[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 148.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE MATTERHORN, AND ITS VICTIMS.
The Matterhorn, or Mont Cervin, a peak of the Pennine Alps, fourteen
thousand seven hundred and eighty feet high, is unique amongst the
mountains of the Alps, for elsewhere throughout their length and
breadth there is no single peak that approaches to it in massive
grandeur of shape. Standing alone, apart from the neighbouring peaks,
holding itself proudly aloof, as it were, from the common herd, it is
truly a monarch among mountains. To look upon it is to realise at once
the feeling of awe and reverence with which, even to this day, the
peasants of the valley regard it—a feeling which in former years had
perhaps more to do with its reputed inaccessibility than anything else;
whilst other peaks whose ascent is now thought to be more difficult,
were falling one by one before the early pioneers of the Alpine Club.
In that time—with very few exceptions—even the boldest hunters of
Zermatt and the Val Tournanche shrank from attempting the ascent, for
time-honoured legends said that the Matterhorn was haunted, that evil
spirits made it their trysting-place; and when the storm raged high,
and the lightning played about its crags, danced and shrieked around
it in unholy glee. Then, too, the Matterhorn has a history of its own,
such as no other mountain save Mont Blanc possesses.
Every one who has read Mr Whymper’s _Scrambles amongst the Alps_—a book
which has probably done more to stimulate the love of climbing than
any written before or since—knows how he alone—when other mountaineers
tried and failed, coming back always with the same tale, that the
summit was inaccessible—persisted that it could be reached; and how,
though driven back many and many a time, he refused to accept defeat,
till at length, after an expenditure of time and money which some
would deem completely thrown away in such a cause, his indomitable
perseverance met with its due reward. As Mr Whymper’s adventures in
connection with the ascent of the Matterhorn have been already related
in this _Journal_ under the title ‘Ascent of the Matterhorn,’ January
10, 1880, we need only refer to them here in so far as is necessary for
the sequence of the narrative.
There were several attempts made to ascend the Matterhorn previous
to 1858; but the first known were those of the four Val Tournanche
guides—Jean Antoine Carrel, J. J. Carrel, Victor Carrel, Gabriel
Maquignaz, with the Abbé Gorret, in that and in the following year.
These attempts were all made on the Italian side, from Breuil; and
it does not appear that at any time a greater height than twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet was attained. Very little definite
information, however, has ever been obtainable on the subject.
The next attempt of which we have record was a remarkable one, for
it was made by three brothers, the Messrs Parker of Liverpool, _and
without guides_. The attempt was made in 1860 from Zermatt, and these
daring climbers attacked the eastern face, looked upon at that time as
quite beyond the powers of any human being to climb. They succeeded
in ascending to a height of some twelve thousand feet, and were then
driven back by bad weather. In the same year, another attempt was made
from Breuil by Professor Tyndall and Mr Vaughan Hawkins, with the
guides J. J. Carrel and Bennen; but they did not make much advance upon
what had been done during the attempts of the Val Tournanche guides;
and it is doubtful if a greater height than thirteen thousand feet was
reached.
In 1861, the Messrs Parker tried again, but did not succeed in getting
much higher than they did in the previous year; while on the Italian
side, the two Carrels, J. A. and J. J., made another attempt, which was
unsuccessful.
Then began the attempts of Mr Whymper, and from that moment until
the last successful expedition, with two exceptions, his name was
associated with all the attempts that were made upon the mountain. The
two exceptions were those of Mr T. S. Kennedy and of Professor Tyndall
in 1862. The first was unique, as having been made in the winter—on
the 7th of January. Mr Kennedy seems to have thought that the ascent
might prove practicable in winter, if not in summer; but his experience
was a severe one. A fierce wind, bitter cold, and a superabundance
of snow, prevented his getting very far; and, like all the rest, he
returned completely discomfited. The attempt of Professor Tyndall on
the Italian side, in July of that year, was perhaps the nearest to
success of any that had yet been made. He had two celebrated Swiss
guides with him, Bennen and Walter; and he also took, but only as
porters, three Val Tournanche men, of whom J. A. Carrel was one. This
expedition was only stopped when within eight hundred feet of the top.
Professor Tyndall came back so deeply impressed with the difficulties
surrounding the ascent, that he made no effort to renew his attempt.
In fact, he does not appear to have gone on the mountain again till he
ascended it in 1868, three years after the first ascent had been made.
Professor Tyndall’s want of success appears in great measure to have
been due to the jealousy existing between the guides of the two rival
nationalities, Swiss and Italian.
The first attempt by Mr Whymper was made from Breuil on the 29th of
August 1861, the same day as the attempt by the two Carrels. Mr Whymper
was accompanied by an Oberland guide, who proved a somewhat inefficient
companion; and they failed to get higher than the ‘Chimney,’ twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level. He made other
five attempts in 1862, one in 1863, and two in 1865. In the ninth and
last, he was successful.
In Mr Whymper’s ninth and successful attempt the united party
consisted of Lord Francis Douglas, Mr Hudson, Mr Hadow—a friend of Mr
Hudson’s—and the guides Michel Croz and the two Taugwalders, father and
son. They started from Zermatt on July 13, 1865, and camped out above
the Hörnli ridge. The weather was fine and with everything in their
favour, next day, they climbed with ease the apparently inaccessible
precipices, and reached the actual summit at 1.40 P.M.
In the account of the expedition which Mr Whymper has given to the
world, he graphically describes the wild delight which they all felt
at a success so much beyond their hopes, and how for a full hour they
sat drinking-in the sweets of victory before preparing to descend.
It is almost needless to re-tell a story which we have previously
related, and which is so well known as the terrible tragedy which took
place during the descent—how Mr Hadow slipped, struck Croz from his
steps, and dragged down Mr Hudson and Lord Francis Douglas; how the
rope snapped midway between Lord Francis Douglas and old Taugwalder;
and how Mr Whymper and the two Taugwalders watched, horrified, whilst
their unfortunate companions slid rapidly downwards, spreading out
their hands in a vain endeavour to save themselves, till they finally
disappeared over the edge of the precipice, falling a distance of four
thousand feet on to the glacier below! The bodies of Messrs Hudson,
Hadow, and Croz were subsequently recovered, and now lie buried in the
graveyard of the Zermatt village church; but of Lord Francis Douglas,
nothing could be seen. Beyond a boot, a pair of gloves, and the torn
and bloodstained sleeve of a coat, no trace of him has ever since been
found. What became of his body is to this day a mystery.
It is strange how the memory of this the most dramatic—if it may be
so termed—of all the accidents which have ever happened in the Alps
is still indelibly impressed on the minds of climbers, guides, and
amateurs alike. It is the commonest thing to hear it discussed, and the
theories put forward as to the cause of the rope giving way where it
did are various and ingenious. Unfortunately for the reputation of old
Taugwalder, the report of the official investigation held by the local
authorities after the accident has never to this day been made public.
As a consequence, old Taugwalder has suffered irretrievably from a
report mischievously circulated by his fellow-villagers to the effect,
that at the moment of the slip, he sacrificed his companions to save
himself, by severing the rope! And in spite of Mr Whymper’s assertions
that the thing was impossible, there are some who still persist in
maintaining that he cut it. The suspicion under which he laboured so
preyed upon his spirits that he quitted the scene, and for many years
never returned to his native village. The younger Taugwalder became one
of the leading guides of the valley.
Thrice again has the Matterhorn been the scene of death in a terrible
form. In 1879, the mountain claimed two more victims. In the one case,
an American, Dr Moseley, disregarding the most ordinary precautions,
slipped and perished horribly, falling a height of some two thousand
feet, on to some rocks a little way down the Furggen Glacier. Dr
Moseley, accompanied by Mr Craven and the well-known Oberland guides,
Christian Inäbnit and Peter Rubi, left Zermatt on the night of August
13, with the intention of making a one-day ascent of the Matterhorn.
Both gentlemen were members of the Alpine Club, and mountaineers
of considerable experience. The summit was reached successfully at
nine o’clock on the morning of the 14th; and after a short halt, the
descent was commenced. Dr Moseley, who was a skilful rock-climber,
and possessed of great confidence in his own climbing powers, soon
after passing the most difficult bit of the mountain, complained
that the rope was a considerable hindrance; and notwithstanding the
remonstrances of Mr Craven and the guides, insisted on detaching
himself from the other members of the party. At some little distance
from the old hut, the party had to cross a projecting ledge of smooth
rock. Rubi crossed first, and planted his axe so as to give Dr Moseley
a firm foothold; but Dr Moseley, declining the proffered assistance,
placed his hand upon the rock and endeavoured to vault over it. In an
instant, his foot slipped, his axe flew out of his hand, and he fell
on to some snow beneath, down which he commenced to slide on his back.
The snow was frozen, and he dropped on to some rocks below. With a
desperate effort, he turned himself round and tried to grasp the rocks
with his hands; but the impetus attained was too great, and he fell
from rock to rock till lost to his companions’ sight. The body was
subsequently recovered; and from the terrible nature of the fall, death
must have ensued long before the bottom was reached.
Here was a case of a valuable life absolutely thrown away, for, had Dr
Moseley remained on the rope, the accident would never have happened.
It was the same over-confidence that cost the life of the Rev. J.
M. Elliott on the Schreckhorn, and it is to be feared will cost the
lives of others yet, if the warning conveyed by the fall of these
two accomplished mountaineers continues to be disregarded. There was
another circumstance, too, which had a bearing on the accident, and
which is an additional proof of a want of carefulness on the part of
the unfortunate man—his boots were found, on examination, to be almost
entirely devoid of nails, and were, therefore, practically useless for
mountaineering purposes.
In the other case, a death occurred under circumstances which are
happily without a parallel in the annals of mountaineering. Two
members of the Basle section of the Swiss Alpine Club—a body in no
way connected with our own Alpine Club—engaged three guides—J. M.
Lochmatter and Joseph Brantschen, both of St Nicolas, and P. Beytrison
of Evolena—to take them over the Matterhorn from Breuil to Zermatt.
They left the first-named place on the morning of August 12, and in the
afternoon reached the hut which the Italian Alpine Club have built at
an elevation of some thirteen thousand feet, amidst the wildest crags
of the Matterhorn, intending to sleep there, and cross the mountain
to Zermatt in the course of the following day. During the night, the
guide Brantschen was taken ill, and by morning had become so weak
as to be quite unable to move. Now, under these circumstances, it
might have been supposed that Brantschen would have been the first
consideration; but the two Swiss gentlemen thought otherwise. Instead
of at once abandoning the expedition, and sending down for help to
Breuil, after a brief consultation they announced to Lochmatter their
intention of proceeding to Zermatt, and ordered him and Beytrison to
get ready to start. They were conscious of the fact that Brantschen
had become dangerously ill, and appear to have demurred at first, but
weakly gave in on their employers insisting. A blanket was thrown over
the sick man, a little food placed beside him, and then the party filed
out of the hut, and the door was shut. It is possible that in their
leaving Brantschen they were scarcely alive to the consequences of
their act; it is to be hoped, at all events, that they were not; but
from the moment that the hut was left, they deliberately condemned the
sick man to at least thirty-six hours of absolute solitude. In fact,
by the adoption of this course, the nearest succour—at the pace of the
party—was nineteen and a half hours off, whereas Breuil would have been
only eight. They crossed the mountain safely, but being bad walkers,
did not reach Zermatt till half-past one the following morning. They
then caused a relief party of guides to be sent out; but it was too
late. On reaching the hut, the unfortunate man was found to be dead.
The conduct of his employers did not escape criticism both at home and
abroad.
There have been accidents on the Matterhorn since 1879; but although in
more than one instance there has been a narrow escape, only once has
any further life been sacrificed.
Within a few days of the first ascent of the Matterhorn, on July 18,
1865, J. A. Carrel and Bich succeeded in reaching the summit from the
Italian side, by a feat of rock-climbing scarcely equalled for daring
in the annals of mountaineering. Since then, ascents of the Matterhorn
have multiplied year by year; but for every one ascent by the Italian
route, there must be twenty at least by the Zermatt. In fact, the
former route is scarcely adapted for any but good mountaineers. The
Matterhorn has also been climbed from the Zmutt side; but this route
has never become popular. The first traveller to ascend the Matterhorn
from Breuil was Mr F. Craufurd Grove, the present President of the
Alpine Club; and of other remarkable ascents may be mentioned those of
Miss Walker, accompanied by her brother and Mr Gardiner—Miss Walker
being the first lady to climb the Matterhorn—of the Misses Pigeon, who
were weather-bound for three days in the hut on the Italian side; and
in descending to Zermatt, after crossing the summit, were benighted,
and had to remain on the open mountain-side till daybreak; of Messrs
Cawood, Colgrove, and Cust, who made the ascent from Zermatt without
guides; of the ill-fated expeditions in which the lives of Dr Moseley,
the guide Brantschen, and Mr Borckhardt were lost; and of Mr Mummery
and the late Mr Penhall, who each discovered a new route from the Zmutt
side.
The Matterhorn has likewise been ascended in the winter; as the writer
can assert from experience, having accomplished the feat—such as it
was—in the days when it had not become the everyday affair that it is
now. With two guides, one of whom was the well-known Joseph Imboden
of St Nicolas, I arrived at Zermatt one fine afternoon in August,
resolved upon a one-day ascent of the Matterhorn. A start was to be
made at midnight; and soon after that hour, we were picking our way
over the stones which paved the deserted village street in the darkness
of a moonless night. Leaving the village behind us, we commenced to
ascend through the meadows beyond the village, Imboden leading, and
never for a moment pausing, although, in that uncertain light, it was
difficult to distinguish a track of any kind. We reached the barren
Hörnli Ridge, and as we commenced to traverse it, the sky grew lighter
with the dawn of day. We were close to the foot of the Matterhorn now,
and it loomed upon us, towering high into the sky, and seeming to my
eyes one mighty series of precipices from base to summit. There was a
solemn grandeur about the scene which seemed even to have its influence
upon my companion, for not a word was spoken as we strode on towards
the mountain. But when once we were upon the rock itself, I found that
the difficulties which I had pictured to myself as likely to arise had
little existence in fact; the series of precipices resolved themselves
into a rocky surface, much broken, and yielding capital hand and foot
hold everywhere. The incline, too, was very much less steep than it
had appeared at a distance. No difficulty indeed presented itself;
and climbing upwards rapidly, in two hours from the Hörnli we were at
the hut which in those days was generally made use of for passing the
night previous to an ascent. This hut is built beneath the shelter
of an overhanging cliff, on a narrow rock platform, and its position
does not give one an idea of security. It is cramped, and when I saw
it, was very dirty, and indeed looked altogether so uninviting, that
I congratulated myself on having avoided a night in it. We found the
stove useful, though, for cooking our breakfast. This hut has now been
superseded by a larger building, erected lower down the mountain. We
finished our breakfast, and set out once more.
Hitherto, the work had been quite easy; but now came something stiffer,
our first experience being on an ice-slope at an angle of perhaps
forty-five degrees, overhanging the route by which we had ascended,
and by which, had any false step been made, we should have returned
somewhat hastily. A party that had gone up the day before spared us
any step-cutting, for they had done their work so satisfactorily that
quite a staircase remained for our use. We reached the top of the
slope in safety; a knife-edge of snow led us to the right, and almost
immediately we found ourselves upon the most difficult bit of the
mountain, the northern face. Rounding the edge of the mountain, you
look down, and below you, the face of the cliff falls away steeply,
till it terminates in a drop of three thousand feet or more. Above,
rises perpendicularly almost a succession of knobs of rock, overlapping
one another, and more or less coated with snow and ice. The position
may be rendered exciting enough to please any one by the addition of
one or two incompetent individuals to the party.
Our progress was slow but steady. Imboden would scan the face of the
cliff, climb up a few feet, and when firmly fixed, call to me to
follow, the operation then being repeated with the second guide. We
sighted the summit at fifteen minutes past eight; and in less than two
hours after leaving the hut we were on the highest point. The summit
varies much, differing in shape with each successive season; and when
we were there, it was a ridge of snow, narrow in places, broader in
others, though nowhere was it possible to walk three abreast. We had a
glorious view; but in this respect the Matterhorn is perhaps inferior
to some of its neighbours, notably to Monte Rosa and the Dom.
During the descent, Imboden exercised even greater care, and we
reached the hut again safely. From there, we made our way leisurely
down to Zermatt, where we arrived soon after three o’clock in the
afternoon, after an unusually quick ascent, thanks to the splendid
weather and the easy state of the northern face, which, while it cost
us only two hours, has sometimes given a party seven hours or more of
hard work. On the way down, Imboden pointed out to me two blanched
fragments of rope trailing from the rocks far up on the northern face.
They were left there by Mr Whymper after the accident, and marked the
spot close by where it occurred. There they remained as cherished
relics till last year, when a traveller sent his guide to cut them down
and bring them away. It is sad to think that it was an Englishman who
was guilty of this wanton act.
As far as the actual ascent of the Matterhorn goes, it is far from
being the formidable affair which it was once considered to be; but at
the same time it is certainly not an expedition to be recommended to
every one. It is not that the ascent is dangerous in itself, though
some may have their own opinion about that, but it cannot be too
strongly insisted on that, under certain conditions, it ought not to
be attempted. Every experienced climber knows how weather can affect
a mountain, and how ascents which, under ordinary conditions, are
easy enough, are apt after bad weather to become difficult—sometimes
impossible; and for a party of novices, with possibly guides not of the
best class, to attempt the Matterhorn in a bad state is to run a risk
such as no one in the pursuit of pleasure is justified in running.
The latest accident upon the Matterhorn, up to date of writing, has
perhaps more than any other Alpine accident illustrated the folly of
attempting great mountains without a proper mountaineering training
beforehand. On the morning of the 17th of August, at three A.M., a
party, consisting of Messrs F. C. Borckhardt and T. Davies, with
Zermatt guides, Peter Aufdemblatten and Fridolin Kronig, left the
lower Matterhorn hut, and in fine weather reached the summit about
nine A.M. Soon after leaving it, the weather, with one of those sudden
changes which must always more or less constitute a danger in Alpine
climbing, became very bad, and it began to snow. The progress of the
party was very slow, for neither of the two gentlemen seems to have
been a good walker, and both were exhausted; and by seven o’clock that
same evening they had only reached the spot near where Dr Moseley made
his fatal slip. Here they halted. It continued to snow all that night
and till past noon on the following day, by which time travellers
and guides were reduced to a pitiable condition. And now comes the
saddest part of the story. Of the party, Mr Borckhardt was by this time
the most helpless, and as such, ought to have received the greatest
consideration; but the guides persuaded Mr Davies that the only chance
of saving their own lives was to leave their helpless companion, and
make a push to the nearest point whence help could be obtained. At
that moment, it so happened that a rescue party was on its way from
Zermatt, and they met it about half-way down to the hut. On hearing of
the abandonment of Mr Borckhardt on the open mountain-side, the relief
party pushed on to his aid with all haste; but it was of no avail; they
only arrived to find that the unfortunate gentleman was past all human
help.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER X.
Besides the consolation of recovering the precious insignia, the spice
of romance in the affair appealed to Le Gautier’s natural sentiment.
He might, it may be thought, have had something similar made; but it
must be remembered that he had no fac-simile in his possession; and he
knew, or suspected, that the coin bore private marks known only to the
Supreme Three. At all hazards, therefore, the device must be recovered,
and perhaps a little pleasant pastime enjoyed in addition.
After long cogitation, Le Gautier decided to keep the appointment,
and, in accordance with this determination, walked to Charing Cross
the following night. He loitered along the broad stone platform for
some time till the clock struck nine, idly speculating upon the
people hurrying to and fro, and turning over the books and papers on
the bookstall. At a few minutes after the hour he looked up at the
clock, and then down again, and his heart beat a shade more quickly,
for there, standing by the swinging door leading to the first-class
waiting-room, was a long cloaked figure, closely veiled. Walking
carelessly in the direction, and approaching, he looked at his watch as
he muttered: ‘Past nine—no sign of the Eastern Eagle.’
By way of answer, the mysterious stranger raised her hand to the clasp
of her cloak, and there, in the centre of the fastening, was a gold
moidore.
Le Gautier’s eyes glistened as he noticed this. ‘You wish to see me?’
he said at length. ‘I must thank you for’——
‘If your name is Le Gautier,’ she interrupted, ‘I do want to say a few
words to you.—Am I right, sir?’
Le Gautier bowed, thinking that, if the face matched the voice and
figure, he had a treasure here.
‘This is no place to discuss this matter. If you can suggest any place
where we can hold a few minutes’ conversation, I shall be obliged.’
Le Gautier mused a moment; he had a good knowledge of London, but
hesitated to take a lady to any place so late. The only suggestion
he could make was the Embankment; and apparently this suited his
companion, for, bowing her head, she took the proffered arm, walked out
from the station, down Villiers Street, and so on to the waterside. Le
Gautier noticed how the fingers on his arm trembled, attributing this
to natural timidity, never dreaming that the emotion might be a warmer
one. He began to feel at home now, and his tongue ran on accordingly.
‘Ah! how good of you,’ he exclaimed, pressing the arm lying in his own
tenderly—‘how angelic of you to come to my aid! Tell me how you knew I
was so rash, so impetuous?’
‘Men who carry their lives in their hands always are,’ Isodore replied.
‘The story does not need much telling. I was in the Kursaal at the
time, and had my eyes on you. I saw you detach the insignia from your
watchchain; I saw you hand it to a woman to stake; in short, I can put
my hand upon it now.’
‘My protector, my guardian angel!’ Le Gautier cried rapturously; and
then, with a sudden prosaic touch, added: ‘Have you got it with you?’
Isodore hesitated. If he could only have seen the smile behind the
thick dark veil which hid the features so tantalisingly!
‘I have not your insignia with me,’ she said; ‘that I must give you at
some future time, not now. Though I am alarmed for you, I cannot but
admire your reckless audacity.’
‘I thought perhaps you might,’ Le Gautier observed in a disappointed
tone, and glancing at the clasp of his companion’s cloak.
‘That is mine,’ she explained, noting his eager look. ‘I do not part
with it so recklessly as you. I, too, am one of you, as you see. Ah,
Monsieur le Gautier, how truly fortunate your treasure fell into a
woman’s hands!’
‘Indeed, yes,’ he replied gravely, a little puzzled, nevertheless,
by the half-serious, half-mocking tone of these last words. ‘And how
grateful I am! Pardon me if, in my anxiety, I ask when I may have it?’
‘It may be some days yet. It is not in my hands; but be assured that
you shall have it. I always keep my promises—in love or war, gratitude
or revenge, I never forget.—And now I must leave you.’
‘But you will at least tell me the name of my benefactor, and when I
shall have the great felicity of seeing her again.’
‘If I disclose myself to you, my secret must be respected. Some time,
when I know you better, I will tell you more. I live in Ventnor Street,
Fitzroy Square. You may come and see me any night at ten. You must
inquire for Marie St Jean.’
‘I will come,’ Le Gautier exclaimed, kissing the proffered hand
gallantly. ‘Nothing save the sternest duty shall keep me from Fitzroy
Square.’
‘And you will respect my secret? I, too, am on the business of the
League. You will guard my secret?’
‘On my life!’ was the fervid response.—‘Goodnight, and _au revoir_.’
‘On his life,’ Isodore murmured as she walked rapidly away in the
direction of the Temple Gardens.
It was a beautiful night, the moon hanging behind Westminster, and
throwing a glowing track along the swift rushing river, dancing like
molten silver as it turned and switched under the arches of Waterloo.
It was getting quiet now, save for the echoing footfall from a few
hurrying feet or the shout of voices from the Surrey shore. Soft and
subdued came the hoarse murmurs of the distant Strand; but Isodore
heeded them not. In imagination, she was standing under the shadow of
the grape-vines, the sunny Tiber down at her feet, and a man was at
her side. And now the grapes were thorns, the winding Tiber the sullen
Thames, and the hero standing by her side, a hero no longer, but a man
to be despised—and worse. As she walked along, busy among the faded
rose-leaves of the past, a hand was laid upon her arm, and Valerie
stood before her.
‘I thought you were going to walk over me,’ she said. ‘I knew you would
return this way, and came to meet you.—Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, I have seen him; and what I have heard, does not alter my
feelings. He is cold and vain, callous and unfeeling as ever. And to
think I once loved that man, and trusted him! The poor fool thinks he
has made another conquest, another captive to his bow and spear. Under
cover of my veil, I have been studying his features. It is well he
thinks so; it will help me to my revenge.—Valerie, he is going to call
upon me to-morrow night at ten o’clock.’
‘But consider what a rash thing you are doing. Besides, how is this
going to benefit you or injure him? He will boast of it; he will talk
of it to his friends, and injure you.’
‘Not while I have this,’ Isodore cried triumphantly, touching the clasp
of her cloak.—‘Do not you see how he is within my power? Besides, he
can give me some information of the utmost value. They hold a Council
to-morrow night; the business is pressing, and a special envoy is to go
to Rome. The undertaking will be one of extreme danger. They will draw
lots, but the choice will fall upon Frederick Maxwell.’
‘How do you know this?’ Valerie asked. ‘I do not understand your
mission; but it seems to me that where every man has a stake at issue,
it is his own interest to see the matter conducted fairly.’
‘You may think so; but perhaps you will think differently when I tell
you that Le Gautier is, for the evening, President of the Council. It
does not need a vast amount of discrimination to see how the end will
be. Le Gautier is determined to marry this Enid Charteris; and much as
she despises him, he will gain his end if he is not crossed.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ Valerie asked, horrified at the
infamous plot. ‘You will not allow an innocent man to go to his death
like this?’
‘I shall not, as you say, allow a good man to be done to death,’
Isodore replied with the calmness of perfect conviction. ‘The pear is
not yet ripe. Le Gautier is not sufficiently hoist with his own petard.
This Maxwell will go to Rome; but he will never execute the commission
allotted to him; I shall take care of that.—And now, mind you are out
of the way, when Le Gautier comes to-morrow night.’
Valerie silently shivered as she turned over the dark plot in her mind.
‘Suppose you fail, Isodore,’ she suggested—‘fail from over-confidence?
You speak of the matter as already accomplished, as if you had only
to say a thing and it is done. One would think, to hear you, that
Frederick Maxwell’s safety, my husband’s life even, was yours.’
‘Yes,’ she answered calmly; ‘his life is mine. I hold it in the hollow
of my hand.’