WHAT WAS PASSING IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.
While the hotel of the "Brave Chevalier," the abode, apparently, of the
most perfect concord, with closed doors and open cellars, showed through
the openings of the shutters the light of its candles and the mirth of
its guests, an unaccustomed movement took place in that mysterious house
of which our readers have as yet only seen the outside.
The servant was going from one room to another, carrying packages which
he placed in a trunk. These preparations over, he loaded a pistol,
examined his poniard, then suspended it, by the aid of a ring, to the
chain which served him for a belt, to which he attached besides a bunch
of keys and a book of prayers bound in black leather.
While he was thus occupied, a step, light as that of a shadow, came up
the staircase, and a woman, pale and phantom-like under the folds of her
white veil, appeared at the door, and a voice, sad and sweet as the song
of a bird in the wood, said: "Remy, are you ready?"
"Yes, madame, I only wait for your box."
"Do you think these boxes will go easily on our horses?"
"Oh! yes, madame, but if you have any fear, I can leave mine; I have
all I want there."
"No, no, Remy, take all that you want for the journey. Oh! Remy! I long
to be with my father; I have sad presentiments, and it seems an age
since I saw him."
"And yet, madame, it is but three months; not a longer interval than
usual."
"Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told me, the last
time we quitted him, that he had not long to live."
"Yes, doubtless; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. Sometimes
death seems to forget old men, and they live on as though by the habit
of living; and often, besides, an old man is like a child, ill to-day
and well to-morrow."
"Alas! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and dead
to-morrow."
Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to say, and
silence succeeded for some minutes.
"At what hour have you ordered the horses?" said the lady, at last.
"At two o'clock."
"And one has just struck."
"Yes, madame."
"No one is watching outside?"
"No one."
"Not even that unhappy young man?"
"Not even he."
And Remy sighed.
"You say that in a strange manner, Remy."
"Because he also has made a resolution."
"What is it?"
"To see us no more; at least, not to try to see us any more."
"And where is he going?"
"Where we are all going--to rest.".
"God give it him eternally," said the lady, in a cold voice, "and yet--"
"Yet what, madame?"
"Had he nothing to do here?"
"He had to love if he had been loved."
"A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future."
"You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, and
you do not look forward to a future."
"Yes, Remy, I do," cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; "but
listen! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Can it be ours?"
"It is possible; but it is an hour too soon."
"It stops at the door, Remy."
Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on the
door.
"Who is there?" said he.
"I!" replied a trembling voice, "I, Grandchamp, the baron's valet."
"Ah! mon Dieu! Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low! Whence do you come?"
"From Meridor. Alas, dear M. Remy!"
"Well," cried the lady from the top of the stairs, "are they our horses,
Remy?"
"No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp?"
"You do not guess?"
"Alas! I do; what will she do, poor lady."
"Remy," cried she again, "you are talking to some one?"
"Yes, madame."
"I thought I knew the voice."
"Indeed, madame."
She now descended, saying:
"Who is there? Grandchamp?"
"Yes, madame, it is I," replied the old man sadly, uncovering his white
head.
"Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my father
is dead?"
"Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master."
Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her and
took her hand softly.
"How did he die; tell me, my friend?" said she.
"Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was struck
a week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He muttered your name for the last
time, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more."
Diana went up again without another word. Her room was on the first
story, and looked only into a courtyard. The furniture was somber, but
rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of our
Saviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twisted
columns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of the
room. Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a
portrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes,
but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribable
love. It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked on
a bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right hand
hung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes were
closed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to
his face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only at
the moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the portrait, in letters
red as blood, was written, "Aut Cæsar aut nihil." The lady extended her
arm, and spoke as though it could hear her.
"I had begged thee to wait, although thy soul must have thirsted for
vengeance; and as the dead see all, thou hast seen, my love, that I
lived only not to kill my father, else I would have died after you; and
then, you know, on your bleeding corpse I uttered a vow to give death
for death, blood for blood, but I would not do it while the old man
called me his innocent child. Thou hast waited, beloved, and now I am
free: the last tie which bound me to earth is broken. I am all yours,
and now I am free to come to you."
She rose on one knee, kissed the hand, and then went on: "I can weep no
more--my tears have dried up in weeping over your tomb. In a few months
I shall rejoin you, and you then will reply to me, dear shade, to whom I
have spoken so often without reply." Diana then rose, and seating
herself in her chair, muttered, "Poor father!" and then fell into a
profound reverie. At last she called Remy.
The faithful servant soon appeared.
"Here I am, madame."
"My worthy friend, my brother--you, the last person who knows me on this
earth--say adieu to me."
"Why so, madame?"
"Because the time has come for us to separate."
"Separate!" cried the young man. "What do you mean, madame?"
"Yes, Remy. My project of vengeance seemed to me noble and pure while
there remained an obstacle between me and it, and I only contemplated it
from afar off; but now that I approach the execution of it--now that the
obstacle has disappeared--I do not draw back, but I do not wish to drag
with me into crime a generous and pure soul like yours; therefore you
must quit me, my friend."
Remy listened to the words of Diana with a somber look.
"Madame," replied he, "do you think you are speaking to a trembling old
man? Madame, I am but twenty-six; and snatched as I was from the tomb,
if I still live, it is for the accomplishment of some terrible
action--to play an active part in the work of Providence. Never, then,
separate your thoughts from mine, since we both have the same thoughts,
sinister as they may be. Where you go, I will go; what you do I will aid
in; or if, in spite of my prayers, you persist in dismissing me--"
"Oh!" murmured she, "dismiss you! What a word, Remy!"
"If you persist in that resolution," continued the young man, "I know
what I have to do, and all for me will end with two blows from a
poniard--one in the heart of him whom you know, and the other in your
own."
"Remy! Remy!" cried Diana, "do not say that. The life of him you
threaten does not belong to you--it is mine--I have paid for it dearly
enough. I swear to you, Remy, that on the day on which I knelt beside
the dead body of him"--and she pointed to the portrait--"on that day I
approached my lips to that open wound, and the trembling lips seemed to
say to me, 'Avenge me, Diana!--avenge me!'"
"Madame--"
"Therefore, I repeat, vengeance is for me, and not for you; besides, for
whom and through whom did he die? By me and through me."
"I must obey you, madame, for I also was left for dead. Who carried me
away from the middle of the corpses with which that room was
filled?--You. Who cured me of my wounds?--You. Who concealed me?--You
always. Order, then, and I will obey, provided that you do not order me
to leave you."
"So be it, Remy; you are right; nothing ought to separate us more."
Remy pointed to the portrait.
"Now, madame," said he, "he was killed by treason--it is by treason that
he must be revenged. Ah! you do not know one thing--the hand of God is
with us, for to-night I have found the secret of the 'Aqua tofana,' that
poison of the Medicis and of Rene the Florentine."
"Really?"
"Come and see, madame."
"But where is Grandchamp?"
"The poor old man has come sixty leagues on horseback; he is tired out,
and has fallen asleep on my bed."
"Come, then," said Diana; and she followed Remy.