Carmontelle made his way with what speed he could, hampered as he was
by the heavy, unconscious form of the girl, to the carriage which
he had in waiting at the end of the square. His speed was not great
enough, however, to hinder him from hearing the sharp report of the
pistol as it went off in Van Zandt's hand, and a slight tremor ran
along his firm nerves.
"Somebody killed or wounded--and I pray it may be Remond, the dastardly
villain," he thought. "I should not like for any harm to come to that
noble young Van Zandt."
Then he paused while the driver sprung down from the box and opened the
door for him. He laid his burden down upon a seat, sprung in, and then
the door was closed.
"To the Convent of Le Bon Berger," he said.
"_Oui_, monsieur."
The man whipped up his horses, and they were off at a spanking pace.
A happy thought had occurred to Carmontelle. He had a friend who was
the Mother Superior of the Convent of the Good Shepherd. To her pious
care he would confide the poor, helpless lamb just rescued from the
jaws of the hungry wolf.
When the carriage had started off, he drew the thick wrappings from
the head of the unconscious girl and looked at her face. It was
deathly white, and the long, thick fringe of her dark lashes lay
heavily against her cheeks. Her young bosom heaved with slow, faint
respiration, but he tried in vain to arouse her from the heavy stupor
that held her in its chains.
Mme. Lorraine had been more clever than any one suspected. She had
given the drug to her victim in a cup of tea, before she went out to
the garden. Consequently the narcotic was already working in her veins
when she flung herself at Van Zandt's feet, imploring his aid, and in
a very few minutes after he had left her she fell into a heavy sleep
upon the garden-seat, her last coherent thought being of him who had
promised to save her from the perils that threatened her young life.
Carmontelle gazed with deep pity and strong emotion on the piquant
and exquisitely lovely face, realizing that that beauty had well-nigh
proved a fatal dower to the forlorn girl.
Deep, strong emotion stirred the man's heart as he gazed, and he vowed
to himself that however friendless, nameless, and lowly born was the
girl, she should never want a friend and protector again.
"I am rich and well-born, and she shall share all I have. When she
leaves the Convent of Le Bon Berger, it shall be as Madame Carmontelle,
my loved and honored wife, not the Little Nobody of to-night," he
mused. "I will teach her to love me in the years while she remains a
pupil at the convent."
In such thoughts as these the time passed quickly, although the convent
was several miles from Esplanade Street, and in the suburbs of the
city. At length the carriage paused before the dark conventual walls
and towers, the driver sprung down from his seat and came to the door
with the announcement:
"Le Bon Berger."
"_Très bien_. Wait."
He drew a memorandum-book from an inner pocket, and hastily penciled
some lines upon a sheet of paper.
"MADAME LA SUPERIEURE,--Pardon this late intrusion, and for God's
dear sake admit me to a brief interview. I have brought a poor,
little helpless lamb to the Good Shepherd. PIERRE CARMONTELLE."
"Take that," he said, hastily folding it across. "Ring the bell, and
present it to the janitor. Tell him Madame la Superieure must have it
at once. Say I am waiting in distress and impatience."
The man crossed the wide pave and rang the gate bell. There was some
little delay, then a stone slide slipped from its place in the high
gate, and the janitor's cross, sleepy face appeared in the aperture. He
was decidedly averse to receiving Carmontelle's orders. It was against
the rules admitting visitors at this hour. The superior had retired.
Carmontelle sprung hastily from the carriage and approached him with
a potent argument--perhaps a golden one--for he took the note and
disappeared, while the Louisianian went back to his carriage to wait
what seemed an inconceivably long space of time, restless and uneasy
in the doubts that began to assail his mind.
"If she refuses," he thought, in terror, and his senses quailed at the
thought. In all the wide city he could think of no home that would
receive his charge if the convent turned her from its doors.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he began to mutter to himself, in fierce disquietude,
when suddenly he heard the grating of a heavy key in a huge lock,
the falling of bolts and bars, and the immense gate opened gingerly,
affording a glimpse of the janitor's face and form against the
background of a garden in riotous bloom, while beyond towered the
massive convent walls.
"_Entrez_," the man said, civilly; and Carmontelle seized his still
unconscious burden joyfully, and made haste to obey.
The janitor uttered an exclamation of surprise when he saw that strange
burden, then he led the way, Carmontelle eagerly following, until they
reached the convent door. It opened as if by an unseen power, and they
went along a cold, dimly lighted hall to a little reception-room where
two gentle, pale-faced nuns were waiting with the mother superior to
receive the midnight visitor. She was a tall, graceful, sweet-faced
woman as she stood between the two, her slender white hands moving
restlessly along the beads of her rosary.
"My son," she uttered, in surprise, as he advanced and laid the still
form of Little Nobody down upon a low sofa, drawing back the heavy
cloak and showing what it hid--the fair young girl in the loose, white
slip, and the wealth of ruddy, golden curls.
He looked up at her with a face strangely broken up from its usual calm.
"Madame, holy mother, I have brought you a pupil," he said, "and I
have to confide a strange story to your keeping." He glanced at the
sweet-faced, quiet nuns. "Perhaps it were better to speak to you
alone?" he said, questioningly.
"No, you need not fear the presence of these gentle sisters of the Good
Shepherd. No secrets ever pass beyond these walls," the mother superior
answered, with grave, calm dignity.