THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE AVENGER.
Paul Lisimon received the parchment from the hand of Pauline Corsi,
with the bewildered manner of one who scarce knows whether he is awake
or dreaming; but the entrance of the Captain of the Amazon obliged the
young man to recover from the temporary stupor into which he had been
thrown.
"Mademoiselle Corsi?" he exclaimed; "Prendergills, what does this mean?"
"It means," answered the Frenchwoman, "that you should guard that
paper as dearly as your life. Ask me no questions till you have seen
Don Juan Moraquitos, and come with me at once to his study. Captain
Prendergills, you will wait till I summon you?"
"Yes, mademoiselle," answered the stalwart sailor.
"You, Armand, will leave me for to-day," murmured Pauline, placing her
hand in that of her lover; "I have a task to perform before I shall be
worthy of your affection. In the meantime trust me, and wait."
"I will," answered the artist; "I will return to my hotel and be ready
to attend you at any moment you may need my presence."
"Gentlemen," said the Frenchwoman, turning to the two visitors, who
were looking on with considerable wonderment, at a scene they had been
unable to comprehend, "I fear that we have sadly wasted your valuable
time. Events have occurred which will unavoidably postpone the ceremony
you were invited to witness."
"Then there will be no wedding to-day, mademoiselle?"
"There will not."
"Don Juan is ill, I fear?" said one of the guests.
"He is not quite himself," answered Pauline, gravely.
The two gentlemen expressed their regret and retired, accompanied by
Armand Tremlay. Captain Prendergills seated himself in an easy-chair,
and stretching his great legs upon an embroidered cushion, took a pipe
and tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared to enjoy himself.
"If you could send me a bottle of brandy to wet my lips with, while I'm
waiting, I should take it kindly, mademoiselle," he said.
Pauline promised that his request should be attended to, and left the
room followed by Paul.
But on the threshold of Don Juan's private apartment, she paused and
hesitated for a moment.
"He knows nothing yet of what has happened," she said; "I better see
him alone. Wait!"
She entered the apartment and remained about a quarter of an hour. That
period seemed an age to the young man as he paced up and down the hall.
He had thrust the parchment into the bosom of his coat. He was dying to
peruse its contents, but refrained from doing so until he could gain
the solitude of his own chamber.
He did not perceive two glaring eyes which followed his every movement
from a dark corner of the shady hall.
The eyes were those of Tristan, the slave, who stood concealed behind
one of the pillars which supported the ceiling of the apartment.
Pauline Corsi at last emerged from the chamber of Don Juan.
"He will not see you yet," she said; "but in two hours from this time
you are to go to him, and all will be arranged. He promises that the
past shall be atoned for, at least as far as you are concerned. In the
meantime you had better rest, for you look haggard and worn out, as if
you had not slept for long."
"I have not," answered Paul; "my duties on board the Amazon and my own
troubles have hindered me from sleep."
"Then go to your own room and rest. Remember your interview with Don
Juan will be a painful one, and you will need to be prepared for it."
"But Camillia, let me see her--"
"Not until you have seen her father. Nay, do not think me cruel; trust
me, I act for the best. She has seen your name and character cleared to
the eyes of the world, and she is happy. You will forget the foolish
words I spoke to you when last we met in the house, and you will trust
me, will you not?"
"I will, Pauline."
"Then prove your trust by implicit obedience."
"I will," answered the young man.
He retired to his old apartment. It had been undisturbed since the day
on which he quitted it. His books and papers all remained as he had
left them, not a speck of dust had gathered upon any article in the
room.
He knew not that this was owing to the orders given by Camillia
Moraquitos to her favorite slave, Pepita.
He entered the chamber, and was about to secure the door before reading
the document given to him by Pauline, but he found, to his surprise,
that there was no key in the lock.
He had always been in the habit of locking the door, and he knew,
therefore, that the key had been removed since he left the villa.
Taking the parchment from his breast he seated himself near the
window, beneath the shade of the Venetian shutters, and commenced his
examination of the all-important document.
It was the last will and testament of Tomaso Crivelli, in which the
Spaniard bequeathed his entire fortune to his only and beloved son,
Paul Crivelli. Attached to the will was a letter addressed to Paul,
in which Don Tomaso revealed to him that he was the son of a favorite
quadroon slave, whom the Spaniard had married after giving her her
freedom.
The marriage had been kept a secret on account of the false pride of
Don Tomaso, which would not permit him to acknowledge as his wife one
who was known to have been a slave.
After reading these two documents the young man fell upon his knees in
an attitude of thanksgiving.
"Providence, I thank thee!" he exclaimed. "I am no longer a nameless
outcast--a dependent on the charity of strangers. He whom I so dearly
loved was indeed my father, and humble though my mother may have been,
her son has no cause to blush for her."
His next care was to place the precious documents in safety.
He would not trust them about his own person lest his uncle should have
found some plot to get them from him; he therefore secured them in a
small leathern portmanteau, the lock of which would have defied the
cleverest thief in America.
The key he attached to a thin gold chain, which he wore under his
waistcoat, and which held the locket containing Camillia's portrait;
the locket which had been observed by Augustus Horton.
Having done this Paul looked at his watch.
The whole business had occupied half an hour; he had therefore an hour
and a half to wait before his interview with Don Juan Moraquitos.
Pauline Corsi had forbidden him to leave his apartments until summoned
to that interview.
He took up a book, but was unable to concentrate his attention upon the
pages.
A low couch stood near the open window, and Paul threw himself upon the
cushion, and abandoned himself to reflection.
He did not mean to sleep, but the morning was hot and sultry; and
exhausted by excitement and by long nights of fatigue, his eyes closed
and he fell into a slumber.
While he lay in that strange state of semi-consciousness, which is
neither sleeping nor waking, he fancied that he saw a dark figure glide
softly in at the door of the chamber and conceal itself behind the
ample folds of the window curtains.
This figure entered the room with so noiseless a tread and disappeared
so quickly that Paul, whose eyes had been closed all the time, thought
the apparition formed part of his dream.
He fell into a deep slumber, from which he was suddenly aroused by the
shutting of the door of his apartment.
This door had been closed so quietly, that the sound would have been
unheard by an ordinary sleeper; but the overstrained state of the young
man's nerves was such that a whisper would have awakened him.
The room was darkened by the closed Venetian shutters, which excluded
the burning sun, and left the apartment in shadow.
Paul sprang to his feet and looked about him. The chamber was empty.
He tore aside the window curtains, but there was no one lurking behind
their voluminous draperies.
His next impulse was to look to the safety of the portmanteau. It was
gone!
He had placed it on a chair near the couch, on which he lay, but the
chair was empty.
He searched the apartment, but in vain; the portmanteau had disappeared.
He rushed from the room, and to the hall below; the first person he
met was Pepita. He inquired of her, if she had met any one carrying a
portmanteau.
"A little leather box, massa?"
"Yes, yes."
"Tristan jes carry one out of de house den, massa; Pepita see him,"
answered the mulattress.
"Which way did he go?" exclaimed Paul, breathless with agitation.
"Out o' door, Massa Paul; to de wood-house, Pepita tink."
Paul waited to hear no more, but rushed to the back premises, amongst
which the wood-house was situated.
The wood-house was a rudely constructed building, in which timber was
kept for the stoves. As Paul approached the door, he perceived wreaths
of pale blue smoke issuing from the crevices in the wood work.
This smoke indicated the burning of timber in the hut. Paul tried to
open the door, but it was bolted on the inside. He flung himself with
all his force against it, but it resisted his efforts.
He felt that the slave Tristan had taken the portmanteau into the hut
for some evil design.
"Tristan!" he cried, "Tristan! open the door, or I will shoot you
through a crevice in the wood."
The negro only answered with a mocking laugh. Meanwhile the smoke,
increasing every minute in volume, almost suffocated the young man with
its stifling fumes.
Suddenly Paul remembered that on the other side of the wood-house there
was a small window which admitted light into the building.
He ran to the window.
The shutters were nailed together, but the wood was rotten and the
hinges worn and rusty.
Paul wrenched them asunder with the rapidity of lightning, dashed his
hand through the dingy glass of the window, flung it open and sprang
into the hut.
A log fire was blazing in the center of the building, and Tristan, the
negro, knelt over the flames with the portmanteau in his hand.
Paul sprang upon him and tore the leather case from his grasp, but the
negro was the stronger of the two.
He regained possession of the portmanteau and made toward the door of
the hut.
Again Paul flung himself upon him, and this time the struggle between
the two men was terrible in its intensity.
The face of Paul was white with concentrated rage, while the dilated
eyes of the negro glared like those of a fiend.
Tristan's superior strength had nearly mastered his opponent, when,
with a desperate effort, Paul grasped the portmanteau, and with one
well-planted blow, brought the negro to the ground.
He lay where he had fallen, stunned and motionless.
Paul returned to the house carrying the precious burden with him. Two
hours had nearly expired, and the time approached for his interview
with Don Juan.
He carried the portmanteau to his apartment, unlocked it, took out the
documents and placed them once more in his bosom, determined to carry
them on his person at any risk.
"They must kill me before they obtain them," he muttered.
He looked at his watch. Two hours had fully expired. The interview was
to take place at one o'clock. The hands upon the dial pointed to the
hour.
He left his room in order to proceed to Don Juan's apartment; but upon
the landing-place his steps were arrested by a strange and appalling
sound.
That sound was the report of a pistol which reverberated through the
hall below.
Paul was not the only person who heard the ominous sound. As he
paused for a moment motionless with horror and alarm, the door of the
apartment opposite to him was opened and Pauline Corsi stood upon the
threshold.
She was not alone; close behind her appeared the pale face of Camillia
Moraquitos.
Both the women were terribly agitated.
The Spanish girl endeavored to rush out upon the landing, but Pauline
threw her arms about her and arrested her steps.
"Keep her back," she cried; "if you love her, keep her back, Paul,
while I go and see what that sound means."
Paul obeyed; he led Camillia back into her own apartment, and
endeavored to calm her agitation.
But in vain. She would not listen to his attempts at consolation; but
implored him again and again to let her go to her father.
"I know that something dreadful has happened," she said; "you are all
in league to deceive me. My father is in danger, and you are cruel
enough to keep me from rushing to his side."
At this moment Pauline Corsi returned. The young man saw by her ghastly
face that something terrible had indeed occurred.
"Come with me, Paul," she said; "you can see Don Juan now."
Camillia caught hold of her hand. "He can see my father. Ah, then he is
safe; he is safe, Pauline?" she cried.
The Frenchwoman did not answer, but silently led Paul from the room.
He followed her down the stairs; but on the threshold of Don Juan's
chamber she paused, and took the young man's hand in hers, which was
icy cold.
"Prepare yourself for a fearful shock, Paul," she said, "for an awful
sight. Are you brave enough to encounter them?"
"What you, a woman, can endure, I can also bear," he answered calmly.
"Crime brings a fearful retribution," murmured the Frenchwoman, in an
awe-stricken voice; "and however slow the footsteps of the avenger, he
is not the less sure to overtake his victim. Your uncle has paid the
penalty of his sins."
She opened the door, and the young man followed her into the chamber.
It was the chamber of death.
Don Juan Moraquitos lay upon the rich Persian carpet, his face toward
the ground, and a pistol lying a few paces from his outstretched hand.
A more ghastly sight had never been shone upon by the bright summer
sun, whose beams stole into the apartment through the Venetian
shutters, and illuminated the blood-stained floor, on which the suicide
was stretched.
Upon the table in the center of the room lay a letter addressed to Paul
Crivelli.
The ink of the superscription was still wet, though the hand which had
fashioned the characters was now that of a corpse.
Paul tore open the envelope, and read the words written within. The
suicide's letter ran thus:
"You have been told a secret, which my guilt has kept from you
for thirteen years. I do not ask you to forgive me, for you know
not, and you will never know, what you have to forgive; I go to
seek mercy from a higher tribunal than those which meet on earth.
I could not live to blush beneath the glance of my nephew. You
love my poor Camillia: make her happy, and the spirit of him who
has wronged you will bless you even in death. She will be as rich
as yourself. If your love for the daughter can ever prompt you to
think with less anger of the father's guilt, you will be showing
mercy to the unhappy wretch who writes these lines.
"JUAN MORAQUITOS."