CHAPTER X.
“LA GRANDE PASSION.”
AFTER Jennie’s departure, the Countess gave herself up entirely to the pleasure which she found in the company of her young guest.
“I knew your father, Oscar Renville, I may say, intimately. It was after the death of your mother, but my husband was then living. I was in Corsica when your father died. I would gladly have taken you as my own, for I must confess that when my son was born I was very sorry he was not a daughter instead. It was only a short time ago that I learned Mr. Glynne had adopted you.”
“No,” said Bertha, “he never adopted me. He is, or rather was, my guardian.”
“Has he more than one child?”
“Only one son, Clarence. His father wished him to marry me, but although Clarence was always kind to me—really the best friend I had at Buckholme—he never proposed to me. I thought several times that he was on the point of doing so, but I can see now why he did not.”
“I think he would have done so,” said the Countess, “if it had not been for a previous love affair.”
“Oh, it was not that,” cried Bertha. “He knew me long before he became acquainted with his present wife; but it may have been so after all, for I was only sixteen.”
If Clarence Glynne had been lukewarm in his love-making, Bertha soon found that Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the exact reverse. On his part, at least, it was a case of love at first sight. He declared to his friend, the Marquis Caussade, that for the first time in his life he had an attack of la grande passion. He tried in every way to make himself agreeable to Bertha.
“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, one morning. “Paris never looked more beautiful than it will to-day. The environs are even more attractive than the city itself.”
“I will ask the Countess,” said Bertha.
“And so my son wishes you to go driving with him, does he?” was the Countess’s reply to Bertha’s question. “I have no right to command you, but my advice is to refuse. Some people have told me that my son is a very bad young man. I am not personally cognisant of his misdoings, nor do I wish to be, but I do not think it best for you to become too well acquainted with him.”
“I shall certainly do as you say,” replied Bertha.
All of the Count’s attempts to make Bertha his companion were flat failures and he decided to adopt another course. A new opera was about to be given. The tickets were held at extravagant figures, but the Count secured a box.
“Oh, you are musical!” he exclaimed, one day as he entered the drawing-room and found Bertha seated at the piano.
“I play a little for my own amusement,” said she.
“Have you any objection to my listening?”
“Oh, not at all! I trust you will not find it irksome.”
He was extravagant in his praises of her performance, but Bertha had learned to take his remarks at their true value.
He did not ask Bertha to go to the opera with him, but invited his mother instead.
“Are you going to make up a party?”
“Oh, no, I will go with you.”
“Have you asked Bertha?”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I have asked her to accompany me on several occasions, but she has always refused; I presume at your instigation. To speak plainly, I do not care whether she goes with us to the opera or not.”
He knew that this would pique his mother.
“Well, if Bertha cannot go, I shall not go,” said the Countess.
“If you choose to ask her to accompany you, I certainly shall not object, but, as I said before, I do not care whether she goes or not.”
He did not repeat this conversation to Bertha and the Countess herself was too politic to refer to it.
Every day, thereafter, the Count virtually haunted the drawing-room in the hope of finding Bertha at the piano. On one occasion he was successful.
“Will you not play for me?” he asked.
“You have heard my repertoire.”
“Do you not sing?”
“Very little; only the simplest of English ballads.”
He took a piece of music from the rack and placed it before her. “Can you play that?”
“I can try.”
“If you will, I shall be your debtor.”
“I cannot sing it.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I did not ask you to.”
It was a tenor song. Bertha played the prelude, but was astonished when she struck the first note of the vocal score to hear the Count’s voice take up the melody. He had a pure, sweet voice, and sang with great power and expression.
“It is a beautiful song; do you not think so?” he asked.
“Very,” was her laconic reply.
“Now, will you not sing for me one of those English ballads?”
Bertha had enjoyed the Count’s song, and she felt it would be discourteous to refuse under the circumstances.
The piece was a solo, but when she had sung several lines the Count joined in, singing in English.
“Encore! Encore!!” he cried, and they sang the second stanza together.
“You must be a good musician,” said Bertha, “to sing a part so well that is not in the music.”
“I am glad to hear that there is some good in me,” he remarked, gravely. “I am a thousand times your debtor, Miss Renville, both for your singing and your compliment, which I shall never forget.”
The night for the opera came, and as the Count, with his dark, handsome face, leaned forward, from time to time, to discuss the performance with the fair-haired English girl, scores of opera-glasses were turned in their direction. Count Napier Mont d’Oro had scored the point for which he had been working so long—he had been seen in public with the beautiful woman whom he loved, for the time being at least, and that satisfied him.
The next day the Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading the criticisms of the opera and the performance. At the close of the article in one of the papers were some items referring to the prominent personages who were present on the opening night. Her own name caught her eye, and she read an item which caused her to clench her hands until her finger-nails almost cut into the flesh, as she exclaimed: “The villain! I was a fool to trust him.” Then she read the item again:
“It is rumored that a certain young Count, one of the jeunesse dorée, and member of a prominent Corsican family, has become greatly enamoured of a beautiful young English girl who is visiting here. They were seen together at the opera, and if what was apparent in the past is an indication of what will take place in the future, Parisian society will be adorned, at no distant date, by another of England’s fairest daughters.”
Before the Countess had recovered from the vexation which the perusal of the item had caused her, the boudoir door was suddenly opened and Bertha ran into the room. She threw herself upon her knees, buried her face in the Countess’s lap, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Why, what’s the matter, my dear?” exclaimed the Countess. “What has happened?”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” cried Bertha.
“But, really, you must,” said the Countess. “Who in my house has dared to offend you?”
“He did not mean it as an offence—they never do—but it was so unexpected—I have never given him any reason.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the now astonished Countess. “Do be explicit. I have just read something in the paper that has made me very angry.”
The girl wiped away the tears from her reddened eyes and said: “Why did he do it?”
“Do what?” exclaimed the Countess. “Do speak, or I shall have to cry myself.”
Bertha began to weep again, but through her tears she managed to say: “Your son—the Count—asked me to be his wife.”
“Oh, the young scapegrace!” said the Countess, jumping to her feet. “Why, my dear, he is engaged to another woman, where we live, in Corsica. You stay here. I will go downstairs and have a talk with him. He shall leave the house this very day.”
“Oh, don’t turn him out on my account,” cried Bertha. “Do not, my dear Countess. I will go instead. This is his home and I have no right here.”
“Well, I have,” said the Countess, defiantly. “This is my house, and while I live it has a mistress, but no master.”
The Countess soon discovered that her son was in the drawing-room where the avowal of love had been made. He was seated at the piano, touching the keys lightly and humming an air.
“So, my young man,” the Countess exclaimed, “you are at your old tricks again.”
“Yes,” said the Count. “You had me taught to play the piano, and I have always loved it.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. If you would give more time to music and less to making love to people who do not appreciate it, it would be better for yourself and for me. What did you mean by insulting my guest?”
“Is it an insult,” he asked, “to ask a young lady to become a Countess?”
The Countess paused. “Perhaps not,” she said, “if you had any right to ask her, but you have not. What would you say if I told Vivienne?”
“I should say,” said the Count, “what would, no doubt, seem to be very impolite.”
“You would tell me to mind my own business, I presume,” said the Countess; “it is not an uncommon remark with you. Well, I am going to mind it. This is my house and I have only allowed you to remain here on sufferance. Either you or I must go.” She thought for a moment before she spoke again. “Yes, we will go. Bertha has never seen the world and I will give her an opportunity. You may stay in Paris. I shall not tell you where we are going, for, to borrow the words which you thought but did not speak, I do not consider it is any of your affair. If you discover where we are, and follow us, and speak a word of love to my guest, or even hint at it, I will tell Pascal Batistelli.”
The Countess was as good as her word. On the second day her preparations were completed, and on the morning of the third she left Paris, without informing her son as to her destination.
The Count really felt his rejection severely. He had been attracted to Bertha and as far as it lay in him to feel affection for any one, he really loved her. Night after night of dissipation followed his rejection and the consequent departure of Bertha from Paris. It was nearly one o’clock when he returned home one morning. His latch-key gave him admission to the house, and he would have gone upstairs at once to his room if he had not noticed a long, thin ray of light coming from the library. He went on tiptoe to the door and listened. He heard a sound like that of a file upon metal. His first thought was that it was a burglar. He was unarmed, but he had a sturdy frame and a pair of stout fists. He kicked the door open violently, rushed into the room, and pounced upon a man who was on his knees before the safe, which contained the family papers and valuables. He caught the man by the collar and threw him violently upon his back.
“Ah, Jacques, it is you, is it? What the devil are you up to?”
When the Countess left Paris, only three servants were retained. These were Jacques, the coachman; Timothée, the butler, or major domo; and Francine, the cook, who was Timothée’s fiancée. It was but natural that Timothée should spend his evenings in the kitchen with Francine, and this fact, the Count quickly reasoned, was what had given Jacques his opportunity to rob the safe.
“Why don’t you speak, you rascal?” cried the Count. “Were you trying to rob the safe?”
The man sat up. In one hand he held a key and in the other a small file. “No, sir. Not quite so bad as that. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but I will tell you the truth. Before the young lady went away she gave me a letter and said if a certain young gentleman called for it, to give it to him. I have carried it in my pocket so long that it was becoming crumpled and soiled, and I thought I would put it in the safe. I had this key and it nearly fitted; that is why I was filing it.”
“I may believe it,” said the Count, “but I don’t think the judge will to-morrow. But where’s the letter? You may get up.”
Jacques passed the letter to the Count. The handwriting was Bertha’s and it was addressed to Mr. De Vinne.
“You may get up,” repeated the Count. “Give me that key. I will take charge of the letter and see that it is delivered when the young gentleman comes for it. I don’t believe a word you have told me except that you had the letter. Thieves always leave some loophole to crawl through.”
The man went out. The Count examined the safe to see that it was securely locked, and then went upstairs to his room.
“Mr. De Vinne! I suppose he is her English lover. But why should he come here? What a foolish question! Of course if he knew she was here he would come. I would go to the ends of the earth to see her if I knew where she had gone. Perhaps this letter will tell. Well, I have done worse things than open a letter addressed to another man.” As he spoke he broke the seal and read:
“I am very sorry to hear of the sudden death of your brother, and you have my deepest sympathy in your affliction. I came here with Mrs. Glynne, the wife of Mr. Clarence Glynne, the son of my guardian. You have, no doubt, heard that our little craft was run down in the Channel by a large vessel. By God’s providence we escaped. The vessel was under orders to proceed at once to Marseilles, and we could not land until they reached there. We arrived safely in Paris and I have been the guest of Countess Mont d’Oro. She has invited me to go with her to her estate in Corsica and we shall leave to-morrow. She says that a letter addressed to Alfieri, near Ajaccio, Corsica, will not fail of delivery.
“Your friend,
“BERTHA RENVILLE.”
“Ha!” said the Count. “A very fortunate find. So they have gone to Corsica. Well, I have as much right to visit Corsica as they have and I think I will go. Vivienne says that she does not love me and that if I make love to anybody else our engagement is off; but I don’t believe it will turn out that way. Corsican women are all jealous. If she finds that I am flirting with some one else, she will probably begin to love me a little, and if I keep up the affair, in time she may become madly infatuated. By St. Christopher, what fun it will be, and how my honoured mother will enjoy it.”
The next day there was a violent storm of wind and rain. The Count did not venture out. “I will get ready for my visit to Corsica,” he said to himself. About noon he was summoned by Timothée, who said a gentleman wished to see him in the library.
The visitor was a stout man with a full, round face, made even fuller and rounder by a thick beard.
“I wish to see the Countess Mont d’Oro.”
“I regret to say, sir, that she is absent from the city. I am Count Mont d’Oro, her son.”
“Is Miss Renville here?” was the next inquiry.
“She has been my mother’s guest—they have gone together.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the stout man. “I am Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I am the young lady’s guardian. She ran away from home with the intention, I think, of marrying a chance acquaintance—an unworthy young man—and I have come to Paris to take her home with me as I have a right to do, under the law.”
“Who is this unworthy young man?” asked the Count.
“His name is De Vinne.”
“I judge,” said the Count, “from something I have heard, that she is in love with him. I know that she writes to him and that she was expecting him here before she left Paris.”
“Shall I presume too much upon your kindness,” said Mr. Glynne, “if I ask you where my ward has gone?”
The Count did not answer the question. “You say, Mr. Glynne, that your ward and this young man were but chance acquaintances; why is he so anxious to marry her—because she is beautiful, because she is rich, or both?”
Mr. Glynne thought that the truth might improve his position. “She has a large fortune in her own right—forty thousand pounds in our money; about a million francs in yours.”
The Count gave a long, low whistle. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but that would make a fine dowry.”
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris, I presume you will tell him where my ward has gone?”
“Well, really, I do not think I shall,” said the Count. “The information came into my possession in rather a peculiar manner and I must protect the person who gave it to me. You will be surprised, sir, at something I am going to tell you. I have met Miss Renville and I have fallen in love with her myself. I did not know at the time that she was wealthy, but that makes little difference to me; in fact, no difference at all, for I have money enough of my own and would marry her without a dowry as soon as with one. Who has charge of her fortune?”
“I have,” answered Mr. Glynne.
“And no doubt you would like to keep it.” The Count smiled as he uttered the words. The smile was contagious and one flickered across Mr. Glynne’s fat, round face.
“I should not be human,” he replied, “if I would not.”
“Well,” said the Count, “two heads are better than one. I will make a bargain with you. If you will give your consent to my marrying your ward, and will help me to bring about that happy event, I will take her without a dowry and you may keep the money. Is it a bargain?”
“I must confess that such a course of action would be very agreeable to me.”
“Well, I shan’t tell you,” said the Count, “where your ward is. I will take you with me, if you will go. I will leave you in a place several miles distant from where I know she is living, and you must remain there until I have had time to prosecute my suit. At the critical moment I shall call upon you for your assistance. Is that plan satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr. Glynne.
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris,” said the Count, “he will find it difficult to ascertain your ward’s whereabouts. We shall leave for our destination to-morrow morning; in the meantime I shall be pleased to have you as my guest.”
The next day the allies started upon their journey, one influenced by thoughts of love, the other by thoughts of gold.
It is an old saying that the devil leaves his followers half-way. Even the most astute of men will do some foolish thing that upsets his plans. Count Mont d’Oro was no exception to the rule.
Jacques, the coachman, had told the truth. He was devoted to the Countess and she trusted him implicitly. No sooner was Jacques certain that the Count had left the house than he made his way to his master’s rooms. He ransacked them from one end to the other. “He would not take it with him,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps he destroyed it. I have looked over carefully everything that came from his room, but it was not there. He has had no fire and he could not have burned it. Ah! I have not looked into that,” he exclaimed, as he espied a square wooden box on the top of a chiffonier. In a moment it was in his possession. It was locked, but Jacques had brought a screw-driver with him for possible use, and the cover was soon wrenched off. It was full of letters.
“He read my letter,” said Jacques, “I will read his.” There were daintily written and perfumed epistles, love letters from ladies of the haut ton, both married and single, who now wished, no doubt, that their missives were back in their own hands or burned. Jacques threw them aside one after another. “Bah!” he exclaimed, “what a miserable flirt he is. I am so sorry he caught me and found out where that beautiful young lady is gone; but the Countess will protect her.” Suddenly he gave a cry of delight. At the bottom of the box was the letter for which he had been searching.
As fate willed it, on the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Jack De Vinne, heir to the Earldom of Noxton, presented himself at the residence of Countess Mont d’Oro in Paris. He had been to Buckholme, had seen Clarence, and learned from his wife that Mr. Thomas Glynne had gone to Paris in search of his ward.
“He is gone to bring her back,” said Jennie. “I do not know whether English law holds in France or not, but they say possession is nine points of the law, and I am sure the Countess will not give her up if there is any way of keeping her.”
It so happened that it was the French Jacques who admitted the English Jack.
The Countess’s faithful servitor placed the letter in the hands of the one for whom it was intended, explaining, as best he could, how it came to be opened.
“The Count and a big, stout man went away this very morning. They may have gone to Corsica, but I do not know.”
Jack felt sure that they had, and the next morning he was on his way thither.