CHAPTER IV.
"THOSE WHOM THE GODS DESTROY THEY FIRST MAKE MAD."
Yvon Cloarek was only about thirty years of age, and the Breton costume in which he had just arrayed himself set off his robust and symmetrical figure to admirable advantage.
This severe but elegant costume consisted of a rather long black jacket elaborately embroidered with yellow on the collar and sleeves, and still further ornamented with rows of tiny silver buttons set very close together. The waistcoat, too, was black, and trimmed with embroidery and buttons to match the jacket. A broad sash of orange silk encircled the waist. Large trousers of white linen, almost as wide as the floating skirt of the Greek Palikares, extended to the knee. Below, his shapely limbs were encased in tight-fitting buckskin leggings. He wore a round, nearly flat hat, encircled with an orange ribbon embroidered with silver, the ends of which hung down upon his shoulders. Thanks to this costume and to his thick golden hair, his eyes blue as the sea itself, his strong features, and his admirable carriage, Cloarek was an admirable type of the valiant race of Breton Bretons, of the sturdy sons of Armorica, as the historians style them.
When he entered his wife's room, Yvon's face was still a trifle clouded, and though he made a powerful effort to conceal the feelings which the exciting events of the day had aroused, his wife, whose apprehensions had already been awakened by Dame Roberts's warning, was struck by the expression of his face. He, entirely ignorant of these suspicions on her part, having done everything possible to conceal the disquieting occurrences of the day from her, approached very slowly and pausing a few steps from his wife, asked, smilingly:
"Well, how do you like my costume, Jenny? I hope I am faithful to the traditions of my native province, and that I shall represent Brittany creditably at the fête?"
"There isn't the slightest doubt that the costume of your native province is wonderfully becoming," replied the young mother, with some embarrassment.
"Really? Well, I am delighted," said Yvon, kissing his wife fondly; "you know I set great store by your approval even in the most trifling matters, my dear."
"Yes," replied Madame Cloarek, with deep feeling, "yes, I know your tender love for me, your deference to my slightest wish."
"Great credit I deserve for that! It is so easy and pleasant to defer to you, my Jenny,—to bow this hard, stiff Breton neck before you, and say: 'I abdicate to you. Command; I will obey.'"
"Ah, my dear Yvon, if you only knew how happy it makes me to hear you say that, to-day especially."
These last words failed to attract Yvon's attention, however, and he continued:
"What are the little concessions I make, my dearest, in comparison with the blissful happiness I owe to you? Think," he added, turning to the crib, "this little angel that is the joy of my life, who gave her to me?" And he was about to open the curtains, when his wife said to him, warningly:
"Take care, Yvon, she is asleep."
"Let me just take one peep at her, only one. I have not seen her all day."
"The light of the lamp might arouse her, my dear, and the poor little thing has just had such a trying time."
"What! has she been ill?" inquired Cloarek, anxiously, leaving the cradle. "Do you really feel uneasy about her?"
"Not now, my dear, but you know how extremely nervous and excitable she is. She resembles me only too much in this respect," added Jenny, with a melancholy smile.
"And I, far from regretting that the dear child is so impressionable, rejoice at it, on the contrary, for I hope she will be endowed with the same exquisite sensibility of feeling that you are."
The young woman gently shook her head.
"This is what happened. Our big Newfoundland dog came into the room, and frightened the poor little thing so that I had great difficulty in quieting her afterward."
"I am thankful it was nothing serious. But how have you passed the day? You were asleep this morning, and I would not wake you. You know how much solicitude I always feel about your health, but it is even more precious to me than ever now," he added, smiling tenderly upon her.
Jenny slipped her little frail white hand into her husband's.
"What courage your love gives me," she murmured, softly. "Thanks to that, I can even bear suffering bravely."
"Then you have not been feeling as well as usual to-day?" exclaimed Yvon, anxiously. "Tell me, Jenny, why didn't you send for the doctor?"
"I did not need to, for have I not a great and learned physician in whom I have perfect confidence, and who I am sure will not refuse me any attention I ask?"
"Yes, I understand. I am that great and learned physician, I suppose."
"And could I select a more careful and devoted one?"
"No, certainly not; so go on and consult me, Jenny."
"My dear Yvon, though I have not undergone any very severe suffering to-day, I have experienced and I still experience a sort of vague uneasiness, as well as an unusual depression of spirits. Oh, don't be alarmed, it is nothing serious; besides, you can cure me completely if you will, my beloved doctor."
"How? Tell me at once."
"But will you do it?"
"Why, Jenny,—what a question!"
"I repeat that my cure depends absolutely and entirely upon you."
"So much the better, then, for, in that case, you are cured. Go on; explain, my charming invalid."
"Remain with me, then."
"Have I any intention of leaving you?"
"But the entertainment this evening?" ventured the young wife, hesitatingly.
"I dressed early, you see, so as to be able to remain with you until the very last moment."
"Don't leave me this evening, Yvon."
"What?"
"Give up this fête for my sake."
"You cannot mean it, surely."
"Stay at home with me."
"But, Jenny, you yourself insisted that—"
"That you should accept the invitation. That is true. This very morning I was rejoicing that you were going to have this diversion,—you who lead such an extremely quiet life."
"Then why have you changed your mind so suddenly?"
"How can I tell?" responded the young wife, much embarrassed. "It is only an absurd and senseless whim on my part, doubtless. All I know is that you would make me happy, oh, very happy, if you would do what I ask, absurd and ridiculous as it may appear to you."
"My poor darling," Yvon said, tenderly, after a moment's reflection, "in your condition, and nervous as you are, I can easily understand why you should, in spite of your good sense, be beset with all sorts of contradictory notions, and that you should be averse in the evening to what you most wished for in the morning. Do you suppose I should think of such a thing as blaming you for that?"
"You are the best and most kind-hearted man in the world, Yvon!" exclaimed the young wife, her eyes filling with tears of joy, for she felt sure now that her husband was going to accede to her wishes. "There are not many men who would be so patient with the whims of a poor woman who knows neither what she wants nor why she wants it."
"But in my character of physician I do, you see," replied Yvon, kissing his wife's brow tenderly. "Look," he added, glancing at the clock, "it is now nine o'clock; ten minutes to go, ten to return, and a quarter of an hour to remain at the ball,—it is a matter of three-quarters of an hour at most. I will be back here by ten o'clock, I promise you."
"What, Yvon, you persist in your determination to attend this entertainment?"
"Just to show myself there, that is all."
"I beg you will not, Yvon."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't go."
"What! not even for a few moments?"
"Do not leave me this evening, I entreat you."
"But, be reasonable, Jenny."
"Make this slight sacrifice for my sake, I implore you."
"But, Jenny, this is childish."
"Call it childishness, idiocy, what you will, but don't leave me this evening."
"Jenny, love, it breaks my heart to see you so unreasonable, for I am obliged to refuse you."
"Yvon—"
"It is absolutely necessary for me to show myself at this entertainment, though I need remain only a few moments."
"But, my dear Yvon—"
A flush of impatience mounted to Cloarek's brow, nevertheless he controlled himself, and said to his wife in the same affectionate though slightly reproachful tone:
"Such persistency on your part surprises me, Jenny. You know I am not in the habit of having to be begged. On the contrary, I have always endeavoured to anticipate your wishes, so spare me the annoyance of being obliged to say 'no' to you for the first time in my life."
"Great Heavens!" exclaimed the now thoroughly distressed woman, "to think of your attaching so much importance to a mere pleasure—"
"Pleasure!" exclaimed Yvon, bitterly, his eyes kindling. Then restraining himself, he added:
"If it were a question of pleasure, you would not have been obliged to ask me but once, Jenny."
"But if you are not going for pleasure, why do you go at all?"
"I am going for appearance's sake," replied Yvon, promptly.
"In that case, can't you let appearances go, just this once, for my sake?"
"I must attend this entertainment, Jenny," said Yvon, whose face had become purple now; "I must and shall, so say no more about it."
"And I say that you shall not," exclaimed the young woman, unable to conceal her alarm any longer; "for there must be some grave reason that you are concealing from me to make you persist in refusing, when you are always so kind and affectionate to me."
"Jenny!" exclaimed Cloarek, stamping his foot, angrily, for this opposition was intensely exasperating to a person of his irascible nature, "not another word! Do you hear me? Not another word!"
"Listen to me, Yvon," said his wife, with dignity. "I shall resort to subterfuge no longer. It is unworthy of us both. I am afraid, yes, afraid for you to go to this fête, for I have been told that your presence there might cause trouble."
"Who told you that? who said that? Answer me!" cried Cloarek, in a more and more angry tone, and so loudly that the child in the crib woke. "Why should you feel afraid? You have heard something, then, I suppose."
"There is something, then, Yvon," cried the poor woman, more and more alarmed. "There is some terrible thing that you are keeping from me!"
Yvon remained silent and motionless for a moment, for a violent struggle was going on in his breast, but calmness and reason finally conquered, and approaching his wife to kiss her before going out, he said:
"I shall return almost immediately, Jenny. You will not have to wait for me long."
But the young woman hastily sprang up, and, before her husband could make a movement to prevent it, she had run to the door, locked it, and removed the key; then turning to Yvon, she said, with all the energy of despair:
"You shall not leave this room. We will see if you dare to come and take this key from me."
Utterly stupefied at first, then exasperated beyond expression by Jenny's determined action, he gave way to his anger to such an extent that his features became unrecognisable. The flush that had suffused his face was succeeded by a livid pallor, his eyes became bloodshot, and, advancing threateningly toward his wife, he exclaimed, in a terrible voice:
"No, I will save you in spite of yourself," replied Jenny, intrepidly.
"Wretch!" cried Cloarek, now completely beside himself.
The young woman had never been the object of her husband's anger before in her life, so it is impossible to convey any idea of the horror she experienced on seeing him ready to rush upon her. Terrified by his ferocious, bloodthirsty look, in which there seemed to be not even the slightest gleam of recognition, she remained for a moment trembling and motionless, feeling as if she were about to swoon. Suddenly the little girl, who had been awakened several minutes before by the loud talking, parted the curtains of her crib and looked out. Not recognising her father, and mistaking him for a stranger, as she had never before seen him in such a costume, she uttered a shrill cry of terror, and exclaimed:
"Oh, mamma, the black man! the black man!"
"The key! give me the key!" repeated Cloarek, in thunder tones, taking another step toward his wife, who, slipping the key in her bosom, ran to the crib and caught her child in her arms, while the little girl, more and more terrified, hid her face on her mother's breast, sobbing:
"Oh, that black man, that black man, he means to kill mamma!"
"To take this key from me, you will have to tear my child from my arms," said the frail but courageous woman.
"You don't know that I am capable of anything when I am angry," exclaimed the unfortunate man, aroused to such a pitch of fury as to be blind and deaf to the most sacred sentiments. As he spoke, he rushed toward his wife in such a frenzied, menacing manner that the unfortunate woman, believing herself lost, strained her little daughter to her breast, and, bowing her head, cried:
"Spare, oh, spare my child!"
This cry of agony and of maternal despair penetrated to the innermost depths of Yvon's soul. He stopped short, then quicker than thought he turned, and, with a strength that his fury rendered irresistible, dashed himself against the door with such impetuosity that it gave way.
On hearing the sound, Madame Cloarek raised her head in even greater terror, for her child was in convulsions, caused by fright, and seemed likely to die in her arms.
"Help!" faltered Jenny, faintly. "Help, Yvon, our child is dying!"
A despairing cry answered these panting words uttered by Jenny, who felt that she, too, was dying, for in this delicate woman's critical condition such a shock was almost certain to prove fatal.
"Yvon, our child is dying!"
Cloarek, who was still only a few yards off, heard these lamentable words. The horror of the thought that his child was dying dispelled his anger as if by magic, and, rushing wildly back into his wife's room, he saw her still standing by the crib, but already as livid as a spectre.
With a supreme effort Jenny extended her arms to place her child in her husband's hands, faltering:
"Take her, I am dying," and without another word fell heavily at the feet of Cloarek, who, with his child strained to his breast, stood as if dazed, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.
CHAPTER V.
DEADLY ENMITY.
Twelve years after the events we have just related, late in the month of March, 1812, about two o'clock in the afternoon a traveller walked into the inn known as the Imperial Eagle, the only tavern in the town of Sorville, which was then the second station on the post-road between Dieppe and Paris.
This traveller, who was a man in the prime of life, wore a tarpaulin hat and a thick blue reefer jacket, and looked like a petty officer or a sailing master in the merchant service. His hair and whiskers were red, his complexion light, his expression stern and impassible, and he spoke French without the slightest accent though he was an Englishman.
Walking straight up to the landlord, he said: "Can you tell me if a dark-complexioned man dressed about as I am, but very dark-complexioned and with a strong Italian accent, did not come here this morning? His name is Pietri."
"I have seen no one answering either to that name or description, monsieur."
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly sure."
"Is there any other inn in the town?"
"No, thank Heaven! monsieur, so parties travelling either by diligence or post patronise me, as the post-station is only a few yards from my door."
"So there is a relay station near here."
"On the other side of the street, almost directly opposite."
"Can you give me a room and have a breakfast prepared for two persons? I am expecting some one who will call and inquire for Master Dupont, for that is my name."
"Very well, monsieur."
"As soon as this person comes, you will serve breakfast in my room."
"Very well, and monsieur's baggage, shall I send for that?"
"I have no baggage. Have many post-carriages passed to-day?"
"Not a single one, monsieur."
"Neither from Paris nor Dieppe?"
"No, monsieur, neither from Paris nor Dieppe. But, by the way, as you came from the last named place, you must have seen those wonderful men everybody is talking about."
"What wonderful men?"
"Why, that famous corsair who is death to the English, the brave Captain l'Endurci (a good name for a privateer, isn't it?). With his brig The Hell-hound (another appropriate name by the way), that goes through the water like a fish, not a single English ship seems to escape him. He gobbles them all up, his last haul being a number of vessels loaded with wheat, that he captured after a terrible fight. A wonderful piece of good luck, for wheat is so scarce now! They say the people of Dieppe have gone wild over him! He must have been born under a lucky star, for though it is said that he fights like a tiger, he has never been wounded. Is that true? Do you know him? What kind of a looking man is he? He must be terribly ferocious-looking, and people say he dresses very strangely. You, being a sailor, have probably seen him."
"Never," dryly replied the stranger, who did not appear to share the innkeeper's admiration for the privateer.
Then he added:
"Show me to my room, and when the person who inquires for Master Dupont comes, bring him to me at once. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, monsieur."
"And as soon as the person comes you are to serve breakfast."
"Very well, monsieur. I will show you to your room now."
"Is it a front room?"
"Yes, monsieur, with two large windows."
"I want some of your best wine, remember."
"Give yourself no uneasiness; you will be perfectly satisfied, I think," replied the innkeeper.
About a quarter of an hour afterward a second guest entered the inn. This man also wore a heavy pea-jacket, and his swarthy skin, jet-black hair, and hard, almost repulsive features gave him a decidedly sinister appearance. After casting a quick glance around, the newcomer said, in bad French, and with an Italian accent, for he was a native of the island of Malta:
"Is there a man named Dupont here?"
"Yes, monsieur, and I will take you to his room at once if you will follow me."
Subsequently, when the host had placed breakfast on the table, he received orders to retire and not return until he was summoned.
As soon as the two strangers found themselves alone together, the Maltese, striking the table a terrible blow with his clenched fist, exclaimed in English:
"That dog of a smuggler has backed out; all is lost!"
"What are you saying?"
"The truth, as surely as I would take delight in burying this knife in the heart of the coward who betrayed us," and as he spoke he plunged his knife into the table.
"Damnation!" exclaimed the Englishman, startled out of his usual phlegm, "and the captain is to pass through the town about nightfall."
"Are you sure?"
"This morning just as I was leaving Dieppe our friend told me that the captain had ordered post-horses for four o'clock this afternoon, so he will arrive here between five and six."
"Mille tonnerres! everything seemed to favour our plans, and but for this miserable smuggler—"
"Pietri, the case is not so desperate as you think, perhaps, after all. At all events this violence will avail nothing, so let us talk the matter over calmly."
"Calmly, when rage fairly blinds me!"
"A blind man can not see his road."
"If you can be calm, you do not hate this man as I do."
"I do not?"
It is impossible to give the reader any adequate conception of the tone in which the Englishman uttered these words.
After a pause, he resumed, in a tone of concentrated hatred:
"I must hate him worse than you hate him, Pietri, as I do not wish to kill him."
"A dead serpent bites no more."
"Yes, but a dead serpent suffers no more, and I want to see this man suffer a thousand worse tortures than death. He must atone for the evil he has done my country; he must atone for the bloody victories which have demoralised our cruisers; he must atone for the recent insult offered to me. D—n him! Am I such an insignificant enemy that I can be released simply upon parole after the combat that cost us so much treasure and blood, but without one drop of his being shed, for he really seems to be invulnerable as they say. As surely as there is a hell my disgrace and England's shall be avenged."
"And yet a moment ago Captain Russell was reproaching me for the foolish violence of my words," retorted the Maltese, with a sardonic smile.
"You are right," replied Russell, controlling himself. "Such an outburst is foolish in the extreme. Besides, we must not despair. What passed between you and the smuggler?"
"Leaving Dieppe in a fishing-smack last night, I reached Hosey this morning and made my way to the man's hut, which stands some distance farther down the beach. 'Is your name Bezelek?' I asked. 'Yes.' 'I was sent here by Master Keller.' 'What is the countersign?' 'Passe-partout.' 'Good! I have been expecting you. My boat is at your service. It is high tide at ten o'clock to-night, and the wind, if it doesn't change, will take you to England before morning.' 'Master Keller told you what is to be done?' 'Yes, some one is to be transported to England, willy-nilly, but safe and sound, understand. I am a smuggler, but no murderer. So bring your passenger along to-night and I promise you he shall be in England before sunrise.' 'Did Keller tell you that I must have four or five of your most determined men at my disposal?' 'What for?' 'To assist me in capturing the man on the highway a few miles from here.' 'Keller told me nothing of the kind, and you need not expect me or my men to mix ourselves up in any such affair. Bring your man here, and I will see that he is put aboard my boat. That is all. If he resists, I can suppose he is drunk, and that it is for his good we are putting him aboard, but to assist in the abduction of a man on the public highway is a very different thing, and I have no notion of doing anything of the kind.' That was what he said, and he stuck to it. I soon discovered there wasn't the slightest chance of moving him, for neither threats nor bribes had the slightest effect upon him."
"So you see, Russell, we shall have to resort to other means, for even if the postilion remains neutral, it would be impossible for us two to do the job without assistance, especially as the captain has a devoted and intrepid companion in the shape of his head gunner, who never leaves him either on land or sea, so if we resort to force we shall only make fools of ourselves, it seems to me."
"That is true," muttered the Englishman, gloomily.
"So as there is no chance of succeeding by violence we shall have to resort to stratagem," continued the Maltese.
"Explain."
"On my way here I noticed that about two miles from the town, at a place marked by a stone cross, there is a steep hill, followed by a no less abrupt descent."
"Well, what of it?"
"We will lie in wait for the carriage about half-way up the hill. It will be moving very slowly as the hill is so steep, and we will suddenly rush out from our hiding-place, and, pretending that we are sailors on our way back to our vessel, ask the captain for aid, you at one door and I at the other. Both of us will have our pistols loaded and our knives in our belts and—"
"Never!" exclaimed Russell, "I am no assassin nor do I desire this man's death. The murder would be a disgrace to England; besides, it would only half avenge me. No, what I want is to enjoy this indomitable man's rage and humiliation when, as our prisoner, he is exposed to the abuse and derision and insults of the multitudes whom his name has so often terrified. No caged tiger ever roared and chafed against confinement more wildly and yet more impotently than he will. Imprisonment in the hulks will be a thousand times more terrible than death to such a man. But the obstinacy of this smuggler ruins all my plans. As they have become impossibilities, what shall we do?"
"Adopt mine," urged the Maltese. "Death may be less cruel than vengeance, but it is much more certain; besides, vengeance is impossible now, but we hold this man's life in our hands. Besides, what difference does it really make about the means we employ so long as England is delivered from one of her most dangerous enemies?"
"Say no more."
"But think of the vessels this man has captured and burned, and of the bloody combats from which he has emerged safe and sound and victorious, too, in spite of greatly inferior numbers!"
"Be silent, I tell you."
"Think of the terror his name inspires in English sailors—the best seamen in the world; haven't you even heard them say in their superstitious fear that the success of this invincible and invulnerable man seems to indicate the swift decadence of England's maritime supremacy, and that the sea is to have its Napoleon as well as the land? Think what a disastrous effect such a superstition will have if the time ever comes when England makes an attempt to overthrow Bonaparte and crush France."
"But a murder,—a cowardly assassination!"
"An assassination? No, England and France are at war, and to take advantage of an ambuscade to surprise and destroy an enemy is one of the recognised laws of warfare."
Russell made no reply, but sat with his head bowed upon his breast for some time apparently absorbed in thought.
The Maltese seemed to be equally absorbed in thought. As they sat there in silence, the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the distance, followed by the cracking of the postilion's whip and the ring of horses' hoofs.
"Five o'clock! It must be he!" exclaimed the Englishman as he glanced at his watch.
Both men darted to the window and saw a dusty cabriolet drawn by two horses stop in front of the post-house on the other side of the street, opposite the inn, and in another instant the Englishman turned livid with rage and cast a look of implacable hatred on the unsuspecting traveller.
"It is he! It is really he!"
"And he is alone," added the Maltese, quickly.
"He is entering this very inn."
"Everything favours us. He must have left his friend and companion in Dieppe. He is alone; there are two of us!"
"Can we still count upon the smuggler's boat and assistance to-night?" suddenly inquired Russell. A new idea seemed to have struck him. A slight flush suffused his pale, cold face, and a spark of diabolical joy glittered in his eye, as he asked the question.
"Yes; for desiring to reserve a means of flight in case of need, I told him he might expect us."
"Courage, then," exclaimed Russell, ringing the bell, violently.
"What do you mean?" inquired the Maltese. "What do you intend to do?"
"You shall know, presently. Hush! here comes somebody."
It was the innkeeper that had answered the summons.
"The breakfast was excellent, my friend," said Russell. "How much do I owe you?"
"Six francs, including the room."
"Here it is, and a present for the waiter, besides."
"You are very honest, monsieur. I hope to be honoured with your patronage again."
"You certainly will be. But tell me, I thought I heard post-horses just now. Has there been another arrival?"
"Yes, monsieur, another gentleman just came. I put him in the blue room overlooking the garden."
"He is one of your old patrons, probably, as a person who has been here once is sure to come back."
"Monsieur is very kind, I am sure, but it is the first time this traveller has ever stopped here."
"Is he travelling in style with a retinue of servants and all that, and is he going to remain long?"
"No, monsieur, only long enough to take a slight lunch. This is no rich nobleman. He is travelling alone, and looks and acts like a well-to-do tradesman. He hums tunes and drums upon the window-panes, and seems as gay as a peacock. He must be a very pleasant man."
"You seem to be a great physiognomist, mine host," responded the Englishman, with a sarcastic smile.
Then making a sign to his companion, he rose, remarking to the innkeeper as he did so:
"Au revoir, my friend. We are going to take a stroll around the town, and then return to Dieppe."
"If you would like to wait for the Paris diligence, it will pass through the town about eight o'clock this evening."
"Thanks, but though we are sailors, we are good walkers, and it is such a fine evening I think we won't wait for it."
CHAPTER VI.
A CUNNING SCHEME.
After leaving the inn, the two strangers took themselves off for a quarter of an hour to decide upon their plans, then strolled like a couple of inquisitive idlers toward the post-station in front of which the traveller's carriage stood, nearly ready for departure, as the postilion was already putting fresh horses to it.
Captain Russell and his companion approached the vehicle, and, seating themselves upon one of the benches in front of the post-house, pretended to be examining the animals that were being harnessed, with a knowing eye.
"You have a horse there that seems to be as willing as he is handsome," Russell remarked to the postilion, after a few minutes' scrutiny.
"And he is as good as he looks, my friend," replied the postilion, pleased by the well-deserved praise bestowed upon his steed, "so I call him the Friar, and he is worthy of his name."
"He's a fine animal, there's no doubt of that. What a broad chest he has, and what powerful withers and flanks!"
"And what a beautiful head he has!" chimed in Pietri. "It is as delicate and intelligent as that of any Arabian steed."
"It is evident that you are both good judges of horse flesh, gentlemen, so you won't doubt my word when I tell you that I can get over a mile or two of ground in the twinkling of an eye with the Friar and Sans-Culotte, as I call his mate."
"Yes, it must be a real pleasure to have a horse like that between one's legs, my worthy fellow. Though I'm a sailor, I've ridden horseback a good deal, but I never had the good fortune to bestride an animal like that."
"I can very readily believe that, monsieur; but this I know, you will never bestride a finer one."
"And it is too bad!"
"I don't see what you are going to do about it."
"Would you like to make forty francs, my friend?" inquired the Englishman, after a brief silence.
"Forty francs, I?" exclaimed the astonished postilion.
"Yes."
"But how the devil could I?"
"In the easiest way imaginable."
"Let me hear it."
Just as the Englishman was about to make known his proposition, a waiter from the inn crossed the street to tell the postilion that he need not be in a hurry, for the traveller would not be ready for some time.
"What is he doing? and why did he order his horses so long ahead, then?"
"I don't know anything about that, but I do know he's a queer one. What do you think he dined on? He drank milk instead of wine, and ate some poached eggs and panada."
"Panada? Well, he must be a queer one!" said Jean Pierre, scornfully. Then turning to Russell, "Come, friend, what were you going to tell me a few minutes ago about—"
"Step into the stable-yard, my good fellow, I want to say a few words to you."
"I can't leave the Friar; he would be sure to cut up some caper. He's always fussing with Sans-Culotte. Whoa, you rascal! See, he's beginning his antics now. Whoa, there! if you break away, you brigand, I'll give you a beating you'll remember."
"Listen, then," said the Englishman, whispering a few words in the postilion's ear.
"What a funny idea!" exclaimed that young man, laughing.
"Will you accept my offer?"
"Really—"
"If you will, here are twenty francs. You shall have the rest when you get to the appointed place. After all, what risk do you run? There is no harm in it."
"None in the world, but it is such a funny idea. It isn't the first time I've heard of the like, though. What do you think I saw in Dieppe the other day? Those privateersmen—my! how they make their money fly!—did the queerest things! I saw some of them offer twenty-five napoleons to an old sacristan to dress himself up like a woman in a furbelowed dress and a plumed hat and then drive about the town in a cab with them."
"What else could you expect, my good fellow? Sailors are on shore too seldom not to amuse themselves according to their fancy, provided it doesn't injure anybody. You agree, don't you?"
"Oh, well, it isn't worth while to have any scruples when one has to deal with a passenger who eats panada and doesn't drink wine, I admit, so—"
"So here are twenty francs," added Russell, slipping a gold piece into the postilion's hand. "You shall have as much more presently."
"All right, but make haste, for the place is a good league from here. Take the first road to the left."
A moment afterward the two strangers had disappeared.
About a quarter of an hour afterward, while the postilion was doing his best to restrain the gambols of the Friar and his mate, the proprietor of the Imperial Eagle appeared in the doorway and cried:
"Mount, my boy, mount! Here comes the gentleman!"
"The devil!" muttered Jean Pierre, climbing slowly into the saddle. "My milk-drinker is in a dreadful hurry all of a sudden. I sha'n't be able to get my horses there fast enough, now, I suppose."
As he spoke, he guided his horses up to the door of the inn, and the traveller stepped into the vehicle. The landlord bowed respectfully to his patron, and as he closed the carriage door called out to the postilion:
"Drive along, Jean Pierre, monsieur is in a hurry."
"You shall just fly along, monsieur," replied Jean Pierre, cracking his whip noisily.
They traversed the town at a gallop and soon reached the highway, but they had gone only a couple of hundred yards when the postilion checked his horses abruptly, and, turning in his saddle, seemed to be waiting for something.
The traveller, surprised at this sudden stop, lowered one of the windows, and asked:
"Well, what's the matter?"
"What's the matter?"
"Yes."
"I've no idea, I'm sure."
"You don't know?"
"I'm sure I don't."
"But why did you stop?"
"Because you called to me to stop."
"I did?"
"Yes, and so I stopped."
"You are mistaken, I didn't call you."
"Yes, you did, monsieur."
"But I tell you I didn't. So go on, and try to make up for the time you have lost."
"You needn't worry about that. I'll drive like mad now. I don't mean there shall be a piece of the carriage left when we get to the next station."
And he again started his horses off at a gallop. But at the end of two hundred yards there was another sudden pause.
"What's the matter now?" demanded the traveller. "Is anything the matter with your harness?" he reiterated, seeing the postilion busying himself with his saddle-girth, uttering the most frightful oaths all the while.
There was no reply but another long string of furious imprecations, however.
"Is your horse disabled?"
Another string of oaths was the only answer.
"At least tell me what is the matter, my boy."
"Oh, never mind, monsieur, I've fixed everything all right now."
"Well, try to keep it all right, then."
"We shall fly along the road like birds, now, never fear, bourgeois," responded the youth, springing into the saddle and cracking his whip furiously.
The shades of night were falling, a few stars were already visible in the western horizon, but in the distance one could still dimly discern, by reason of the chalky character of the soil, a steep hill bordered by tall elm-trees.
The post-chaise flew swiftly along for about ten minutes, then the pace slackened, a trot succeeded the gallop, a walk succeeded the trot, and then the vehicle stopped short again.
This time Jean Pierre jumped down and examined one of the Friar's feet with great apparent solicitude.
"Mille tonnerres! one of my horses has gone lame!" he cried.
"Gone lame?" repeated the traveller, with unruffled calmness, though these numerous delays were certainly enough to try the patience of a saint. "Gone lame, did you say?"
"Yes, frightfully lame," answered Jean Pierre, still holding up the horse's foot.
"But how did he happen to go lame so suddenly, my boy?"
"The devil take me if I know."
"Shall we have to stay here?"
"No, bourgeois, there's no danger of that. If I could only see what has made the horse go lame, but it is getting so dark—"
"Yes, and you must be sure not to forget to light the lanterns at our next stopping-place."
"Ah! I can feel what it is with my finger. There is a stone crowded in between the shoe and the frog. If I can only loosen it everything will be all right again."
"Try then, my boy, for really this is getting very tiresome," replied the still calm voice of the traveller.
Inwardly chuckling over the success of his ruse, the postilion continued to loudly curse the stone he was ostensibly endeavouring to remove, until he thought the two strangers must have had plenty of time to reach the appointed spot, after which he uttered a cry of triumph. "The accursed stone is out at last!" he exclaimed. "Now we shall just fly along again."
And again the vehicle started off at a rapid trot. Though night had really come now, thanks to the clearness of the air and the innumerable stars, it was not very dark. On reaching the foot of the hill the postilion stopped his panting horses, and, after springing to the ground, approached the carriage door, and said:
"This is such a steep hill, bourgeois, that I always walk up to make it easier for my horses."
"Very well, my boy," replied the occupant of the vehicle, tranquilly.
The postilion walked along beside his horses for a few seconds, then gradually slackened his pace, thus allowing them to get a short distance ahead of him. Just then, Russell and Pietri emerged from behind a clump of bushes on the roadside, and approached the postilion. The latter, as he walked along, had removed his braided jacket, red waistcoat, and top-boots. The Englishman, who had likewise divested himself of his outer apparel, slipped on the jacket, plunged his feet into the high boots, and seized the hat, after which the postilion, smiling at what he considered an excellent joke, handed his whip to Russell, remarking:
"It is too dark for the gentleman to see anything, so when you mount my horse I'll get up on the rack behind, with your companion."
"Yes, and when we reach the next station I will get down, and you can put on your own clothes again, and I mine. And now here is the twenty francs I promised you."
And slipping a gold piece in Jean Pierre's hand, Russell quickened his pace, and, overtaking the horses about twenty yards from the top of the hill, began to walk along beside them.
It was now too dark for the traveller to perceive the substitution that had just been effected, but as the carriage reached the summit of the hill the occupant leaned out and said to the supposed postilion:
"Don't forget to put on the brake, my lad."
"I am going to do that now," answered the pretended postilion, in a disguised voice.
Then slipping behind the vehicle, he said in a low tone to the Maltese and to Jean Pierre:
"Get up behind and hold on tight. I'm going to put on the brake."
The two men obeyed, while Russell rattled the chain of the brake, as if he were applying it to the wheel, but this was really only a pretence on his part; then vaulting into the saddle, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and sent the carriage flying down the hill with frightful rapidity.
"Good God! we are lost, and the milk drinker in the bargain," exclaimed Jean Pierre hearing the chain of the brake dragging along on the ground. "Your friend failed to put the brake on, after all."
The Maltese, instead of answering the postilion, struck him such a violent blow on the head with the butt end of a pistol that Jean Pierre let go his hold on the rack and fell to the ground, while the carriage flew down the hill enveloped in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER VII.
HOME PLEASURES.
Several days have passed since the traveller fell into the trap Captain Russell and his companion had set for him, and we must beg the reader to accompany us to a pretty cottage in the little village of Lionville, about four miles from Havre.
A bracing and salubrious climate, a country which is at the same time fertile and picturesque, fine trees, luxuriant turf, and a superb view of the ocean, make Lionville a veritable paradise to persons who love peace and quiet and opportunities for solitary meditation.
At that time, as in many other towns and villages, great and small, the absence of young men was particularly noticeable, the last wars of the Empire having summoned to the defence of the flag nearly all who were young and able-bodied, until a young man of twenty-five who had remained a civilian, unless he was a hunchback, or crippled, was almost as rare a phenomenon as the phoenix or a white crow.
Lionville possessed one of these rarities in the shape of a handsome young man not over twenty-four years of age, but we must make haste to say that he did not seem in the least inclined to take advantage of his position, for he led a very retired life, quite as much from preference as from any other reason.
This young man was one of the inmates of the pleasant, cheerful home to which we have already alluded, and several days after the traveller had been victimised by the pretended postilion a middle-aged woman, a young girl, and this young man (the phœnix referred to) were assembled one evening in a pretty, comfortably furnished drawing-room. A good fire was blazing on the hearth, for the evenings were still cool, and a shaded lamp diffused a soft light through the apartment, while the tea-kettle, standing in front of the fire, bubbled softly.
A close observer would perhaps have noticed that most of the ornaments and articles of luxury were of English origin, in spite of the stern prohibition against the importation of English goods which then prevailed on the continent. The same might be said of the handsome silver tea-service, no two pieces of which were alike, however, a ducal coronet surmounting the massive hot-water urn and a knight's crest adorning the teapot, while an unpretending initial was engraved upon the sugar-bowl, though it was none the less brilliant on that account.
The middle-aged woman had a frank, intelligent, cheerful face. She was at least forty-two years old, but her hair was still black, her complexion fresh, her teeth white, and her eyes bright; in short, this worthy dame still attracted plenty of admiring glances when, arrayed in a handsome bonnet of English lace, a gown of English tissue, and a Paisley shawl of the finest texture, she accompanied her youthful charge to the village church.
The young girl in question was seventeen, tall, slender, extremely delicate in appearance, and endowed or rather afflicted with an extremely nervous and impressionable temperament. This extreme sensibility or susceptibility was at least partially due to, or perhaps we should say, had been greatly aggravated by a terrible event which occurred many years before, and which had had the effect of rendering her excessively timid. It would be difficult to find a more pleasing and attractive face than hers, however, and when, yielding to the uncontrollable fear which the most trivial incident sometimes excited, she arched her slender neck, and listened pantingly, breathlessly, with her graceful attitude and large wondering, frightened eyes, she reminded one of a startled gazelle. By reason of this nervous and extremely sensitive temperament, probably, the young girl had not the brilliant colouring of sturdy health, but was usually very pale, though every passing emotion brought a delicate rose tint to her cheek, and then her charming face, framed in a wealth of bright chestnut hair, seemed radiant with the glowing beauty of youth. True, with a more vivid colouring and fuller contour, she might have been much more attractive to many persons, but much of the charm of her expressive features and delicate loveliness would have been lost.
The last of the three persons assembled in the cosy parlour was the phœnix to whom allusion has been made, that is to say, a handsome young man who had not been summoned to the defence of the flag.
This phœnix was twenty-five years old, of medium height, slender, but admirably formed, with a frank expression and regular features, though a tinge of slightly deprecating embarrassment was apparent both in his face and manner, the result of the infirmity which had exempted him from military service. In short, the young man's sight was very poor, so poor, indeed, that he could scarcely see to move about; besides, by reason of some organic peculiarity, he could derive no assistance from glasses, and though his large brown eyes were clear and well-shaped, there was something vague and uncertain in their gaze, and sometimes when the poor myope, after having turned quickly, as if to look at you, remembered, alas! with bitter sadness, that three yards from him every person and object became unrecognisable, the expression of his face was almost heartrending.
Still, it must be admitted that the consequences of the young man's infirmity were sometimes so amusing as to excite mirth rather than compassion; and it is needless to say that the middle-aged lady was keenly alive to all that was ludicrous in her youthful relative's blunders—for the relationship existing between them was that of nephew and aunt,—while the young girl, on the contrary, seemed to sympathise deeply with the oftentimes painful position of the half-blind man.
The young girl was embroidering, and her governess or housekeeper knitting, while the young man, with the last issue of the Journal of the Empire held close to his eyes, was reading the latest news aloud, and informing his readers of the Duc de Reggio's departure to take command of the army.
The housekeeper, hearing a brisk bubbling sound accompanied with several little jets of steam from the kettle, said to her nephew:
"The water is boiling, Onésime. Pour some into the urn, but pray be careful."
Onésime laid his paper on the table, rose, and started toward the hearth with dire misgivings which were more than justified. He knew, alas! that his path was full of snares and pitfalls, for there was an armchair standing on his left to be avoided, then a small round table to the right of him, and this Scylla and Charybdis avoided, he had to step over a small footstool near the hearth before he could seize the boiling kettle. Consequently, one can easily understand the extreme prudence with which Onésime started on his mission. One outstretched hand warning him of the close proximity of the armchair on his left, he avoided that obstacle, but he was almost on the point of running against the table before his other hand discovered danger of a second shipwreck, and he was inwardly rejoicing at having reached the fireplace without mishap, when he stumbled over the footstool. In his efforts to regain his equilibrium he took a step or two backwards, and, coming in violent contact with the table, overturned it with a loud crash.
For several minutes the young girl had been absorbed in a profound reverie. Rudely awakened from it by the noise made by the falling table, ignorant of the cause of the commotion, and unable to overcome her fear, she uttered a cry of terror and sank back in her chair, trembling like a leaf.
"Don't be frightened, my dear," cried the housekeeper. "It is another of Onésime's escapades, that is all. Calm yourself, my child."
The young girl, on discovering the cause of the commotion, deeply regretted having increased her unfortunate friend's embarrassment, so, striving to overcome the nervous trembling that had seized her, she said:
"Forgive me, my dear friend. How silly I am, but you know I never seem to be able to conquer this absurd nervousness."
"Poor child, it is no fault of yours! Are you not the one who suffers most from it? Surely there is no necessity for apologising to us, especially as but for my nephew's awkwardness—"
"No, no, I am the culprit," interrupted the young girl. "To be so childish at my age is disgraceful."
The unfortunate young man, distressed beyond measure at his mishap, stammered a few incoherent words of apology, then set the table on its feet again, shoved the footstool aside, and, seizing the tea-kettle, started to pour the water into the urn, when his aunt exclaimed:
"Don't attempt that, for Heaven's sake! You are so awkward, you will be sure to make a mess of it."
Onésime, deeply mortified and anxious to atone for his former blunder, persisted, nevertheless, and, lifting the cover of the urn, began to pour the water from the kettle with his right hand, while his left rested on the edge of the table. But unfortunately his eyes played him false as usual, and he began pouring the contents of the tea-kettle down one side of the urn, instead of into the opening, covering his left hand with boiling water and burning it frightfully.
He manifested a truly heroic stoicism, however. But for the slight start caused by the sudden and intense suffering, he gave no sign, and, conscious now of the mistake he had made, finally managed to fill the urn, after which he said, gently:
"The urn is filled, aunt. Shall I make the tea? Mademoiselle will take a cup, perhaps."
"What! you have actually filled the urn without any fresh catastrophe? You really ought to have a leather medal, my dear," laughed his aunt.
"Don't pay any attention to what she says, M. Onésime," interposed the young girl. "Your aunt takes such delight in teasing you that I feel it my duty to come to your assistance. And now will you be kind enough to give me a cup of tea?"
"No, no, don't you dare to think of such a thing!" exclaimed the housekeeper, laughing. "You will be sure to break one of these pretty pink and white cups monsieur brought us the last time he came home."
But Onésime gave the lie to his aunt's gloomy prognostications, by bringing the cup of tea to the young girl without spilling a drop, and was rewarded by a gentle "Thank you, M. Onésime," accompanied with her sweetest smile. But the sad, almost imploring expression in the young man's eyes, as he turned toward her, touched her deeply.
"Alas!" she said to herself, "he does not even see that I am smiling at him. He always seems to be asking you to have patience with his infirmity."
This thought grieved her so much that the older woman noticed the fact, and asked:
"What is the matter, my child? You look sad."
Hearing his aunt's words, Onésime turned anxiously to the young girl, as if trying to read the expression of her face, while she, embarrassed by the housekeeper's remark, answered:
"You are mistaken, I am not in the least sad; but just now when you spoke of my father it reminded me that he ought to have reached home several days ago."
"Surely you are not going to torment yourself about that, my child. Is this the first time your father has failed to arrive at the appointed time?"
"It worries me, nevertheless."
"Dear me! There isn't the slightest doubt that business has detained him. Do you suppose that a man who acts as the business agent of a number of big factories can tell the exact hour at which he will be able to return home? An opportunity to make a large sale sometimes presents itself just as he is about to start, and he is obliged to remain. Only a couple of months ago, just before he went away, he said to me: 'I am determined my daughter shall be rich. A couple more trips like the last, and I will never leave the dear child again.'"
"Heaven grant that time may soon come," sighed the girl. "I should be tranquil and happy if my kind and loving father were always with me. You are tormented by so many fears when one you love is absent from you."
"Fears! fears about what, I should like to know! What risk can a quiet merchant like monsieur run? A merchant who doesn't meddle with other people's affairs, but travels about from town to town in a post-chaise, to sell his goods. What risk does a man like that run? Besides, he travels only in the daytime, and always has his clerk with him, and you know he would go through fire and water for your father, though he really does seem to be the most unfortunate of mortals."
"That is true. Poor man! some accident seems to befall him every time he travels with my father."
"Yes, and why? Simply because he is the most meddlesome old creature that ever lived, and the awkwardest. Still, that doesn't prevent him from being a great protection to monsieur if any one should attempt to molest him. So what have you to fear, my child?"
"Nothing."
"Think how you would feel if you had a father in the army as so many girls have."
"I could never stand such a terrible strain as that. Why, to be always thinking that my father was exposed to danger, to death,—why, the mere idea of such a thing is appalling."
"Yes, my poor child, the mere idea of such a thing makes you as pale as a ghost, and sets you to trembling like a leaf. It does not surprise me, though, for I know how devoted you are to your father. But drive these dreadful thoughts from your mind, and, by the way, suppose Onésime finishes reading the paper to us."
"Certainly, if M. Onésime is not too tired."
"No, mademoiselle," replied the young man, making almost superhuman efforts to conceal his suffering, which was becoming more and more intolerable.
And getting the paper as close to his eyes as possible, he was preparing to resume the reading, when he remarked:
"I think this is an article which is likely to interest mademoiselle."
"What is it about?"
"It describes the exploits of that famous Dieppe privateer, of whom everybody is talking."
"I fear the article will be too exciting for you to-day, my dear, you seem to be so nervous," remarked the housekeeper.
"Is it such a very blood-curdling story, M. Onésime?" inquired the girl, smiling.
"I think not, mademoiselle, judging from the title. The article is headed: 'Remarkable Escape of the Brave Captain l'Endurci, Who Was Abducted from French Soil by English Emissaries.'"
"It must be very interesting. Pray read it, monsieur."
So the young man at once began to read the following account of the brave captain's escape.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CAPTAIN'S NARRATIVE.
"All France is familiar with the name and heroic valour of Captain l'Endurci, commander of the privateer Hell-hound, as well as the large number of prizes which the gallant captain has recently captured from the English.
"Only a few days ago Captain l'Endurci returned to Dieppe, with a large three-master belonging to the East India Company, and armed with thirty guns, in tow, while the Hell-hound can boast of only sixteen. This three-master, which was convoying several merchant vessels loaded with wheat, had, together with her convoy, been captured by the intrepid captain, after a desperate fight of three hours, in which nearly or quite one-half of the French crew had been killed or wounded.
"The gallant captain's entrance into the port of Dieppe was a veritable triumph. The entire population of the town assembled upon the piers, and when the brig, black with powder and riddled with shot, sailed slowly in with her prizes, shouts of the wildest enthusiasm rent the air, but the brave captain's triumph became an ovation when the people learned that the vessels which the three-master was convoying were laden with wheat. At a time when grain is so appallingly scarce in France, such a capture is a national benefaction, and when the people discovered that Captain l'Endurci, being aware of the speedy arrival of these vessels, had spent several days lying in wait for them, allowing richer and less dangerous prizes to pass unmolested, all Dieppe went wild."
"How grand!" exclaimed the housekeeper, enthusiastically. "Ah, I would give ten years of my life to be the mother or sister of such a hero."
"And I, my friend, deem myself a thousand times more fortunate in being the daughter of an honest merchant, instead of having some bloodthirsty hero for a father," remarked Sabine.
"What a strange child you are! Wouldn't you feel proud to be able to say: 'That famous man is my father?'"
"Not by any means. If he were absent, I should be always trembling to think of the danger he might be in; if he were with me, I should always be imagining I saw blood on his hands."
"Such ideas seem very strange to me, for I love heroes, myself," said the older woman, gaily. "But go on, Onésime, I am anxious to hear how this valiant captain could have been kidnapped on French soil." Then, noticing that her nephew was unusually pale, and that big drops of perspiration were standing on his brow, she asked:
"What is the matter, Onésime? You seem to be suffering."
"No, indeed, aunt," replied the young man, enraged at himself for not being able to conceal the agony his burn was causing him. "Now listen to the rest of the story.
"Captain l'Endurci, after a three day's sojourn in Dieppe, started for Paris, unfortunately leaving his head gunner, one of his oldest comrades-in-arms, who was seriously wounded in the last engagement, in Dieppe to attend to some business matters.
"It was between the second and the third post-stations on his route that this audacious attack was made upon the captain, evidently by English emissaries who had been lying in wait for him. It seems that these emissaries had taken advantage of the postilion's credulity to persuade him to allow one of them to take his place and drive the vehicle for awhile. This change of drivers was made while ascending a steep hill, where the progress of the vehicle was necessarily slow, but the Englishman was scarcely in the saddle before he started the horses off at a frightful pace, while the postilion was hurled half-dead upon the ground by the other Englishman, who was clinging to the back of the post-chaise.
"The captain astonished at the terrific speed with which the horses were tearing down the steep descent, thought that the postilion had neglected to put on the brake, and had lost all control of the horses; but soon the rate of speed diminished perceptibly, though the vehicle continued to fly swiftly along.
"The night having become very dark, the captain could not see that the carriage, instead of following the main road, was going in an entirely different direction. Not having the slightest suspicion of this fact, and ignorant of the change of postilions, the captain rode on in this way about an hour and a half, and finally fell asleep.
"The sudden stopping of the carriage woke him, and supposing that he had reached the next relay station, and seeing two or three lanterns flitting about, he was unsuspectingly alighting from the vehicle, when several men suddenly rushed upon him, and, before he had time to offer the slightest resistance, he was securely bound and gagged, and dragged down to the beach on the outskirts of the little seaport town of Hosey, about fifteen miles from Dieppe, and known as the headquarters of a daring gang of smugglers. Here, the captain, who was unable to make the slightest movement or utter a word, was hustled aboard a fishing-smack, and a few minutes afterward, wind and tide both being favourable, the little vessel set sail for England.