Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the manuscript
on his table, open at the first leaf. His nerves were unquestionably
shaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages, he started at chance
noises on the staircase of the hotel.
The scenario, or outline, of the Countess’s play began with no formal
prefatory phrases. She presented herself and her work with the easy
familiarity of an old friend.
“Allow me, dear Mr. Francis Westwick, to introduce to you the persons
in my proposed Play. Behold them, arranged symmetrically in a line.
“My Lord. The Baron. The Courier. The Doctor. The Countess.
“I don’t trouble myself, you see, to invest fictitious family names. My
characters are sufficiently distinguished by their social titles, and
by the striking contrast which they present one with another.
The First Act opens— “No! Before I open the First Act, I must announce,
injustice to myself, that this Play is entirely the work of my own
invention. I scorn to borrow from actual events; and, what is more
extraordinary still, I have not stolen one of my ideas from the Modern
French drama. As the manager of an English theatre, you will naturally
refuse to believe this. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters—except the
opening of my first act.
“We are at Homburg, in the famous Salon d’Or, at the height of the
season. The Countess (exquisitely dressed) is seated at the green
table. Strangers of all nations are standing behind the players,
venturing their money or only looking on. My Lord is among the
strangers. He is struck by the Countess’s personal appearance, in which
beauties and defects are fantastically mingled in the most attractive
manner. He watches the Countess’s game, and places his money where he
sees her deposit her own little stake. She looks round at him, and
says, ‘Don’t trust to my colour; I have been unlucky the whole evening.
Place your stake on the other colour, and you may have a chance of
winning.’ My Lord (a true Englishman) blushes, bows, and obeys. The
Countess proves to be a prophet. She loses again. My Lord wins twice
the sum that he has risked.
“The Countess rises from the table. She has no more money, and she
offers my Lord her chair.
“Instead of taking it, he politely places his winnings in her hand, and
begs her to accept the loan as a favour to himself. The Countess stakes
again, and loses again. My Lord smiles superbly, and presses a second
loan on her. From that moment her luck turns. She wins, and wins
largely. Her brother, the Baron, trying his fortune in another room,
hears of what is going on, and joins my Lord and the Countess.
“Pay attention, if you please, to the Baron. He is delineated as a
remarkable and interesting character.
“This noble person has begun life with a single-minded devotion to the
science of experimental chemistry, very surprising in a young and
handsome man with a brilliant future before him. A profound knowledge
of the occult sciences has persuaded the Baron that it is possible to
solve the famous problem called the ‘Philosopher’s Stone.’ His own
pecuniary resources have long since been exhausted by his costly
experiments. His sister has next supplied him with the small fortune at
her disposal: reserving only the family jewels, placed in the charge of
her banker and friend at Frankfort. The Countess’s fortune also being
swallowed up, the Baron has in a fatal moment sought for new supplies
at the gaming table. He proves, at starting on his perilous career, to
be a favourite of fortune; wins largely, and, alas! profanes his noble
enthusiasm for science by yielding his soul to the all-debasing passion
of the gamester.
“At the period of the Play, the Baron’s good fortune has deserted him.
He sees his way to a crowning experiment in the fatal search after the
secret of transmuting the baser elements into gold. But how is he to
pay the preliminary expenses? Destiny, like a mocking echo, answers,
How?
“Will his sister’s winnings (with my Lord’s money) prove large enough
to help him? Eager for this result, he gives the Countess his advice
how to play. From that disastrous moment the infection of his own
adverse fortune spreads to his sister. She loses again, and again—loses
to the last farthing.
“The amiable and wealthy Lord offers a third loan; but the scrupulous
Countess positively refuses to take it. On leaving the table, she
presents her brother to my Lord. The gentlemen fall into pleasant talk.
My Lord asks leave to pay his respects to the Countess, the next
morning, at her hotel. The Baron hospitably invites him to breakfast.
My Lord accepts, with a last admiring glance at the Countess which does
not escape her brother’s observation, and takes his leave for the
night.
“Alone with his sister, the Baron speaks out plainly. ‘Our affairs,’ he
says, ‘are in a desperate condition, and must find a desperate remedy.
Wait for me here, while I make inquiries about my Lord. You have
evidently produced a strong impression on him. If we can turn that
impression into money, no matter at what sacrifice, the thing must be
done.’
“The Countess now occupies the stage alone, and indulges in a soliloquy
which develops her character.
“It is at once a dangerous and attractive character. Immense capacities
for good are implanted in her nature, side by side with equally
remarkable capacities for evil. It rests with circumstances to develop
either the one or the other. Being a person who produces a sensation
wherever she goes, this noble lady is naturally made the subject of all
sorts of scandalous reports. To one of these reports (which falsely and
abominably points to the Baron as her lover instead of her brother) she
now refers with just indignation. She has just expressed her desire to
leave Homburg, as the place in which the vile calumny first took its
rise, when the Baron returns, overhears her last words, and says to
her, ‘Yes, leave Homburg by all means; provided you leave it in the
character of my Lord’s betrothed wife!’
“The Countess is startled and shocked. She protests that she does not
reciprocate my Lord’s admiration for her. She even goes the length of
refusing to see him again. The Baron answers, ‘I must positively have
command of money. Take your choice, between marrying my Lord’s income,
in the interest of my grand discovery—or leave me to sell myself and my
title to the first rich woman of low degree who is ready to buy me.’
“The Countess listens in surprise and dismay. Is it possible that the
Baron is in earnest? He is horribly in earnest. ‘The woman who will buy
me,’ he says, ‘is in the next room to us at this moment. She is the
wealthy widow of a Jewish usurer. She has the money I want to reach the
solution of the great problem. I have only to be that woman’s husband,
and to make myself master of untold millions of gold. Take five minutes
to consider what I have said to you, and tell me on my return which of
us is to marry for the money I want, you or I.’
“As he turns away, the Countess stops him.
“All the noblest sentiments in her nature are exalted to the highest
pitch. ‘Where is the true woman,’ she exclaims, ‘who wants time to
consummate the sacrifice of herself, when the man to whom she is
devoted demands it? She does not want five minutes—she does not want
five seconds—she holds out her hand to him, and she says, Sacrifice me
on the altar of your glory! Take as stepping-stones on the way to your
triumph, my love, my liberty, and my life!’
“On this grand situation the curtain falls. Judging by my first act,
Mr. Westwick, tell me truly, and don’t be afraid of turning my head:—
Am I not capable of writing a good play?”
Henry paused between the First and Second Acts; reflecting, not on the
merits of the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents
so far presented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous
marriage of the first Lord Montbarry.
Was it possible that the Countess, in the present condition of her
mind, supposed herself to be exercising her invention when she was only
exercising her memory?
The question involved considerations too serious to be made the subject
of a hasty decision. Reserving his opinion, Henry turned the page, and
devoted himself to the reading of the next act. The manuscript
proceeded as follows:
“The Second Act opens at Venice. An interval of four months has elapsed
since the date of the scene at the gambling table. The action now takes
place in the reception-room of one of the Venetian palaces.
“The Baron is discovered, alone, on the stage. He reverts to the events
which have happened since the close of the First Act. The Countess has
sacrificed herself; the mercenary marriage has taken place—but not
without obstacles, caused by difference of opinion on the question of
marriage settlements.
“Private inquiries, instituted in England, have informed the Baron that
my Lord’s income is derived chiefly from what is called entailed
property. In case of accidents, he is surely bound to do something for
his bride? Let him, for example, insure his life, for a sum proposed by
the Baron, and let him so settle the money that his widow shall have
it, if he dies first.
“My Lord hesitates. The Baron wastes no time in useless discussion.
‘Let us by all means’ (he says) ‘consider the marriage as broken off.’
My Lord shifts his ground, and pleads for a smaller sum than the sum
proposed. The Baron briefly replies, ‘I never bargain.’ My lord is in
love; the natural result follows—he gives way.
“So far, the Baron has no cause to complain. But my Lord’s turn comes,
when the marriage has been celebrated, and when the honeymoon is over.
The Baron has joined the married pair at a palace which they have hired
in Venice. He is still bent on solving the problem of the
‘Philosopher’s Stone.’ His laboratory is set up in the vaults beneath
the palace—so that smells from chemical experiments may not incommode
the Countess, in the higher regions of the house. The one obstacle in
the way of his grand discovery is, as usual, the want of money. His
position at the present time has become truly critical. He owes debts
of honour to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively
be paid; and he proposes, in his own friendly manner, to borrow the
money of my Lord. My Lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms. The
Baron applies to his sister to exercise her conjugal influence. She can
only answer that her noble husband (being no longer distractedly in
love with her) now appears in his true character, as one of the meanest
men living. The sacrifice of the marriage has been made, and has
already proved useless.
“Such is the state of affairs at the opening of the Second Act.
“The entrance of the Countess suddenly disturbs the Baron’s
reflections. She is in a state bordering on frenzy. Incoherent
expressions of rage burst from her lips: it is some time before she can
sufficiently control herself to speak plainly. She has been doubly
insulted—first, by a menial person in her employment; secondly, by her
husband. Her maid, an Englishwoman, has declared that she will serve
the Countess no longer. She will give up her wages, and return at once
to England. Being asked her reason for this strange proceeding, she
insolently hints that the Countess’s service is no service for an
honest woman, since the Baron has entered the house. The Countess does,
what any lady in her position would do; she indignantly dismisses the
wretch on the spot.
“My Lord, hearing his wife’s voice raised in anger, leaves the study in
which he is accustomed to shut himself up over his books, and asks what
this disturbance means. The Countess informs him of the outrageous
language and conduct of her maid. My Lord not only declares his entire
approval of the woman’s conduct, but expresses his own abominable
doubts of his wife’s fidelity in language of such horrible brutality
that no lady could pollute her lips by repeating it. ‘If I had been a
man,’ the Countess says, ‘and if I had had a weapon in my hand, I would
have struck him dead at my feet!’
“The Baron, listening silently so far, now speaks. ‘Permit me to finish
the sentence for you,’ he says. ‘You would have struck your husband
dead at your feet; and by that rash act, you would have deprived
yourself of the insurance money settled on the widow—the very money
which is wanted to relieve your brother from the unendurable pecuniary
position which he now occupies!’
“The Countess gravely reminds the Baron that this is no joking matter.
After what my Lord has said to her, she has little doubt that he will
communicate his infamous suspicions to his lawyers in England. If
nothing is done to prevent it, she may be divorced and disgraced, and
thrown on the world, with no resource but the sale of her jewels to
keep her from starving.
“At this moment, the Courier who has been engaged to travel with my
Lord from England crosses the stage with a letter to take to the post.
The Countess stops him, and asks to look at the address on the letter.
She takes it from him for a moment, and shows it to her brother. The
handwriting is my Lord’s; and the letter is directed to his lawyers in
London.
“The Courier proceeds to the post-office. The Baron and the Countess
look at each other in silence. No words are needed. They thoroughly
understand the position in which they are placed; they clearly see the
terrible remedy for it. What is the plain alternative before them?
Disgrace and ruin—or, my Lord’s death and the insurance money!
“The Baron walks backwards and forwards in great agitation, talking to
himself. The Countess hears fragments of what he is saying. He speaks
of my Lord’s constitution, probably weakened in India—of a cold which
my Lord has caught two or three days since—of the remarkable manner in
which such slight things as colds sometimes end in serious illness and
death.
“He observes that the Countess is listening to him, and asks if she has
anything to propose. She is a woman who, with many defects, has the
great merit of speaking out. ‘Is there no such thing as a serious
illness,’ she asks, ‘corked up in one of those bottles of yours in the
vaults downstairs?’
“The Baron answers by gravely shaking his head. What is he afraid of?—a
possible examination of the body after death? No: he can set any
post-mortem examination at defiance. It is the process of administering
the poison that he dreads. A man so distinguished as my Lord cannot be
taken seriously ill without medical attendance. Where there is a
Doctor, there is always danger of discovery. Then, again, there is the
Courier, faithful to my Lord as long as my Lord pays him. Even if the
Doctor sees nothing suspicious, the Courier may discover something. The
poison, to do its work with the necessary secrecy, must be repeatedly
administered in graduated doses. One trifling miscalculation or mistake
may rouse suspicion. The insurance offices may hear of it, and may
refuse to pay the money. As things are, the Baron will not risk it, and
will not allow his sister to risk it in his place.
“My Lord himself is the next character who appears. He has repeatedly
rung for the Courier, and the bell has not been answered. ‘What does
this insolence mean?’
“The Countess (speaking with quiet dignity—for why should her infamous
husband have the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he has wounded
her?) reminds my Lord that the Courier has gone to the post. My Lord
asks suspiciously if she has looked at the letter. The Countess informs
him coldly that she has no curiosity about his letters. Referring to
the cold from which he is suffering, she inquires if he thinks of
consulting a medical man. My Lord answers roughly that he is quite old
enough to be capable of doctoring himself.
“As he makes this reply, the Courier appears, returning from the post.
My Lord gives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons. He
proposes to try hot lemonade as a means of inducing perspiration in
bed. In that way he has formerly cured colds, and in that way he will
cure the cold from which he is suffering now.
“The Courier obeys in silence. Judging by appearances, he goes very
reluctantly on this second errand.
“My Lord turns to the Baron (who has thus far taken no part in the
conversation) and asks him, in a sneering tone, how much longer he
proposes to prolong his stay in Venice. The Baron answers quietly, ‘Let
us speak plainly to one another, my Lord. If you wish me to leave your
house, you have only to say the word, and I go.’ My Lord turns to his
wife, and asks if she can support the calamity of her brother’s
absence—laying a grossly insulting emphasis on the word ‘brother.’ The
Countess preserves her impenetrable composure; nothing in her betrays
the deadly hatred with which she regards the titled ruffian who has
insulted her. ‘You are master in this house, my Lord,’ is all she says.
‘Do as you please.’
“My Lord looks at his wife; looks at the Baron—and suddenly alters his
tone. Does he perceive in the composure of the Countess and her brother
something lurking under the surface that threatens him? This is at
least certain, he makes a clumsy apology for the language that he has
used. (Abject wretch!)
“My Lord’s excuses are interrupted by the return of the Courier with
the lemons and hot water.
“The Countess observes for the first time that the man looks ill. His
hands tremble as he places the tray on the table. My Lord orders his
Courier to follow him, and make the lemonade in the bedroom. The
Countess remarks that the Courier seems hardly capable of obeying his
orders. Hearing this, the man admits that he is ill. He, too, is
suffering from a cold; he has been kept waiting in a draught at the
shop where he bought the lemons; he feels alternately hot and cold, and
he begs permission to lie down for a little while on his bed.
“Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers to make the
lemonade herself. My Lord takes the Courier by the arm, leads him
aside, and whispers these words to him: ‘Watch her, and see that she
puts nothing into the lemonade; then bring it to me with your own
hands; and, then, go to bed, if you like.’
“Without a word more to his wife, or to the Baron, my Lord leaves the
room.
“The Countess makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his
master.
“Returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he
says, so giddy, that he is obliged to support himself by the backs of
the chairs as he passes them. The Baron, always considerate to persons
of low degree, offers his arm. ‘I am afraid, my poor fellow,’ he says,
‘that you are really ill.’ The Courier makes this extraordinary answer:
‘It’s all over with me, Sir: I have caught my death.’
“The Countess is naturally startled. ‘You are not an old man,’ she
says, trying to rouse the Courier’s spirits. ‘At your age, catching
cold doesn’t surely mean catching your death?’ The Courier fixes his
eyes despairingly on the Countess.
‘My lungs are weak, my Lady,’ he says; ‘I have already had two attacks
of bronchitis. The second time, a great physician joined my own doctor
in attendance on me. He considered my recovery almost in the light of a
miracle. Take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘If you have a third attack
of bronchitis, as certainly as two and two make four, you will be a
dead man. I feel the same inward shivering, my Lady, that I felt on
those two former occasions—and I tell you again, I have caught my death
in Venice.’
“Speaking some comforting words, the Baron leads him to his room. The
Countess is left alone on the stage.
“She seats herself, and looks towards the door by which the Courier has
been led out. ‘Ah! my poor fellow,’ she says, ‘if you could only change
constitutions with my Lord, what a happy result would follow for the
Baron and for me! If _you_ could only get cured of a trumpery cold with
a little hot lemonade, and if _he_ could only catch his death in your
place—!’
“She suddenly pauses—considers for a while—and springs to her feet,
with a cry of triumphant surprise: the wonderful, the unparalleled idea
has crossed her mind like a flash of lightning. Make the two men change
names and places—and the deed is done! Where are the obstacles? Remove
my Lord (by fair means or foul) from his room; and keep him secretly
prisoner in the palace, to live or die as future necessity may
determine. Place the Courier in the vacant bed, and call in the doctor
to see him—ill, in my Lord’s character, and (if he dies) dying under my
Lord’s name!”
The manuscript dropped from Henry’s hands. A sickening sense of horror
overpowered him. The question which had occurred to his mind at the
close of the First Act of the Play assumed a new and terrible interest
now. As far as the scene of the Countess’s soliloquy, the incidents of
the Second Act had reflected the events of his late brother’s life as
faithfully as the incidents of the First Act. Was the monstrous plot,
revealed in the lines which he had just read, the offspring of the
Countess’s morbid imagination? or had she, in this case also, deluded
herself with the idea that she was inventing when she was really
writing under the influence of her own guilty remembrances of the past?
If the latter interpretation were the true one, he had just read the
narrative of the contemplated murder of his brother, planned in cold
blood by a woman who was at that moment inhabiting the same house with
him. While, to make the fatality complete, Agnes herself had innocently
provided the conspirators with the one man who was fitted to be the
passive agent of their crime.
Even the bare doubt that it might be so was more than he could endure.
He left his room; resolved to force the truth out of the Countess, or
to denounce her before the authorities as a murderess at large.
Arrived at her door, he was met by a person just leaving the room. The
person was the manager. He was hardly recognisable; he looked and spoke
like a man in a state of desperation.
“Oh, go in, if you like!” he said to Henry. “Mark this, sir! I am not a
superstitious man; but I do begin to believe that crimes carry their
own curse with them. This hotel is under a curse. What happens in the
morning? We discover a crime committed in the old days of the palace.
The night comes, and brings another dreadful event with it—a death; a
sudden and shocking death, in the house. Go in, and see for yourself! I
shall resign my situation, Mr. Westwick: I can’t contend with the
fatalities that pursue me here!”
Henry entered the room.
The Countess was stretched on her bed. The doctor on one side, and the
chambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. From time to
time, she drew a heavy stertorous breath, like a person oppressed in
sleeping. “Is she likely to die?” Henry asked.
“She is dead,” the doctor answered. “Dead of the rupture of a
blood-vessel on the brain. Those sounds that you hear are purely
mechanical—they may go on for hours.”
Henry looked at the chambermaid. She had little to tell. The Countess
had refused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her desk to proceed
with her writing. Finding it useless to remonstrate with her, the maid
had left the room to speak to the manager. In the shortest possible
time, the doctor was summoned to the hotel, and found the Countess dead
on the floor. There was this to tell—and no more.
Looking at the writing-table as he went out, Henry saw the sheet of
paper on which the Countess had traced her last lines of writing. The
characters were almost illegible. Henry could just distinguish the
words, “First Act,” and “Persons of the Drama.” The lost wretch had
been thinking of her Play to the last, and had begun it all over again!