing the Sentimental Gargoyle.
“Under suspicion--yes,” the Gargoyle answered. “It is suspicion that is
founded on the fact that I was in the park of Basselanto on the morning
of the murder of Prince Maranotti. That I was there at that time, I
never have denied, but of his death I am guiltless, nor did I know at
the time I left the park that any crime had been committed there. More
than this, I know nothing of the identity of the murderer or of any
motive for the awful deed.”
“Well, if a gentleman who was able to give exceedingly damaging
testimony against you had lived to tell his story, you would not now be
here to assert your preposterous claim to this fair lady’s hand,” said
the Nervous Physician, irritably.
The Gargoyle stiffened in his chair.
“Who was the gentleman of whom you speak, sir?” he demanded, sharply.
“Perhaps it is well that you tell your story now, Doctor,” said
Westfall, gravely.
The Nervous Physician nodded. Then, in quick, nervous accents, he began
his narrative.