A STRANGE REVELATION.
The old Count Laborde had been too much weakened by suffering and
privation to recover very rapidly. For a few days he spent most of
his time reclining upon a couch in the little cabin, where Mimi
devoted herself to him with the tenderest care. At times she would
come upon deck at the urgent request of her father, and then Claude
would devote himself to her with still more tender care. The old man
did not take much notice of surrounding things. He lay most of the
time with his eyes closed, in a half-dreamy state, and it was only
with an effort that he was able to rouse himself to speak. He took no
notice whatever of any one but his daughter. Cazeneau made several
efforts to engage his attention, but he could not be roused.
Thus there were short intervals, on successive days, when Claude was
able to devote himself to Mimi, for the laudable purpose of beguiling
the time which he thought must hang heavy on her hands. He considered
that as he was in some sort the master of the schooner, these
strangers were all his guests, and he was therefore bound by the
sacred laws of hospitality to make it as pleasant for them as
possible. Of course, also, it was necessary that he should exert his
hospitable powers most chiefly for the benefit of the lady; and this
necessity he followed up with very great spirit and assiduity.
By the conversation which he had already had with her, it will be
seen that they had made rapid advances towards intimacy. Claude was
eager to extend this advance still farther, to take her still more
into his confidence, and induce her to take him into hers. He was
very eager to tell her all about himself, and the nature of his
present voyage; he was still more eager to learn from her all that
she might know about the Montresor family. And thus he was ever on
the lookout for her appearance on deck.
These appearances were not so frequent as he desired; but Mimi's
devotion to her father kept her below most of the time. At such times
Claude did the agreeable to the other passengers, with varying
success. With the lieutenant he succeeded in ingratiating himself
very rapidly; but with Cazeneau all his efforts proved futile. There
was about this man a sullen reserve and _hauteur_ which made
conversation difficult and friendship impossible. Claude was full of
_bonhomie_, good-nature generally, and sociability; but Cazeneau was
more than he could endure; so that, after a few attempts, he retired,
baffled, vexed at what he considered the other's aristocratic pride.
What was more noticed by him now, was the fact that Pere Michel had
grown more reserved with him; not that there was any visible change
in the good priest's friendly manner, but he seemed pro-occupied and
strangely self-absorbed. And so things went on.
Meantime the schooner can hardly be said to have gone on at all. What
with light head winds, and currents, and calms, her progress was but
slow. This state of things was very irritating to Zac, who began to
mutter something about these rascally Moosoos bringing bad luck, and
"he'd be darned if he wouldn't like to know where in blamenation it
was all going to end." But as Claude was no longer so good a listener
as he used to be, Zac grew tired of talking to empty space, and
finally held his peace. The winds and tides, and the delay, however,
made no difference with Claude, nor did it interfere in the slightest
with his self-content and self-complacency. In fact, he looked as
though he rather enjoyed the situation; and this was not the least
aggravating thing in the surroundings to the mind of the impatient
skipper.
Thus several days passed, and at length Claude had an opportunity of
drawing Mimi into another somewhat protracted conversation.
"I am very much obliged to you," said Claude, gayly, "for making your
appearance. I have been trying to do the agreeable to your shipmate
Cazeneau, but without success. Is he always so amiable? and is he a
friend of yours?"
Mimi looked at Claude with a very serious expression as he said this,
and was silent for a few minutes.
"He is a friend of papa's," said she at last. "He came out with us--"
"Is he a great friend of yours?" asked Claude.
Mimi hesitated for a moment, and then said,--
"No; I do not like him at all."
Claude drew a long breath.
"Nor do I," said he.
"Perhaps I am doing him injustice," said Mimi, "but I cannot help
feeling as though he is in some way connected with dear papa's
troubles. I do not mean to say that he is the cause of them. I merely
mean that, as far as I know anything about them, it is always in such
a way that he seems mixed up with them. And I don't think, either,
that his face is very much in his favor, for there is something so
harsh and cruel in his expression, that I always wish that papa had
chosen some different kind of a person for his friend and confidant."
"Is he all that?" asked Claude.
"O, I suppose so," said Mimi. "They have secrets together, and make,
together, plans that I know nothing about."
"Do you suppose," asked Claude, "that you will ever be in any way
connected with their plans?"
He put this question, which was a general one, in a very peculiar
tone, which indicated some deeper meaning. It seemed as though Mimi
understood him, for she threw at him a hurried and half-frightened
look.
"Why?" she asked. "What makes you ask such a question as that?"
"O, I don't know," said Claude. "The thought merely entered my
mind--perhaps because I dislike him, and suspect him, and am ready to
imagine all kinds of evil about him."
Mimi regarded him now with a very earnest look, and said nothing for
some time.
"Have you any recollection," she asked, at length, "of ever having
seen his face anywhere, at any time, very long ago?"
Claude shook his head.
"Not the slightest," said he. "I never saw him in all my life, or any
one like him, till I saw him on the raft. But what makes you ask so
strange a question?"
"I hardly know," said Mimi, "except that he seems so in papa's
confidence,--and I know that papa's chief trouble arises from some
affair that he had with some Montresor,--and I thought--well, I'll
tell you what I thought. I thought that, as this Montresor had to
leave France--that perhaps he had been followed to America, or sought
after; and, as you are a member of that family, you might have seen
some of those who were watching the family; and the Count do Cazeneau
seemed to be one who might be connected with it. But I'm afraid I'm
speaking in rather a confused way; and no wonder, for I hardly know
what it is that I do really suspect."
"O, I understand," said Claude; "you suspect that my father was
badly treated, and had to leave France, and that this man was at the
bottom of it. Well, I dare say he was, and that he is quite capable
of any piece of villany; but as to his hunting us in America, I can
acquit him of that charge, as far as my experience goes, for I never
saw him, and never heard of any one ever being on our track. But
can't you tell me something more definite about it? Can't you tell me
exactly what you know?"
Mimi shook her head.
"I don't know anything," said she, "except what little I told
you--that poor papa's trouble of mind comes from some wrong which he
did to some Montresor, who had to go to America. And you may not be
connected with that Montresor, after all; but I'm afraid you must be,
and that--you--will have to be--poor papa's--enemy."
"Never!" said Claude, vehemently; "never! not if your
father--Whatever has happened, I will let it pass--so far as I am
concerned."
"O, you don't know what it is that has happened."
"Neither do you, for that matter; so there now; and for my part I
don't want to know, and I won't try to find out, if you think I'd
better not."
"I don't dare to think anything about it; I only know that a good son
has duties towards his parents, and that he must devote his life to
the vindication of their honor."
"Undoubtedly," said Claude, placidly; "but as it happens my parents
have never communicated to me any story of any wrongs of theirs, I
know very little about them. They never desired that I should
investigate their lives; and, as I have never heard of any wrongs
which they suffered, I don't see how I can go about to vindicate
their honor. I have, by the merest chance, come upon something which
excited my curiosity, and made me anxious to know something more. I
have had no deeper feeling than curiosity; and if you think that my
search will make me an enemy of your father, I hereby give up the
search, and decline to pursue it any farther. In fact, I'll fall back
upon my old name and rank, and become plain Claude Motier."
Claude tried to speak in an off-hand tone; but his assumed
indifference could not conceal the deep devotion of the look which he
gave to Mimi, or the profound emotion which was in his heart. It was
for her sake that he thus offered to relinquish his purpose. She knew
it and felt it.
"I'm sure," said she, "I don't know what to say to that. I'm afraid
to say anything. I don't know what may happen yet; you may at any
time find out something which would break through all your
indifference, and fill you with a thirst for vengeance. I don't know,
and you don't know, what may be--before us. So don't make any rash
offers, but merely do as I asked you before; and that is,--while papa
is here,--refrain from mentioning this subject to him. It is simply
for the sake of his--his peace of mind--and--and--his health. I know
it will excite him so dreadfully--that I tremble for the result."
"O, of course," said Claude, "I promise, as I did before. You needn't
be at all afraid."
"Would you have any objection," she asked, after a short silence, "to
tell me how much you do really know?"
"Of course not," said Claude, with his usual frankness. "I'll tell
you the whole story. There isn't much of it. I always believed myself
to be the son of Jean Motier, until a short time ago. We lived near
Boston, a place that you, perhaps, have heard of. He was always
careful to give me the best education that could be had in a colony,
and particularly in all the accomplishments of a gentleman. We were
both very happy, and lived very well, and I called him father, and he
called me son; and so things went on until a few weeks ago. I went
off hunting with some British officers, and on my return found the
old man dying. The shock to me was a terrible one. At that time I
believed that it was my father that I was losing. What made it worse,
was the evident fact that there was something on his mind, something
that he was longing to tell me; but he could not collect his
thoughts, and he could only speak a few broken words. He kept
muttering, '_Mon tresor_, _Mon tresor_;' but I thought it was merely
some loving words of endearment to me, and did not imagine what they
really meant. Still I saw that there was something on his mind, and
that he died without being able to tell it."
Claude paused for a moment, quite overcome by his recollections, and
Mimi's large dark eyes filled with tears in her deep sympathy with
his sorrows.
"Well," said Claude, regaining his composure with an effort, "I'll go
on. As soon as he was buried I began to search the papers, partly to
see how the business was, and how I was situated in the world; but
more for the sake of trying to find out what this secret could be.
There was an old cabinet filled with papers and parcels, and here I
began my search. For a long time I found nothing but old business
letters and receipts; but at last I found some religious books--with
a name written in them. The name was Louise de Montresor. Well, no
sooner had I seen this than I at once recollected the words of my
father, as I supposed him, which I thought words of
endearment--Montresor, Montresor. I saw now that it was the name of a
person--of a woman; so this excited me greatly, and I continued the
search with greater ardor.
"After a while I came to a drawer in which was a quantity of gold
coins, amounting to over a hundred guineas. In this same drawer was a
gold watch; on the back of it were engraved the letters L. D. M.,
showing that it was evidently the property of this Louise de
Montresor. A gold chain was connected with it, upon which was
fastened a seal. On this was engraved a griffin rampant, with the
motto, _Noblesse oblige_.
"Well, after this I found another drawer, in which were several
lady's ornaments, and among them was a package carefully wrapped up.
On opening it I found the miniature portrait of a lady, and this lady
was the same Louise de Montresor, for her name was written on the
back."
"Have you it now?" asked Mimi, with intense interest.
"Yes," said Claude; "and I'll show it to you some time. But I have
something else to show you just now. Wait a minute, and I'll explain.
After I found the portrait, I went on searching, and came to another
package. On opening this I found some papers which seemed totally
different from anything I had seen as yet. The ink was faded; the
writing was a plain, bold hand; and now I'll let you read this for
yourself; and you'll know as much as I do."
Saying this, Claude produced from his pocket a paper, which he opened
and handed to Mimi. It was a sheet of foolscap, written on three
sides, in a plain, bold hand. The ink was quite faded. As Mimi took
the paper, her hand trembled with excitement, and over her face there
came a sudden anxious, half-frightened look, as though she dreaded to
make herself acquainted with the contents of this old document.
After a moment's hesitation she mustered up her resolution, and began
to read. It was as follows:--
"QUEBEC, June 10, 1725.
"Instructions to Jean Motier with reference to my son, Claude de
Montresor, and my property.
"As I do not know how long I shall be absent, I think it better to
leave directions about my son, which may be your guide in the event
of my death. I must stay away long enough to enable me to overcome
the grief that I feel. Long, long indeed, must it be before I shall
feel able to settle in any one place. The death of my dearest wife,
Louise, has left me desolate beyond expression, and there is no home
for me any more on earth, since she has gone.
"I have property enough for you to bring up Claude as a gentleman. I
wish him to have the best education which he can get in the colonies.
I do not wish him to know about his family and the past history of
his unhappy parents until he shall be old enough to judge for
himself. In any case, I should wish him not to think of France. Let
him content himself in America. It is done. In France there is no
redress. The government is hopelessly corrupt, and there is no
possibility of wrong being righted. Besides, the laws against the
Huguenots are in full force, and he can never live with his mother's
enemies. I revere the sacred memory of my Huguenot wife, and curse
the knaves and fanatics who wronged her and cast her out; yet I thank
God that I was able to save her from the horrible fate that awaited
her.
"I wish my son, therefore, to know nothing of France, at least until
he shall be of age, and his own master; and even then I should wish
him never to go there. Let him content himself in the colonies. For
how could he ever redeem the position which is lost? or how could he
hope to face the powerful and unscrupulous enemies who have wrought
my ruin; the false friend who betrayed me; his base and infernal
accomplice; the ungrateful government which did such foul wrong to a
loyal servant? All is lost. The estates are confiscated. The unjust
deed can never be undone. Let my son, therefore, resign himself to
fate, and be content with the position in which he may find himself.
"The property will be sufficient to maintain him in comfort and
independence. Here he will have all that he may want; here the church
will give him her consolations without bigotry, or fanaticism, or
corruption, or persecution. He will be free from the vices and
temptations of the old world, and will have a happier fate than that
of his unhappy father.
"EUGENE DE MONTRESOR."
Another paper was folded up with this. It was written in a different
hand, and was as follows:--
"BOSTON, June 20, 1740.
"Count Eugene de Montresor left on the 2d July, 1725, and has never
since been heard of. I have followed all his instructions, with one
exception. It was from the countess that I first heard the word of
life, and learned the truth. The priests at Quebec gave me no peace;
and so I had to leave and come here, among a people who are of
another nation, but own and hold my faith--the faith of the pure
worship of Christ. The count wished me to bring you up a Catholic;
but I had a higher duty than his will, and I have brought you up not
in your father's religion, but in your mother's faith. Your father
was a good man, though in error. He has, no doubt, long since
rejoined the saint who was his wife on earth; and I know that the
spirits of your father and mother smile approvingly on my acts.
"If I die before I tell you all, dear Claude, you will see this, and
will understand that I did my duty to your parents and to you--"
Here it ended abruptly. There was no name, and it was evidently
unfinished.