Henry returned to his room.
His first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript, and never to look
at it again. The one chance of relieving his mind from the dreadful
uncertainty that oppressed it, by obtaining positive evidence of the
truth, was a chance annihilated by the Countess’s death. What good
purpose could be served, what relief could he anticipate, if he read
more?
He walked up and down the room. After an interval, his thoughts took a
new direction; the question of the manuscript presented itself under
another point of view. Thus far, his reading had only informed him that
the conspiracy had been planned. How did he know that the plan had been
put in execution?
The manuscript lay just before him on the floor. He hesitated; then
picked it up; and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the
point at which he had left off.
“While the Countess is still absorbed in the bold yet simple
combination of circumstances which she has discovered, the Baron
returns. He takes a serious view of the case of the Courier; it may be
necessary, he thinks, to send for medical advice. No servant is left in
the palace, now the English maid has taken her departure. The Baron
himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor is really needed.
“‘Let us have medical help, by all means,’ his sister replies. ‘But
wait and hear something that I have to say to you first.’ She then
electrifies the Baron by communicating her idea to him. What danger of
discovery have they to dread? My Lord’s life in Venice has been a life
of absolute seclusion: nobody but his banker knows him, even by
personal appearance. He has presented his letter of credit as a perfect
stranger; and he and his banker have never seen each other since that
first visit. He has given no parties, and gone to no parties. On the
few occasions when he has hired a gondola or taken a walk, he has
always been alone. Thanks to the atrocious suspicion which makes him
ashamed of being seen with his wife, he has led the very life which
makes the proposed enterprise easy of accomplishment.
“The cautious Baron listens—but gives no positive opinion, as yet. ‘See
what you can do with the Courier,’ he says; ‘and I will decide when I
hear the result. One valuable hint I may give you before you go. Your
man is easily tempted by money—if you only offer him enough. The other
day, I asked him, in jest, what he would do for a thousand pounds. He
answered, “Anything.” Bear that in mind; and offer your highest bid
without bargaining.’
“The scene changes to the Courier’s room, and shows the poor wretch
with a photographic portrait of his wife in his hand, crying. The
Countess enters.
“She wisely begins by sympathising with her contemplated accomplice. He
is duly grateful; he confides his sorrows to his gracious mistress. Now
that he believes himself to be on his death-bed, he feels remorse for
his neglectful treatment of his wife. He could resign himself to die;
but despair overpowers him when he remembers that he has saved no
money, and that he will leave his widow, without resources, to the
mercy of the world.
“On this hint, the Countess speaks. ‘Suppose you were asked to do a
perfectly easy thing,’ she says; ‘and suppose you were rewarded for
doing it by a present of a thousand pounds, as a legacy for your
widow?’
“The Courier raises himself on his pillow, and looks at the Countess
with an expression of incredulous surprise. She can hardly be cruel
enough (he thinks) to joke with a man in his miserable plight. Will she
say plainly what this perfectly easy thing is, the doing of which will
meet with such a magnificent reward?
“The Countess answers that question by confiding her project to the
Courier, without the slightest reserve.
“Some minutes of silence follow when she has done. The Courier is not
weak enough yet to speak without stopping to think first. Still keeping
his eyes on the Countess, he makes a quaintly insolent remark on what
he has just heard. ‘I have not hitherto been a religious man; but I
feel myself on the way to it. Since your ladyship has spoken to me, I
believe in the Devil.’ It is the Countess’s interest to see the
humorous side of this confession of faith. She takes no offence. She
only says, ‘I will give you half an hour by yourself, to think over my
proposal. You are in danger of death. Decide, in your wife’s interests,
whether you will die worth nothing, or die worth a thousand pounds.’
“Left alone, the Courier seriously considers his position—and decides.
He rises with difficulty; writes a few lines on a leaf taken from his
pocket-book; and, with slow and faltering steps, leaves the room.
“The Countess, returning at the expiration of the half-hour’s interval,
finds the room empty. While she is wondering, the Courier opens the
door. What has he been doing out of his bed? He answers, ‘I have been
protecting my own life, my lady, on the bare chance that I may recover
from the bronchitis for the third time. If you or the Baron attempts to
hurry me out of this world, or to deprive me of my thousand pounds
reward, I shall tell the doctor where he will find a few lines of
writing, which describe your ladyship’s plot. I may not have strength
enough, in the case supposed, to betray you by making a complete
confession with my own lips; but I can employ my last breath to speak
the half-dozen words which will tell the doctor where he is to look.
Those words, it is needless to add, will be addressed to your Ladyship,
if I find your engagements towards me faithfully kept.’
“With this audacious preface, he proceeds to state the conditions on
which he will play his part in the conspiracy, and die (if he does die)
worth a thousand pounds.
“Either the Countess or the Baron are to taste the food and drink
brought to his bedside, in his presence, and even the medicines which
the doctor may prescribe for him. As for the promised sum of money, it
is to be produced in one bank-note, folded in a sheet of paper, on
which a line is to be written, dictated by the Courier. The two
enclosures are then to be sealed up in an envelope, addressed to his
wife, and stamped ready for the post. This done, the letter is to be
placed under his pillow; the Baron or the Countess being at liberty to
satisfy themselves, day by day, at their own time, that the letter
remains in its place, with the seal unbroken, as long as the doctor has
any hope of his patient’s recovery. The last stipulation follows. The
Courier has a conscience; and with a view to keeping it easy, insists
that he shall be left in ignorance of that part of the plot which
relates to the sequestration of my Lord. Not that he cares particularly
what becomes of his miserly master—but he does dislike taking other
people’s responsibilities on his own shoulders.
“These conditions being agreed to, the Countess calls in the Baron, who
has been waiting events in the next room.
“He is informed that the Courier has yielded to temptation; but he is
still too cautious to make any compromising remarks. Keeping his back
turned on the bed, he shows a bottle to the Countess. It is labelled
‘Chloroform.’ She understands that my Lord is to be removed from his
room in a convenient state of insensibility. In what part of the palace
is he to be hidden? As they open the door to go out, the Countess
whispers that question to the Baron. The Baron whispers back, ‘In the
vaults!’ The curtain falls.”