A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
When the Viscount Massetti quitted the insane asylum, Monte-Cristo
provided quarters for him at the Hotel de France where he could be near
both himself and his daughter. During the period of the young Italian's
convalescence the Count had refrained from communicating to him the
details of the foul conspiracy disclosed by Peppino, but no sooner was
Zuleika's betrothed installed in the hotel than he gave him all the
startling particulars. Massetti was not astonished, for he had long
suspected a portion at least of the truth, but his indignation against
old Pasquale Solara knew no bounds, and inwardly he swore to take speedy
and complete vengeance upon him though the Count warned him to be
exceedingly prudent and not to imperil the success of his operations in
his behalf by any rash proceeding. Monte-Cristo did not inform the young
Italian of his plans, distrusting his natural hot-headedness and
impetuosity, but urged him to be content to leave the prosecution of the
scheme of rehabilitation entirely in his hands. The Count had also
instructed the Viscount that in consequence of Peppino's revelations he
had no further objections to his union with Zuleika and that the
marriage should take place immediately upon the full and open
establishment of his innocence in the eyes of the world. At this the
ardent young man was delighted to his heart's core; the certainty of his
approaching happiness and the tenderness the girl exhibited for him
compensated in a large degree for all his trials and tortures, but at
the same time he was impatient of the necessary delay in restoring him
to the possession of an unstained name and reputation, thinking that
Monte-Cristo was much too careful and slow.
He was now permitted to see Zuleika almost constantly and their love
tete-a-tetes were of the most delicious and impassioned description.
They passed hours together upon the vast upper balcony of the hotel in
the soft Italian dusk and moonlight evenings, discoursing those sweet
and tender nothings so precious to lovers and so insipid to
matter-of-fact people whose days of romantic attachment are over.
Sometimes, however, their conversation was of a more practical
character; they spoke of their projects for the future--where they
should go on their bridal tour and what they should do before settling
down to the calm, peaceful existence of placid matrimonial joy. They had
decided to take up their permanent residence in Paris; thus they would
always be near Monte-Cristo, Esperance and Mercedes, near Albert de
Morcerf and his wife, near those friends of friends Maximilian and
Valentine Morrel; besides in the gay French capital, the city of cities,
while enjoying themselves to the utmost they could escape all allusions
to Giovanni's past which they could not possibly hope for did they
settle in Rome, where every time the youthful couple appeared in public
the old scandal, the old charge against the Viscount would undoubtedly
be freshly and perhaps venomously commented upon.
Occasionally, when Zuleika was with her father or in company with Mme.
Morrel, young Massetti would take long walks into the country for the
purpose of breathing the free air and increasing his strength by means
of healthful exercise. During these strolls he shunned every person he
met, it being Monte-Cristo's desire that he should studiously avoid
observation.
The news of Massetti's sudden and marvellous cure had spread throughout
Rome, but people shook their heads when they talked of it and agreed
with the opinion expressed by the director of the insane asylum that Dr.
Absalom had made use of some trick, the influence of which could not be
permanent, but would soon be dissipated, when the poor, deluded Viscount
would instantly fall into a worse mental condition than before.
Undoubtedly the Count Massetti heard of his son's restoration to sanity
and bodily health, but he paid no attention whatever to it, continuing
proudly and haughtily to ignore the fact of Giovanni's existence.
Monte-Cristo had not called upon the aged and inflexible nobleman for
two reasons--he feared that his indignation would get the better of him
in an interview and, besides, he knew it would be entirely useless to
approach the Count without being armed with young Massetti's complete
vindication.
During one of those strolls already alluded to the Viscount went much
further than usual. It was a bright, balmy and cheerful morning, and the
sun's gladdening radiance, the brilliant green of the trees, the
fragrant odors from flowers and grass, the chirping of insect life and
the wild, intoxicating songs of the birds all contributed to draw him on
and to make him forget Monte-Cristo's injunctions as to keeping out of
the sight of the passers-by.
He scarcely noticed in what direction he walked or what road he took,
indulging in a careless, delicious daydream full of dolce far niente
delights. He had fixed his eyes upon the ground and was sauntering
leisurely along when, all at once, he became conscious that some one was
approaching. He hastily looked up. The pedestrian was yet some distance
away, but his heavy shoes clattered upon the gravel of the highway with
a ringing sound. He was evidently an old man and a peasant. In his right
hand he held a staff and his large, broad-brimmed hat was drawn down
slightly over his visage as if to protect it from the heat of the sun.
Giovanni was about to step aside into a little grove of chestnut trees
beside the road there to wait until the new comer had passed, but on
taking a second glance at him something familiar in his aspect suddenly
arrested him, and by one of those inexplicable impulses which sometimes
take possession of a man he paused and waited.
The peasant had also noticed Giovanni and his action, but he did not
relax his pace, did not seem inclined to pay even the slightest
attention to him. He came tramping on, reached the Viscount and passed
him without as much as a nod of the head in salutation. But Massetti
with a start recognized him. With a flush of rage on his face and all
his blood boiling in his veins, he turned, sprang after the old man and
laid his hand upon his shoulder. The peasant abruptly halted, also
turned, and a fierce imprecation escaped his lips. He surveyed the irate
young Italian from head to foot, sneeringly, scowlingly.
"Why, do you stop me?" he said, roughly. "I do not know you."
"But, Pasquale Solara, I know you!" exclaimed the Viscount. "We have met
in good time and in a fit place! The opportunity for which I have long
and impatiently waited has at length arrived! You shall feel the
crushing weight of my vengeance! You shall answer to me for your
despicable, your unnatural crimes! Pasquale Solara, base wretch who sold
your own daughter to a fate worse than death, ignoble scoundrel who did
not respect the dictates of hospitality, I am Giovanni Massetti!"
As he spoke he leaped in front of the morose shepherd, barring his
passage with his body.
"Well, what if you are Giovanni Massetti!" replied old Pasquale, coldly
and defiantly. "I care not for you! Stand out of my path and let me pass
before I strike you to the earth as I would a mongrel, yelping cur!"
With these words he raised his staff menacingly over the young Italian.
The latter with the quickness and agility of a deer sprang at the staff,
grasped it and sent it whirling into the chestnut grove. Then he caught
old Solara by the throat and a terrible struggle at once began. The two
men closed with each other as if in a death-clutch, wrestling like a
couple of athletes. Massetti had not yet regained his full vigor, but
his rage lent him strength. On his side, Pasquale, though old, had
muscles of steel and a grasp like iron. He whirled his adversary round
and round, at times almost overturning him, but the Viscount struggled
manfully, occasionally wrenching the shepherd from his feet and lifting
him bodily in the air. The breath of both came forth in hot, quick,
labored gasps, while their faces were red with exertion. For a long
while the result was doubtful, the strife continuing fiercely without
any decided advantage on either side. Often the Viscount was borne
nearly to the ground but he invariably recovered, straightened himself
up and vigorously renewed the conflict. Not a word was uttered now. The
concentrated energies of the contestants were bent upon the strife,
depriving them of the power of speech. Finally by a rapid movement
Giovanni succeeded in tripping Solara, who fell with a crash, the young
Italian coming down upon his prostrate body with great force and for an
instant almost checking his respiration. Both were partially stunned by
the fall and lay motionless. Massetti was the first to regain possession
of his faculties. He half arose, placed his knees on old Pasquale's
breast and, drawing a pistol, cocked it.
"What are you going to do?" gasped the under man, his terror giving him
the power to speak.
"I am going to kill you, Pasquale Solara!" hissed the Viscount, between
his set teeth.
"Murderer!" shrieked the shepherd, desperately, making a frantic
struggle to rise, but not succeeding.
This ominous word, with all the terrible weight of meaning it conveyed,
struck upon the young Italian's ear like a sound of-doom. A murderer?
Yes, he would be a murderer, if he slew old Solara then and there, and
branded with an assassin's dark crime he must forever resign all hope of
possessing his beloved Zuleika, must abandon her to die of a broken
heart! Perhaps, too, he would be seized, tried, condemned and meet a
felon's fate upon the ignominious scaffold! True, Roman justice might be
silenced with money, but he was a disowned and disinherited son, a
penniless outcast! These thoughts brought him to a realization of the
black depths of the yawning gulf into which he was about to plunge and
made him hesitate. But a quick idea came to his relief--if he were to
fight a duel with old Solara and kill him thus the Roman law would not
pursue him, he would not be stamped with a murderer's crime! He would do
it, he would fight him! Springing to his feet, he drew a second pistol,
and, casting it upon the ground beside his astonished foe, said to him,
speaking slowly and impressively:
"Pasquale Solara, I will give you a chance for your life! Rise, take
that pistol and face me! We will fight!"
The shepherd arose with some difficulty; he was considerably bruised and
had, besides, seriously strained one of his legs. Taking up the weapon,
he cocked it and without a word, but with a look of demoniac ferocity
and triumph upon his evil countenance, assumed a position about twenty
paces distant from his opponent. Instantly both raised their pistols and
fired. When the light smoke cleared away it became evident that neither
of them had been hit. Old Solara cast his empty weapon from him with a
curse and, producing a pair of long, keen-bladed knives, threw one of
them towards the Viscount.
"You challenged me and I accepted!" he said, in a harsh tone. "Now I
challenge you! Take that knife and fight me!"
Massetti hesitated, with a look of horror upon his countenance. A duel
with knives! It was barbarous! It was worthy of the red savages of the
American wilds!
"Take the knife, I say!" thundered old Solara. "Take it and face me, or
by the canopy of heaven I will show you less mercy than you have been
weak enough to show me! I will stab you to the heart where you stand!"
He advanced with his murderous weapon in his outstretched hand, having
previously rolled up his sleeve and bared his brown, sinewy arm.
Massetti stooped and took up the knife from where it lay. He also bared
his arm, nervously grasping the hilt of the weapon.
Pasquale Solara's eyes gleamed like those of a tiger seen through the
darkness of a Hindoostan jungle. They had a terrible, a bloodthirsty
gleam. The shepherd now felt sure of his ground. With a pistol he was
nothing, with a knife he was a power! Giovanni could not cope with him;
he would fall an easy victim to his skill and cunning!
The Viscount watched the old scoundrel with feverish anxiety, fully
realizing what was passing through his mind. That Pasquale would
vanquish him, kill him, he could not doubt, for he knew no more about
fighting with a knife than an infant in its cradle. However, his courage
did not desert him, and he resolved to sell his life as dearly as
possible.
Seeing Giovanni take the knife and prepare for the combat, Solara bent
partially forward and rushed upon him. The long, keen blades met with a
flash of fire. The young Italian confined himself to acting upon the
defensive, the utmost activity and watchfulness being required on his
part to parry and ward off his opponent's skilful and incessant thrusts.
The shepherd fought with the bewildering rapidity of the lightning's
flash and seemed to be in a thousand different places at once so swiftly
did he advance, retreat and spring aside. His excitement made him forget
his hurts.
At length Massetti's arm became so strained and fatigued that it was
impossible for him to hold out much longer. His hand was tightly
clutched about the haft of his knife, but it was so benumbed that he
could not feel the weapon. Still with the energy and resolution of
despair he continued the unequal conflict, hoping against hope that some
unexpected turn of affairs might give him the advantage.
Meanwhile old Solara, fiendishly confident, was steadily and surely
closing upon him, narrowing the limit of his retreat after each blow.
Finally he retreated no more, but began pressing his adversary backwards
towards the chestnut grove, the while delivering blow after blow. Then
he suddenly gave his wrist a dextrous twirl and Giovanni's knife was
torn from his grasp, falling about ten feet away. Instantly the young
man was forced to the ground and old Pasquale stood over him with his
legs wide apart, firmly planted to give the death-dealing thrust. As
Massetti lay his eye caught the glimmer of his own knife beyond the
shepherd and slipping like a serpent between Solara's legs he seized it,
sprang to his feet and, before Pasquale could recover from his surprise
at this unlooked-for manoeuvre, buried the glittering blade in his
breast. Solara reeled and fell upon the grass, where he lay bathed in
blood.
"You have escaped me, Viscount Massetti!" he groaned.
Young Massetti could scarcely realize what had happened, what he had
done, so miraculous did the result of this strange duel appear to his
bewildered mind.
As he stood like one in a dream he heard a sound as of many feet.
Hastily dashing into the chestnut grove, he looked back and saw old
Solara surrounded by a group of Luigi Vampa's men.