The Corsican Lovers

CHAPTER XIX.

THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.

On the other hand, Vivienne’s education had been almost wholly of the heart. She could read and write the French language quite well and had also acquired a fair knowledge of the English. If her father and mother had lived, she would, no doubt, have been sent to France to receive fuller instruction, but when she arrived at the age of sixteen, she became, by her brother Pascal’s wish, and with no opposition on her part, mistress of the house; always subject, of course, in important matters, to the will of her elder brother, who was master in all things.

Left fatherless and motherless within a few days of her birth, the little Vivienne had grown up under the care of Clarine, her nurse, who had been in the service of the Batistelli family since her mother had been an infant. Stories about fairies, the folklore of the country, and tales of bloody vendettas, had been poured into the child’s ears by Clarine and Manassa. In this way her perceptive powers and sensibilities were dominated by the physical rather than the mental. She had led a retired life, for her brother Pascal was not social in his nature. Julien was too much so, but his associates were never welcome to the hospitalities of the house. If it had not been for the agreement, or rather understanding, between the old Count Mont d’Oro and Pascal’s father, regarding the marriage of Napier and Vivienne, the young girl would have grown up fancy-free, so far as love of man was concerned—meaning, of course, any particular man.

As Vivienne, although she avoided argument upon the subject with her brother, had given the young Count Mont d’Oro no encouragement in his suit, having met all his advances with mock disdain or cool rebuff—and as Helen Enright’s heart had been regarded as unassailable—the young god Cupid and his dangerous arrows never formed the subject of conversation between the two young ladies. Helen told Vivienne about England, its king and princes, its nobility and gentry. Despite the English girl’s graphic description of England’s greatness and glory, the young Corsican girl failed to gain an adequate conception of the scenes described to her; but when her turn came to speak, when she talked of Corsica, its traditions, its customs, and its people, the English girl fully understood and made copious entries in the journal which she had kept since her departure from England.

The two girls were naturally thrown into daily companionship. Like all Englishwomen, Helen was fond of outdoor life, and a great lover of the beauties of nature. Vivienne would have remained within doors, but Helen induced her to accompany her in daily rambles, during which every part of the extensive grounds surrounding the Batistelli mansion was visited, and many excursions were made into the surrounding maquis, although Pascal, upon one occasion, said he felt it was his duty to warn Miss Enright, being a stranger, that she ran the risk of being captured by banditti, carried off into the mountains, and held for a large ransom.

One day they were walking in the grounds when Helen espied a path which, it occurred to her, had not yet been travelled. It was very short, not more than thirty feet in length, and seemed to end in a mass of dense foliage. When this was reached, however, a narrower path leading to the left was disclosed which, when followed, brought them to the foot of a great oak tree. Helen had previously seen and admired this tree and spoken of it to Vivienne, but as the latter had made no comment, Helen supposed that it was inaccessible.

“And does this grand old tree stand upon your estate?” asked Helen.

“Yes,” was the reply, “and they say, I do not know with how much truth, that it is three hundred years old. It is called The Tree of the Vendetta. Clarine says her mother told her that a terrible feud existed between two Corsican families, each of which, it so happened, had six grown-up sons. The father of one of the families killed the father of the other. The sons of the latter, with other relatives, at night attacked the house in which the father and his six sons lived and set it on fire, and as their enemies ran out to escape the flames and smoke, shot them down, the bright light of the fire exposing them to the shots of their adversaries, who were in the shadows, or concealed behind trees.”

“Oh, what barbarism!” ejaculated Helen.

“It is the custom of the country,” Vivienne remarked, and there was a coolness in her tone which did not escape her companion’s notice. For several minutes neither spoke. Then Helen asked:

“But how did the tree get its name? Was it close to the house?”

“More barbarism followed,” Vivienne replied, with a touch of sarcasm. “As the family was virtually extinct, the victors buried them at the foot of this tree. You see, we do not print history in this country, but we remember it.”

“I hope with all my heart,” said Helen, “that you have no such memories connected with the past.”

“There you are wrong,” cried Vivienne, and her voice, which up to this time had been subdued, now became strong and impassioned. “I have a sad memory and, as what I have said to you may cause you to misunderstand my true feeling, I will tell you all. The very day that I was born my father became the victim of an assassin. My brothers tell me that my father had no quarrel with the man who murdered him and he must have been hired by some one to do the cruel deed. He was a coward, for that very night he took his only child, a little boy six years old, and fled from the country, so that my brothers are deprived of the opportunity of avenging the death of our father. There are none who dare to say Rimbecco to my brothers, but many think it in their hearts.”

“Rimbecco!” cried Helen. “What does that mean?”

“Rimbecco,” explained Vivienne, “is a reproachful word spoken to a member of a Corsican family by another member of the family, or one of its adherents, because the assassination of a relative has not been followed, within a reasonable time, by the killing of the assassin or some member of his family. Rimbecco is the worst taunt that can be thrown in the face of a Corsican, for it is considered as declaring him to be even baser than a coward. If Manuel Della Coscia, who murdered my father, and his son Vandemar, who must now be twenty-four years of age, are still living, they must remain exiles or return to Corsica and answer with their lives for the great crime which has been committed.”

“But you who are so kind to the unfortunate, so good to all, can you not avert the doom which threatens an innocent victim? Young Vandemar, the last of his race, is surely guiltless. Is it just that he should suffer death for no fault of his own?”

“Men are killed in war for no fault of their own,” said Vivienne.

“Alas, yes,” replied Helen, “but that is unavoidable. Suppose that, instead of your father becoming the victim, he had killed his assailant?”

Vivienne responded quickly: “It would then rest with his son, now that he has grown to manhood, to avenge his father by killing my brothers.”

“Oh, tell me,” cried Helen, “that you do not favour this cruel, wicked custom! Tell me, dear friend, that you abhor it as I do!”

“I regret the necessity,” Vivienne replied.

“And according to the custom of your country, your elder brother must commit this terrible deed?”

“He must.”

“But if he dies before accomplishing it?” asked Helen.

“It will then devolve upon my younger brother, Julien.”

“And in case he dies?” was Helen’s next inquiry.

“It will then devolve upon——”

“No, no, no. Do not speak, Vivienne! I cannot bear it! You do not mean it. Oh, tell me that I am dreaming—that you did not mean to say——”

“If both should die and I should live,” cried Vivienne, excitedly, “it would be my duty to avenge my father’s death, or his blood would be upon my own hands. Manuel Della Coscia and his son Vandemar are enemies of my family, and if no other hand can do it, mine must send the bullet or handle the stiletto.”

Count Mont d’Oro had so far recovered from his injury that he was able to get about with the help of a couple of walking-sticks. His progress was necessarily slow and any little inadvertence caused him severe pain. On such occasions, his thoughts naturally reverted to his antagonist. He had heard from Villefort of the ill-success of his scheme to entrap Victor, and of the terrible fate of the would-be murderers, both of whom had been found dead in the maquis.

As soon as the Count acquired a limited degree of locomotion, he made his way to the stables, ordered the carriage, and was driven at once to the hotel in Ajaccio. A messenger was despatched in search of Villefort, whose headquarters were at a cabaret kept by Angelo Barbera.

Villefort came at once in response to the summons, and was soon closeted with the Count.

“That young devil of an Englishman has a charmed life,” said Villefort.

“Perhaps so,” the Count replied, “but you know there is an old saying that the third time never fails. In order that the saying may not be disproved, we must make sure of our game this time.”

Wine and cigars were ordered, and the two worthies cudgelled their brains to think of some plan by which Victor might be put in their power. How he could be summarily disposed of was a matter which must be decided later.

Villefort looked up suddenly and asked:

“What was the name of the man who killed Pascal Batistelli’s father?”

The Count replied: “Manuel Della Coscia—his son’s name was Vandemar.”

“Then the son’s initials would be V. D. C., would they not?”

“Certainly, but what are you looking at so intently?”

“By Saint Christopher!” cried Villefort, “but this is strange!”

“What is strange? Speak up and don’t sit there with your mouth open like a stuck pig.”

“Spare me your compliments,” said Villefort, “or I may be forced to demand an apology.”

The Count laughed. “Pardon me, Villefort, but the jolting of that clumsy carriage over that infernally rough road has filled my foot with a dozen toothaches. But what have you found?”

“They may mean something or nothing, but here, cut in the table, and the cuts are fresh ones, are the initials V. D. C. They are a clue to something—but what?”

“Go downstairs,” said the Count, “and find out who last occupied this room.”

In a short time Villefort returned with the information that the room had not been occupied since the young gentleman who was in the company of the English admiral had left it.

“So our man put up here,” said the Count. “But why V. D. C.?”

“Perhaps his name is spelled D-u C-a-i-n,” suggested Villefort.

“Guessing won’t hit the mark,” the Count cried. “Have you no wits? Five louis d’or if you prove that Vandemar Della Coscia and the Englishman are one and the same person! Think of something. Use the carriage if you need it. Come back in an hour. I am going to lie down and rest to see if I can get rid of this damnable torture. If he had given me a cut with his axe, it would have healed long ago.”

Villefort did not take the carriage, but walked slowly along the main street, wondering how he could earn the promised reward.

“The price offered is very small,” he soliloquised, “but if I succeed, I shall make bold to suggest to the Count that he double it.”

He stopped short and looked across the street. Right opposite stood Barbera’s cabaret. A thought occurred to him. He entered the place, and beckoning to the proprietor, they went upstairs to the latter’s room.

“Do you want to make a louis d’or, Barbera?”

“I could make a good many if that English admiral would let his sailors come ashore.”

“Well, if you wish to earn from me what you can’t earn from the sailors, sit down here and write a letter which I will dictate to you.”

Villefort began:

“Monsieur Angelo Barbera solicits an immediate visit. He has learned of a plot against your life, but prefers to disclose particulars to you in person. Mention this matter to no one. Bring this letter with you for identification.”

“Now fold it up and seal it,” said Villefort.

“To whom shall I address it?” asked Barbera.

“I will attend to that,” said Villefort. “Give me the letter.”

“Where is my louis d’or?”

“You shall have it within an hour,” said Villefort. “I will tell you what I have been up to when I come back.”

He snatched the letter from Barbera’s hand, ran down-stairs and made his way quickly to the quay. He engaged a boat and soon reached the gangway of the Osprey, where he was met by the marine on guard.

“My friend, the Count Mont d’Oro, is acquainted with the Lieutenant who is with your admiral on shore. He has purchased for him a present of silver, of which he intends to make me the bearer, sending with it this letter. He knows that the Lieutenant’s name is Victor Duquesne, but he has thought that perhaps the young gentleman has another name besides Victor, and, to speak frankly, the Count does not know exactly how to spell his name.”

“You have come to the right man, sir,” said the marine. “I received word at Malta that my poor old mother was dead; that she had been buried in God’s Acre, and that she would have to remain there unless I sent home some money to have her laid beside my father in the village burying-ground. I told the Lieutenant that I had drank and gambled away all my money at Malta and he very kindly started a subscription for me, leading the paper with a pound. I remember that I asked him if the name he had written was his full name, and he said—yes. I have the paper in my pocket now.”

Villefort examined it carefully. “Victor Duquesne,” was what he saw.

“A thousand thanks,” said he, as he returned the paper, at the same time giving the man a silver coin. “Oblige me, and my friend the Count, by saying nothing about this to Lieutenant Duquesne. The Count is greatly mortified at being obliged to discover his friend’s real name in such a roundabout way, and it would add to his chagrin if the Lieutenant should hear about it.”

“I understand,” said the man. “If a piece of silver is big enough, it always closes my mouth.”

An hour had hardly elapsed before Villefort reported his finding to the Count.

“I beg your pardon, Count, but in order to secure this valuable information, which I think must convince you that Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica, and a guest——”

“What are you begging my pardon for, Villefort? I can imagine as well as you can. What did you do to obtain this supposed valuable information?” and the Count’s voice had a marked tinge of sarcasm in it.

“I have promised to pay a louis d’or for valuable assistance.”

“Well, there are your louis d’or,” said the Count. “I did not promise to pay for assistance. Come, help me down to the carriage. I must get home, for my foot aches worse than ever.”

As they neared the cabaret, the Count said: “Villefort, have Barbera send me out some brandy.”

Villefort gave the order and placed the louis d’or in Barbera’s hand, saying at the same time, as he handed back the letter:

“I could not use it. The bird had flown. Tear it up, and may you always earn a louis d’or as easily.”

The Count swallowed half a tumblerful of brandy at a gulp. As they rode on he said to himself: “What a fine piece of news it will be for Pascal Batistelli when I tell him that his guest, the English lieutenant, is the son of the man who murdered his father. But he shall never know it until his sister is my wife. She hates me, but I will make her suffer for it. If she loved me, she might marry whom she chose.”

Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha had been greatly pleased when the young Count became convalescent and was able to leave his room.

“I hope,” said the Countess, “that Napier will soon long for the artificial delights of Paris and leave us alone to enjoy the natural beauties of Corsica. I had intended to take you with me to visit many of my old friends, but for this unfortunate and unforeseen accident However, we shall begin our round of gaiety shortly, for I have to-day received invitations for you and me to attend the party to be given in honour of Mademoiselle Vivienne Batistelli, who will soon reach her eighteenth birthday.”

CHAPTER XX.

“WHO IS MASTER HERE?”

“That’s what I’m going to explain,” said Villefort. “Order up a bottle of wine. I’m cursed thirsty, for I have been walking an hour over dusty roads, and I get nothing for my time or trouble.”

“I thought Monsieur Villefort was too sharp-witted, and his services too valuable, to long serve a poor paymaster.”

“I am done with him!” cried Villefort with sudden determination, and, as he spoke, he brought his wine-glass down upon the table with such force as to break it into fragments.

“Well spoken, Villefort!” cried Barbera. “You are too smart a man to play second fiddle always.”

“I’m coming to think so myself,” said Villefort. “Let me explain. I am going to tell you the whole story, but you must keep your mouth shut.”

“If I told all I knew,” said Barbera, “there would be many more widows in Ajaccio than there are now. But go on.”

“Well, the fact is,” began Villefort, “Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica.”

“I don’t believe it!” cried Barbera.

“I know it,” said Villefort, “so we won’t argue the matter. That young Englishman whom they call Victor Duquesne is really Vandemar Della Coscia in disguise. You know all about the duel between Count Mont d’Oro and the Englishman, so I won’t go over that again. You have heard, I suppose, that Paoli Tarenti and Giuseppe Mondolo were found dead in the woods.”

“Yes!” cried Barbera. “Do you know who killed them?”

“Yes, and I am going to tell you. I got Paoli and his friend to pick a quarrel with the Englishman and finish him before it was over.”

“What did you have against him?” asked Barbera.

“Nothing, but Count Mont d’Oro wished to get him out of the way and I did what I could to help him.”

“For a consideration, of course,” said Barbera, smiling.

“And a mighty poor one, too,” said Villefort.

“Only five poor little louis d’or, and I gave you one for writing that letter.”

“That letter is what I wish to know about,” rejoined Barbera.

Villefort then told how the initials “V. D. C.” were found cut into the table, and how it had occurred to both the Count and himself that the supposed Englishman was in reality a Corsican.

“The Count wished me to find out whether the Lieutenant had a middle name. When I came to you and asked you to write the letter, my idea was to have the Englishman drugged, then send for the Count, and let him settle the matter in his own way. On my way to the English frigate, it occurred to me that I was getting too deeply compromised, with no promise of reward, and, especially, nothing in advance. You see, I asked the hotel keeper who had last occupied the room, and found it was the Englishman; then I asked you to write the letter, and, besides, whoever I met at the vessel would surely remember me. I knew the Count wouldn’t give his life to save mine and I didn’t propose to give mine for nothing. So I managed the affair in another way, found out all that I wished to know, and that’s why I told you to destroy the letter.”

“Well!” cried Barbera, “I wouldn’t have done that job under twenty-five louis!”

“I got five and had to pay you one out of it, and that’s why I’m through with Count Mont d’Oro. I can stand anything in a man but meanness. I’ll make him pay dearly for that louis d’or—damn me if I don’t.”

After Villefort left the cabaret his copious draughts of wine began to take effect.

“How shall I get even with him? By St. Christopher! I have it. He will tell Pascal Batistelli and the old vendetta will be revived. There is one man in Corsica who is bound to put down the vendetta. They call him Cromillian, the moral bandit. I will go and see him. There’ll be no money in it, but revenge is sweet, and Count Mont d’Oro and his friend Pascal will find themselves deprived of their victim.”

As the anniversary of her birthday approached, Vivienne spent the greater part of her time with her old nurse, Clarine. Rendered motherless, as she had been when only a few days old, Clarine had been both nurse and mother to her, and it was only natural that she should pour into the ear of her only confidante those troubles and secrets which a young girl usually makes known to her mother alone.

One morning she sat talking to Clarine, the coming birthday party being the subject under consideration. As was his habit of late, Old Manassa was apparently asleep in his arm-chair, but still half conscious of what was going on. The conversation between Vivienne and her old nurse was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Pascal, who, paying no attention to the other occupants of the room, approached Vivienne and asked, abruptly:

“Have you sent out all your invitations for the party?”

Vivienne looked up inquiringly and answered: “Yes.”

“That is strange,” said her brother; “I saw Count Mont d’Oro this morning and he told me that he had not received one.”

“I did not desire his company,” Vivienne replied, “and, therefore, did not invite him. I have asked the Countess his mother, and Miss Renville, and that ought to satisfy you.”

But Pascal was not satisfied. He had met the Count that morning, who had told him that he had a most important secret to communicate, but that it would not be proper to tell it until his sister Vivienne had become Countess Mont d’Oro. He had added:

“Vivienne will be a woman in a few days. Why not have the wedding occur within a week thereafter and end all this nonsense?”

The Count then remarked that he had not received an invitation to the birthday party.

Again turning to his sister, Pascal said: “I presume that you have invited Lieutenant Duquesne.”

“How could I omit him,” asked Vivienne, “when he is our own guest?”

“I invited him,” said Pascal, “out of compliment to the Admiral, but did not suppose that he would accept, nor would he have done so if he had not met you that day in the garden.”

“I am ashamed of you, Pascal,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to speak to me in that way, even if you are my brother. You have no right to assume that Lieutenant Duquesne and I are anything more to each other than acquaintances—no, that is not quite honest—I mean good friends.”

“If you do not invite Count Mont d’Oro,” said Pascal, “I shall. But, considering their enmity to each other, it would be the height of incivility to ask both the Count and the Lieutenant. I will tell the Englishman that his invitation has expired by limitation, or better still, I will ask the Admiral to send him back to his ship.”

“I have invited Admiral Enright and his daughter. It would be the height of incivility, as you term it, not to ask Lieutenant Duquesne. You can tell both the Count and Lieutenant Duquesne that the other is coming and, if they do not wish to meet, both can stay away.”

“Is that the proper way for a young lady to treat her betrothed lover?” asked Pascal, indignantly.

“Pascal, you have no right to dispose of my hand without consulting my wishes, and I will not submit to it. I do not love the Count and I will not marry him.”

“No, no!” cried Clarine. “She shall not be compelled to marry a man whom she does not love.”

The interposition of Vivienne’s ally raised Pascal’s latent anger to a high pitch.

“Clarine,” he cried, “I command you not to meddle with matters which do not concern you! I act in her father’s stead, and it is my right and my duty to see her properly married and settled in life. For that reason, I have decided that Count Mont d’Oro shall be a guest, but I will not allow Lieutenant Duquesne to be present.”

“You have no right, Pascal,” cried Vivienne, “to take such a course.”

She raised her voice and cried, with all the decision of her impetuous nature:

“I say that Lieutenant Duquesne shall come!”

“And I say he shall not!” thundered Pascal.

Old Manassa, awakened by the loud voices, started to his feet.

“What is the matter, Clarine?” he cried. “What is all this loud talk about?”

“Why,” said Clarine, “Vivienne has asked Lieutenant Duquesne to come to her birthday party and Pascal says that he shall not.”

“But I say he shall come!” cried Manassa, and he brought down his heavy staff with a loud whack on the floor.

“Don’t cry, little girl.” Hobbling up to Pascal, he shook his staff in his face and exclaimed with more vehemence than before:

“I say he shall come! Do you hear me, young man? Do you hear me, sir?”

Pascal saw that numerically the odds were against him, for they stood three to one. He knew from past experience that, if goaded on, he would grow more and more intemperate in his language. He would reply to him with dignity and keep his temper:

“You forget yourself, Manassa. I am master here.”

“You master here!” shouted Manassa. “Then who am I? Who am I, sir?”

Clarine interposed: “You are only a servant, Manassa.”

“Am I a servant, Clarine? That boy is getting impudent, extremely impudent! I must bring him down a bit.” He shook his staff in Pascal’s face, again saying:

“I say he shall come. Do you hear?”

“There, there,” said Clarine, soothingly, “you are too old to get angry. A man a hundred years old ought to know better.”

“Old, hey! What if I am a hundred years old? Every day I live I learn something new. Who is this man that Vivienne wants to come to the party? Is he a Corsican?”

“No,” said Clarine, “he is a stranger—an Englishman—a sailor.”

“A sailor! They are good, true men. Speaking of sailors, I remember that soon after Manuel Della Coscia, the murderer and coward, ran away from Corsica, taking his son with him, I had a dream. I thought that the vessel in which he sailed, while on its way to Marseilles, was becalmed, and as it drifted there, helplessly, the devil came up out of the sea and, grasping the old Della Coscia and the young one, dragged them down with him—and I have liked the devil a little ever since.”

Even Pascal could not help smiling at this exhibition of devotion on the part of an old servant, but he did not propose to be further humiliated.

“Manassa,” he said, sternly, “we have had enough of this. Go to your own room.”

The old man grew still more incensed. “You talk as though you were my master,” he cried, “but you are not. I am master here. How dare you vex your sister? I say he shall come!”

Pascal’s anger rose again: “If you do not leave the room, I will put you out.”

“How can you speak so,” cried Vivienne, “to a weak, foolish old man?”

Manassa’s temper was equal to his age. “Hear him order me about, Clarine! Is he my master? The little good-for-nothing! Say, Clarine, is he my master?”

“Oh, Manassa, how forgetful you are getting to be! You know you were valet to Joseph, who had a son Conrad. This is Conrad’s son.”

Pascal was weary of the fruitless discussion. Why continue it? He had declared his intention of inviting Count Mont d’Oro and of requesting Lieutenant Duquesne to leave the house, and that settled the matter. Without replying to Manassa, he withdrew and proceeded to his library.

Manassa went on, apparently regardless of Pascal’s departure:

“Yes, I was Joseph’s valet. I remember now, and was I not Lady Julie’s valet?”

Clarine laughed. “Why, of course not. But you used sometimes to drive her out when the coachman was sick. How you do forget!”

“Well, whose valet am I now, Clarine?”

“You are nobody’s valet.”

“Is Pascal my valet?”

“No, no, Manassa! There now, don’t ask any more questions.”

“I do not wish to ask any more. I have heard all that I care to. I am going into the garden to take a walk. Run into my room, Clarine, and get me my other cane. It is not proper that the master of the house should walk out with an old stick like this,” and he threw his oaken staff upon the floor.

“Do hear the man talk,” said Clarine—“as if I could run.”

“I will go,” said Vivienne. “Sit still, Clarine.”

When Vivienne had gone, Manassa said: “How tall she is! How she has grown! She is almost as tall as Susette.”

“Why, Manassa, I haven’t heard you speak Susette’s name in ever so long,” said Clarine.

Manassa chuckled. “Do you remember, Clarine, the minuet we had that night over in the new barn at Prospero Point? My stars, how Susette did throw those black eyes at me that evening! I really do believe that the girl loved me, Clarine. Now, don’t you think she did?”

Clarine placed her hand upon Manassa’s arm. “Why, to be sure, else why did she marry you? For mercy’s sake! You can’t have forgotten that Susette Cornelli became your wife!”

Manassa rubbed his forehead meditatively. “So she did! Why, really, so she did. Poor Susette, she’s dead. Have I got a wife now, Clarine?”

“It beats all how you do forget. No, no, of course you have no wife, and are not likely to have any. You would not think of marrying at your age, I hope.”

“So you think I am too old to have a wife. Well, I will have a wife if I want one. Do you hear? I will have one! You are very impudent for a servant. I will have one if I want to! You are nothing but an old woman. What do you know about a gentleman’s affairs? Wasn’t I bodyguard to Conrad, Pascal’s father?”

“You mean Pascal’s grandfather, Joseph. How you do get things mixed up!”

“Here is your cane, Manassa,” said Vivienne, softly.

The old man took it, forgetting to thank her for her kindness, and stamped across the floor to the door which led to the garden. With his hand upon the latch, he turned, and casting a spiteful glance upon Clarine, ejaculated:

“I will have a wife if I want one!”

Then he went out, slamming the door viciously.

Pascal made his way to the library, with the firm intention of sending an invitation to Count Napier Mont d’Oro to become one of the guests at the birthday party. He had hardly completed his self-appointed task when Adolphe entered and informed him that a shepherd boy wished to see him.

“Who is he?” asked Pascal.

“I never saw him before,” Adolphe replied. “I think he has a letter for you.”

A few minutes later the boy entered. “I have a letter for Pascal Batistelli,” he said.

Pascal reached out his hand to receive it.

“I was to put it into the hands of Pascal Batistelli. Are you the right man?”

“That is my name,” said Pascal.

The boy handed him the letter and then retreated slowly towards the door. Pascal threw him a small coin, which the boy deftly caught, and then quickly withdrew. Pascal broke the seal and read:

“I cannot give you my real name in this note, for reasons which you will understand. I have found the man you seek. This is all I can tell you until some arrangements are made in relation to the reward offered. I am playing false to a friend in order to serve you—a friend who will fight for Vandemar to the death. I am obliged to act, therefore, with the utmost caution. I will meet you to-morrow night at twelve, precisely, in the maple grove behind the castle.”

“I understand,” said Pascal, as he laid down the letter. “This must come from the man who called himself Paoli, and who said that he belonged to Cromillian’s band. To serve me he must prove false to a friend. That friend, I suppose, is Cromillian, and, reading between the lines, I infer that Cromillian is a friend of Vandemar Della Coscia. So be it. The Batistellis have friends, also, and we shall soon learn which is the stronger party.”

At that moment Julien entered the room.

“Read that, Julien,” said Pascal, as he handed him the letter.

Julien grasped it, and seating himself near his brother, read it aloud, Pascal several times cautioning him to lower his voice. When Julien finished reading he jumped to his feet and exclaimed excitedly:

“At last! At last!! The hour of vengeance is near! If we find this man Vandemar, it should not take us long to avenge the murder of our father; then our sister will never again be able to reproach us with cowardice or wilful delay.”

“Be not over-confident, Julien. You know how sanguine we were when we sent Alberto Cordoni to England in search of some trace of Manuel Della Coscia, and you know what a large sum that effort cost us, and all for nothing. We were duped by Cordoni! This may be nothing but a plot to capture the reward. We must be on our guard!”

“But you will meet this man?” queried Julien.

“Certainly,” said his brother, “and you shall go with me. If he does what he says he can, I shall have to pay him a hundred louis d’or, but that is little for so much.”

Pascal changed the subject abruptly: “Julien, I have a favour to ask of you. Will you deliver this letter into the hands of Count Mont d’Oro?”

“Why, of course,” said Julien, taking up the letter. “But I hope you have not invited him to the party. Vivienne told me that she had not sent him an invitation. She doesn’t like him, and if he comes she will be unhappy.”

“Thank you for your advice,” said Pascal, coldly. “I never afflict her willingly, Julien, but brothers or sisters who do not, by their virtuous lives and firm counsels, support the customs and dignity of their ancestors do not deserve to bear their name. She is younger than I; it is my right to command and hers to obey.”

As Julien walked through the garden on his way to Mont d’Oro Castle, he said to himself:

“Pascal hit Vivienne and me with one stone. ‘A brother who does not by his virtuous life——’ That was meant for me. The rest was for Vivienne. That brother of mine is a shrewd man, very.”

Manassa’s colloquy with Pascal had left him in a very excited condition mentally. After uttering his spiteful declaration and slamming the door, he went into the garden prepared to be at war with all mankind. It so chanced that the first person with whom he came in contact was Terence, the head gardener.

Terence Devlin held the position of head gardener at Batistelli Castle. He had been guilty of an infraction of a law made by Englishmen for the government of Irishmen, and had left Ireland—not for his country’s good, but for his own personal safety. He had made his way to France, but soon found that British spies were on his track, and he chose Corsica as a country not likely to be very thickly populated with British emissaries.

“What are you doing, sir?” yelled Manassa, as he bent over the Irishman, who was upon his knees, trimming a garden border.

“Did yez spake to me, sor?” asked Terence, looking up.

“Of course I did. I wished to tell you that I am greatly displeased with your management of the grass-plots. Instead of pulling up the weeds one by one, as you should do, you let them grow, and they are taking deeper root every day. Why do you hire yourself out as a gardener without understanding your business?”

“Business, is it? And didn’t I take the full charge of the parks and gardens of his Lordship, the Earl of Bamford, and her Ladyship, Countess Stannerly’s gardens? No better gardener, sor, thin mesilf iver handled a spade, sure. This blatherin’ country, sor, was born in wades, reared in wades, and, God willin’, it will die in wades and be buried in wades. And is it mesilf that’ll pick thim out wan by wan? Whin Terry Devlin gets upon his knays to do the loikes o’ that, sor, you may put him down as a brainless jackass, widout any sinse at all, at all.”

“As I was saying when you had the impudence to interrupt me, there are far more weeds than grass in those plots—a most heathenish and unsightly spectacle. What did I hire you for, if not to do your work, and do it in strict accordance with my instructions? You forget yourself, sir!”

“I admit, sor, that the wades have got the best of the grass, and divil a doubt that they’ll kape it, too. They niver was known to give in if they have a show of a chance. They are just like your counthrymen, sor. If a poor divil is cross-eyed, they kill him, and if he is not, they kill him all the same, sor. An’ I take the liberty to tell ye, sor, that I resave my orders from the masther, Mr. Pashcal Batistelli, and no wan else. Do ye moind that, now?”

“The master!” exclaimed Manassa. “Pascal, the master! What folly! What do you suppose the lad can know about it? Why, that boy knows no more about gardening than a child unborn.”

“But he is masther of the Castle, all the same, sor,” said Terence, decidedly, “and I shall obey nobody else.”

Manassa was thunderstruck, but he managed to ejaculate:

“Who is master here? Who am I, sir?”

Terence looked up, and with a slight twinkle in his eye, said:

“Mathoosaler’s grandfather, I belave, sor!”

Manassa struck his cane upon the ground and cried, angrily: “You are an impudent puppy and blackguard. How dare you address me in that audacious manner? I’m not master, eh? You won’t obey me, eh? I say you shall weed the grass-plots! We’ll see whether you will obey or not. Clarine! Clarine!! Where’s the jade gone? Gadding about, I suppose, as usual. I say you shall weed the grass-plots! Now go, sir, and send Pascal to me. We’ll see whether you will obey me!”

Terence, who had remained upon his knees during this battle of words, now rose to his feet and started off as though he intended to summon Pascal Batistelli; but, instead of doing so, when he was out of sight of his recent antagonist, he entered the arbour and sat down, filled and lighted his pipe, and smoked contentedly. As he did so, he soliloquised:

“A foine, healthy counthry this is to allow a man to live afther he’s lost his wits intoirely. Faith, I belave he was a captain of the big craft at the toime of the flood!”

Manassa walked on through the garden paths, striking now and then with his cane at a flaunting weed, but his mind did not run in one channel very long and his thoughts soon reverted to the coming birthday party.

“I shall be very busy,” he thought, “until this party is over. What could they do without me? I am the only one who knows how things used to be done and how they ought to be done now. I have always been used to lords and ladies. People have no manners at the present day; even our children, although of baronial descent, have but little idea of true gentility. Pascal and Julien appear every day without their regalia, but I insist upon their wearing the badge—the red rosette—when in full evening dress. The degeneracy of the present age is truly most shocking. Why, you would hardly believe they have not even the old coat of arms upon their carriage, and no outriders. Even the footman is dressed like a circus clown, and the coachman looks like an aide-de-camp. Shocking! Shocking!! If only the barony had descended to me. I wonder if it did descend to me.”

Tired out mentally by his exciting controversies, and physically fatigued by his long walk, the old man sank upon a moss-covered stone which lay at the foot of a large tree, whose wide-spreading branches gave a grateful shade. He leaned against the old, worm-eaten, gnarled trunk, and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXI.

A BIRTHDAY PARTY.

“Well,” said Clarine, “Vivienne is coming to my room, for I have something to give her, and you must go to your own room, for, much as we usually enjoy your company, to-night we do not care for it.”

When Clarine and Vivienne were alone together in the nurse’s room, the former took from her bosom a sealed packet and handed it to the young girl.

“When your father gave it to me, the day of his death, it was unsealed. He told me that I might read it, and I have done so many times. Of late, I have feared that some prying eye might discover it, so I sealed it. My next fear was that some one might take it, and for a year I have carried it with me while awake and have placed it under my pillow when sleeping. I have kept the vow that I made to your dead father. Now I can die in peace, when Heaven wills.”

“Shall I read it now?” asked Vivienne.

“Yes, dear, for I may be able to assist you if you do not understand it.”

Vivienne ran her eyes quickly over the page. The writing was in a large, round hand, and although the paper was discoloured and the ink faded, each word was easily deciphered. As Vivienne read, the old nurse watched her attentively.

“Have you come to the part where it tells how to open and close the dungeon door?”

“Yes,” cried Vivienne. “What wonderful mechanism! Who could have invented it? Oh, Clarine, it makes my blood run cold to think of that fearful dungeon shut out from the world by such demoniac ingenuity.”

“But the Hall of Mirrors is considered the most beautiful room in the castle,” said Clarine.

“And so it is. Julien and I used to love to play there, for as we ran about the room, or danced, we could see ourselves in the mirrors, and it always seemed as though we had many visitors who were joining in our games. We were too young to think that any of those mirrors were hinged, and that when opened they would disclose a dungeon door behind them. Heaven grant that I may never have cause to open that door!”

“Never, unless in great extremity or to save human life,” said Clarine, solemnly. “Those were your father’s words to me, and I have never forgotten them. Now, darling, you must forget everything that will call up unpleasant memories, and be joyous and happy. I will go with you to your room and help you put on that beautiful dress which your brother Pascal gave you. There will be pretty girls here to-night, but none will be so beautiful as my little Viva.”

What the old nurse had said was surely realised. There is no woman whose natural beauty is so great that it cannot be enhanced by the aid of art. Poets and painters rave over peasant girls and fisher maidens, and write about and paint them. Near the close of the poem, however, the poet makes a lady of his country or seaside heroine—clothes her in costly raiment and decks her with jewels. In poetry, as in music, there must be a crescendo. Again, the artist may marry an ideal face and form, but when she has become his, he selects delicate tints and filmy garments with which to clothe her, and his artistic sense inevitably leads him to the conclusion that the golden or raven-black hair, parted in the middle, with modest simplicity, should be replaced by the latest coiffure.

Beneath the dexterous hands of Clarine, who had dressed many a bride, Vivienne was transformed, and when the young girl looked in the mirror she started back in honest astonishment at the sight of her reflection.

“Viva,” cried the old nurse, “you are perfect, and if I were Count Mont d’Oro I would fall down and worship you.”

“If you were Count Mont d’Oro,” replied Vivienne, “I would allow you, but I shall not give the real Count any such opportunity.”

“Well,” said Clarine, “I will not worship you, but I will give you my blessing. May you have a long life, and health, happiness, and prosperity be ever yours.” She kissed the young girl and the caress was returned in manifold. “Now I will go with you to your brothers,” said Clarine, “and introduce you, for I am sure it will be necessary.”

“Not until I have seen Manassa,” cried Vivienne, and she made her way quickly to the old man’s room. He sat in his chair, sound asleep, his hands resting upon the head of the oaken staff, his head bowed upon them.

Vivienne touched him upon the shoulder. He slept lightly, and awoke easily. At sight of the vision before him he started to his feet, rubbing his eyes.

“Beg pardon, Lady Julie,” he exclaimed, “but I did not hear your bell. What are your commands?”

“This is not Lady Julie,” cried Clarine; “this is our own Viva, but it is not strange that you do not know her. She has come for your blessing.”

Vivienne sank upon her knees before him. The old man placed his trembling hands upon her head.

“May you be as happy as was the Lady Julie—she was the most beautiful woman in Corsica, and I was her favourite servant. I saved her life one day. I came near losing my own, but I would have given it willingly. My dear, you are a Batistelli, but the family has fallen from its high estate. The shame of the Rimbecco is upon it. Be true to your name and to your brothers who have sworn to remove the stigma.”

The old man fell back heavily into his chair and covered his face with his hands. As Vivienne and Clarine left the room they heard him say: “Rimbecco! Rimbecco!!” and there were pathos, bitterness, and anger commingled in his voice.

The guests began to assemble. The Batistelli family had been one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most influential in Corsica, and although its prestige had waned, it had not wholly departed. Vivienne had spread her invitations far and wide, and the acceptances indicated that the gathering would include representatives from the best families in Ajaccio and the surrounding country.

Among the first to arrive was the Mayor of Ajaccio, accompanied by his two daughters, Carlotta and Josefa. Count Napier Mont d’Oro escorted his mother, the Countess, and Miss Renville. Admiral Enright was accompanied by his daughter, Helen. Vivienne, whose quick eye saw every guest long before he was presented to her, noticed that Lieutenant Duquesne was not with them. The thought came to her that her brother Pascal had, without doubt, told the young Englishman that his presence was no longer desired, but her inward anger against her brother was far less intense than against Count Mont d’Oro, whom she looked upon as the real cause of the young man’s proscription. Among the late arrivals was Dr. Valentino Procida, who was the proprietor of a private asylum for the insane at Salvanetra, a village about five miles from Alfieri. The company grew by constant accessions, until it became both large and brilliant, completely filling the spacious drawing-room.

Pascal and Julien, attired in the national costume, over which they wore the regalia of the Batistelli family, together with the traditional red rosette upon their left breasts, acted as ushers and presented the guests to Vivienne, upon whose face forced smiles quickly appeared, immediately followed by unmistakable looks of disappointment.

At a signal from Pascal the musicians began to play, while Julien motioned to the guests to step back, thereby leaving Vivienne standing alone in the middle of the great room.

Seven young and pretty girls, also wearing the national dress, entered, one of them bearing a floral wreath containing eighteen roses, which she placed upon Vivienne’s head. As she did so, the musicians, who were provided with bells, rang out a silvery chime. The girls then joined hands, formed a circle about Vivienne, while their fresh young voices sang the Birthday Song: