He had given his valet no instructions to arouse him; therefore the man
let him sleep on uninterruptedly, thinking that his master had been
"making a night of it," in the slang phrase that prevails among gay
fellows. So, when he awakened and rang his bell, the midday sunshine
followed François into the quiet chamber and elicited an exclamation of
dismay.
"_Diable_! François, why did you not call me?"
"Monsieur gave me no instructions," smoothly.
"True; but you should have aroused me anyhow, you rascal!" irascibly.
"Now, hurry up, and get me out of this as quick as possible!"
His toilet completed, he swallowed a cup of coffee, munched a few
morsels of a roll, and was off--appetite failing in his eagerness to
get at Van Zandt. On his way to the hotel he dropped in at the club. No
information was found there. Neither Van Zandt nor Remond had been in
the rooms since yesterday.
He hastened on to the journalist's modest hotel, only to be confronted
with the news that Eliot had not yet returned. Since he had dined, at
eight o'clock last evening, he had not been seen by any one in the
house. His room had remained unoccupied since yesterday.
Carmontelle sickened and shuddered at thought of the blood before
madame's door last night.
"It is plain that Van Zandt was the one who was wounded, since Remond
was seen at his hotel last night after the accident. Great heavens!
what mystery is here? Is he dead, the brave lad? and have they hidden
his body to conceal the crime? I must find out the truth and avenge his
death, poor boy!"
He flung himself again into his carriage and was driven to that
beautiful fiend's--to the home of the woman who had so heartlessly
plotted the ruin of the helpless, innocent girl.
She was at home, looking cool, fair, and graceful in a _recherché_
morning-robe garnished with yards on yards of creamy laces and lavender
ribbons. She was twirling some cards in her jeweled fingers.
"Ah, monsieur, I have cards to the reception at Trevor's next week. Are
you going? Perhaps you have come to say that you will attend me there?"
The coquettish smile faded at the scowl he turned upon her face.
"Madame, where is Van Zandt?" he blurted out, brusquely.
It was no wonder she had been such a star upon the dramatic stage.
Her puzzled air, the wondering glance of her bright, dark eyes, were
perfect.
"Monsieur--Van Zandt!" she repeated, in gentle wonder. "How should I
know? I assure you he has not been here since last night."
"Yes, I know," impatiently. "But what happened to him last night? Did
Remond kill him here, at your door, where I found the pool of blood
when I came back to look for him?"
Her eyes flashed.
"Ah, then it was you, monsieur, that carried off poor Remond's bride?"
with a low laugh of amusement.
"Answer my question, if you please, Madame Lorraine," sternly. "Tell
me--did Remond kill our young Yankee friend last night?"
Madame threw back her handsome head, and laughed heartlessly.
"_Ma foi_, how can I tell? When I saw the two fools were fighting
desperately, I ran in, locked my door, and went to bed. _Mon Dieu_, I
did not want to be a witness in a murder trial!"
"And you did not peep out of the window?" cynically.
"_Ma foi_, no! I was too frightened. I did not want to see or hear! I
put my head under the bed-clothes, and went to sleep."
"Heartless woman! After you had caused all the mischief!" indignantly.
"I deny it!" cried Mme. Lorraine, artlessly, fixing her big,
reproachful eyes on his face. "I can not understand what all this
fuss is about. I did but arrange a marriage for my pretty ward,
French-fashion, with Remond, rich, in love with her, and a splendid
_parti_. But the little rebel pouted, flirted, and held him at bay till
he was wild with love and jealousy. She was romantic. I proposed that
he run off with her and win her heart by a _coup d'état_. The priest
was ready. All would have gone well but for the cursed intermeddling of
that sneaking Yankee. I hate him! What did he have to do with her that
he should break off the match? Do you say Remond has killed him?"
She had poured it all out in voluble French, protestingly, and with an
air of the completest innocence, but she met only a furious frown.
"Madame, your airs of innocence are quite thrown away," he replied.
"Your treachery is known. You would have sold that poor girl to a life
that was worse than death. Your bargain in the garden was overheard,"
sternly. "Do you know what you have brought upon your head, traitress?
Social ostracism and complete disgrace! The Jockey Club that has upheld
you by its notice so many years, will desert you in a body. We can not
horsewhip you as we shall Remond, but we shall hold you up to the scorn
of the world."
"Mercy, monsieur!" she gasped, faintly, dropped her face in her hands,
and dissolved in tears.
He had expected that she would scorn him, defy him, but this softer
mood confounded him. He could not bear a woman's tears.
He sat and watched her in silence a few minutes, fidgeting restlessly,
then said, curtly:
"Come, come, it is too late for tears unless they are tears of
repentance for your sin."
Madame flung up her hands with a tragic gesture.
"_Mon Dieu_, how cruelly I have been misunderstood! I do not deny the
plot in the garden, but the listener surely did not hear all. Remond
was to marry the girl, I swear it! Poor little motherless lamb! do you
think I would have allowed any one to harm a hair of her head? Oh, you
wrong me bitterly! You have been deceived, misled."
She flung herself with sudden, inimitable grace on her knees at his
feet.
"Carmontelle, you should know me better than this!" she cried. "I
swear to you it was only a harmless plot to make her Remond's wife.
It would have been better for her to have a home and protector, I--I
am so poor," weeping, "I have lost so heavily at play that there is
a mortgage on my home, and I could not keep the girl much longer; I
must retrench my expenses. Yet only for this I am to be ostracised,
disgraced, held up to the scorn of my friends. Ah, you are cruel,
unjust to me. Oh, spare me, spare me! Say nothing until you can prove
these charges true."
What a consummate actress! what a clever liar she was! Doubt began to
invade his mind. Had Van Zandt misunderstood her words?
"Madame Lorraine," he said, sternly, "get up from the floor and listen
to me. I will give you the benefit of a doubt. I will try to believe
that your infamous plot went no further than the trying to force that
helpless child into a hated union. Even that was infamy enough. Talk
not to me of your French marriages. I despise them. But I will say
nothing to the world--yet. I will not wrong you until I make sure."
"Bless you, noble Carmontelle!" she cried, seizing his hand and
pressing passionate kisses upon it. He drew it coldly away, and said,
dryly:
"If you really feel grateful for my clemency, tell me what you know
about Van Zandt and Remond. I can not find either one, and I fear that
something terrible has happened to the noble young Bostonian."
She swore by all the saints that she knew nothing, had heard nothing
since the pistol-shot last night.
"I was so frightened I did not wait to see who was shot. I just ran
in and went to bed. I did not want to be a witness of anything so
terrible!" she shuddered.
"You swear you are not deceiving me, madame?" sternly.
"I swear by all the saints," fervently.
"Then I must search farther for my missing friend," he said, sadly, as
he turned to go.
She caught his arm eagerly.
"Now tell me what you have done with the little baggage who has caused
all this trouble? By Heaven, Carmontelle, if harm come to my little
daughter through you, I will hold you to account!"
"Daughter!" he echoed, bewilderly, and she answered, dauntlessly:
"Yes, my daughter. The secret is out at last, the secret of my shame!
She was born before I met Lorraine. Her father was--well, no matter
who, since he was a villain. Well, I put the child out to nurse, and
made an honest marriage. Then the woman followed me with the child, and
I had to invent a story to account for her to Lorraine. Now I am free
to claim her, and you see that the law will support me in demanding her
restoration to my care!"
They stood looking at each other silently a moment, then Carmontelle
answered, angrily:
"Madame, I do not believe you. This is only one of a dozen different
stories you have told to account for the possession of that child. Your
last claim is made in order to support a claim for her return to you.
The pretext will not avail you. The little ma'amselle is in safe hands,
where she shall remain until she is trained and educated up to the
standard necessary for my wife."
"Your wife?" she gasped, white with jealous fury.
"I have said it," he answered, coldly, and strode abruptly from the
house.
Mme. Lorraine fell down for a moment on the sofa in furious hysterics.
Carmontelle, her princely adorer, had scorned, defied her; Van Zandt
knew her guilt and despised her; worst of all, the little scapegoat of
her tempers, her beautiful slave, the hated Little Nobody, had escaped
her clutches. Furies!
But suddenly she sprung up like a wild creature, tore open the door
that Carmontelle had slammed together, and rushed after him. He was
just entering his carriage when her frantic hand arrested him and drew
him forcibly back.
"Come into the house; I must speak with you further. Do not shake your
head," wildly. "It is a matter of life and death!"
He suffered her to drag him back into the salon. She turned her shining
eyes upon his face with a half-maniacal gleam in them.
"The girl--had she awakened when you saw her last?" hoarsely.
"No," he replied.
She smote her forehead fiercely with one ringed white hand.
"My soul! I do not want to have murder on my hands. You must find
Remond. I gave him the little vial with the antidote."
"The antidote?" he stammered, almost stupidly.
"Yes, the antidote. She is under the influence of a strange drug.
I bought the two vials long ago from an old hag in the East as a
curiosity, you see. One drug was to bring sleep, the other to wake at
will. Without--" she paused, and her voice broke.
"Without--" he echoed, hoarsely; and in a frightened, guilty voice, she
muttered:
"The one, without the other means--death!"
"Fiend!" he hissed, fiercely.
"No, no; do not blame me. I meant no ill. I gave Remond the antidote,
to be used when they reached the end of their journey. How could I
know you would take the girl from him and hide her? How could I know
he would disappear? Find Remond quickly, or her death will lie at your
door."
"You speak the truth?" he cried, wildly.
"Before God and the angels, monsieur!"
With a smothered oath he thrust her from him and rushed out again,
leaped into the carriage, and gave his orders:
"Like the wind, to the detective agency."
It was two miles distant, and the panting horses were covered with foam
when they set him down at his destination. Fortunately the familiar
face of the most skillful detective in New Orleans looked at him in
surprise from the pavement. He beckoned him into the vehicle.
In words as brief and comprehensive as possible he explained what he
wanted done. He must find Remond at once--find him and bring him to the
Convent of Le Bon Berger.
"A life hangs on his hands," he said, feverishly. "Tell him not to fail
to bring with him the antidote he received last night."
"I will find him if he is in the city," the detective promised,
ardently; and full of zeal, inspired not only by love for his
profession, but genuine anxiety and grief over the startling case just
confided to him, he sprung from the carriage to set about his task.
And Carmontelle, with his mind full of Little Nobody, gave the order
again:
"To the convent!"
He was possessed by the most torturing anxiety over his little charge,
and doubt over madame's startling assertion.
"Horrible! horrible! What possessed her to use a drug so deadly?" he
thought, wildly. "Oh, it can not be true! I shall find her awake and
waiting for me, the poor lamb! Madame Lorraine only invented that story
to torture me."
He spoke feverishly to the driver:
"Faster, faster!"
The man replied, in a conciliatory tone:
"Monsieur, I dare not. I should be arrested for fast driving, and your
speed would be hindered, not helped, by such a course."
He knew that it was true, and with a groan sunk back in his seat and
resigned himself with what patience he could to the moderate pace of
the horses. It seemed hours, although it was but thirty minutes, before
they drew up again before the dark, grim building where he had left his
charge the night before.
The janitor admitted him without any parley this time; but Carmontelle
was so eager that he did not notice the solemn, sympathetic look with
which the man regarded him. He rushed without delay to the presence of
the mother superior.
When she saw him, her countenance expressed the greatest dismay. She
crossed herself piously and ejaculated, sorrowfully:
"Oh, monsieur, monsieur, you have come at last!"
"Madame, holy mother!" he cried, agitatedly, and paused, unable to
proceed further. Something in her face and voice filled him with dread.
"Oh, my son!" she uttered, sorrowfully, and speech, too, seemed to fail
her. She regarded him in a pathetic silence mixed with deep pity.
He made a great effort to speak, to overcome the horror that bound
him hand and foot. A terrible fear was upon him. What if she had not
wakened yet?
With that awful thought, he gasped and spoke:
"Where is she?"
"Oh, _mon Dieu_! oh, holy Mother of Jesus, comfort him!" cried the good
nun, piously. She advanced and touched him compassionately. "God help
you, my poor son. She--she--has not awakened--yet."
He turned his pale, frightened face toward her.
"She sleeps?" he questioned, eagerly; and with a holy compassion in her
trembling voice, she replied:
"Yes, my son, she sleeps--in Jesus."
"Dead?" he almost shrieked, and she answered, solemnly:
"Yes."
She thought he was about to faint, his face grew so pale and his form
reeled so unsteadily; but he threw out one hand and caught the back of
a chair to sustain himself, while a hollow groan came from his lips:
"Too late!"
With tears in her eyes, the good nun continued:
"The little girl never awakened from the deep sleep in which you
brought her here. We made every effort to arouse her, but all in vain.
She sunk deeper and deeper into lethargy, her breathing growing fainter
and fainter, and at last it ceased altogether."
"When?" he questioned, huskily.
"Three hours ago," she replied.
If it had not been for her sacred presence, Carmontelle would have
broken into passionate execrations of the wicked woman who had caused
the death of that sweet young girl. As it was, he stood before her
dazed and silent, almost stunned by the calamities that had befallen
him since last night.
Van Zandt had mysteriously disappeared, and Little Nobody was dead. The
one, he feared and dreaded, had been murdered by Remond in his fury;
the other lay dead, the victim of Mme. Lorraine's cruel vengeance.
"Come," said the nun, breaking in on his bitter thoughts; "she lies in
the chapel. You will like to look at her, monsieur."
He followed her silently, and the low, monotonous sound of the chant
for the dead came to his ears like a knell as they went on along
the narrow hall to the darkened chapel, where the weeping nuns lay
prostrate before the altar, mumbling over the prayers for the dead,
and an old, white-haired priest in flowing robes bent over his book.
Carmontelle saw none of these. He had eyes for nothing but that
black-draped coffin before the altar, with wax-candles burning at head
and foot, shedding a pale, sepulchral light on that fair young face and
form that such a little while ago had been full of life, and health,
and vigor.
He stood like one turned to stone--speechless, breathless--gazing at
that exquisitely lovely face, so faultlessly molded, and so beautiful
even in the strange pallor of death, with the dark lashes lying so
heavily against the cheeks and the lips closed in such a strange, sweet
calm.
His heart swelled with love, and grief, and pity. Poor child! she had
had such a strange, desolate life, and she had died without a name
and without a friend, save for him who stood beside her now, his face
pale and moved, as he looked upon her lying like a broken lily in her
coffin, with the strange, weird light sifting through the stained-glass
windows on her calm face, and the monotonous chants and prayers making
a solemn murmur through the vaulted chapel.
"Is it death or heavy sleep?" he asked himself, with a sudden throb of
hope; and he touched reverently the little hands that were crossed over
a white lily the nuns had lovingly placed there. Alas! they were icy
cold! His hope fled. "Too late! too late! If they find Remond, it will
be all in vain," he muttered, and the mother superior looked at him
inquiringly.
Impulsively he told her all, and the nuns, at their prayers, murmured
aves and paters more softly, that they might listen; the old priest,
with his head bent over his book, lost not a word. It was a romance
from that wicked outer world from which the convent walls shut them
in, a breath of life and passion from the "bewildering masquerade" of
existence, where
"Strangers walk as friends,
And friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts,
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness that smiles and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened--confused--
Not knowing friend from foe!"
The mother superior gazed with dilated eyes as he poured out the moving
story, clasped her long, white hands excitedly, and shuddered with
horror.
"Ah, _mon Dieu_! the wicked man! the cruel, heartless woman!" she
exclaimed. "Shall they not answer for this crime?"
"Ay, before Heaven, they shall!" Pierre Carmontelle vowed passionately,
with his warm, living hand pressed upon the chill, pulseless one of the
nameless dead girl; and in the years to come he kept that impulsive vow
made there in the presence of the living and the dead.