CHAPTER XIV.
A FLOWER WITH BLOOD-STAINED PETALS.
BERTHA RENVILLE was seated alone in the beautiful boudoir of Countess Mont d’Oro. She had just received a long and interesting letter from Mrs. Clarence Glynne, the concluding paragraph of which read:
“My husband has almost entirely recovered from his severe illness. Mr. Jack De Vinne wrote us a short note, merely to say that he would start for Corsica immediately and we have not heard from him since. He informed us that he had called at Countess Mont d’Oro’s residence in Paris, but learned that you and the Countess had left for some place unknown. As for Mr. Glynne, your guardian, he left here at the time Clarence was taken ill to search for you and bring you back. Clarence thinks he went to Paris and finding you had accompanied the Countess Mont d’Oro to Corsica, that his father will undoubtedly continue his quest to that place. He says his father is a very determined man, is very angry at your disappearance, and will certainly follow you if he can learn where you have gone.
“Yours very devotedly,
“JENNIE GLYNNE.
“P. S.—I think Mr. De Vinne knows where you are, but thought it best for us not to know.”
Count Napier Mont d’Oro’s experience had not been very pleasant before his meeting with Lieutenant Duquesne. Learning from one of the servants that his mother had gone to pay a visit to a tenant who was ill, he made his way at once to her boudoir. Upon entering he found Bertha seated, gazing abstractedly at the letter which she had just finished reading.
“Ah! My good mother is not here. I wished to speak to her. I suppose she will return soon. Pardon me, if I wait,” and he sank into a chair. “This is a beautiful morning, is it not, mademoiselle? And how do you like Corsica?”
“I have seen very little of it,” was the reply. “I have not been out of the house since my arrival, except to take a walk in the grounds.”
“Ah! That is a shame!” cried the Count, sympathetically. “Will you not go driving with me this morning? Our scenery is beautiful because it is so natural. The hand of art has not tampered with it as it has in France.”
“You are very kind, Count Mont d’Oro,” Bertha replied, “but your mother said she would order the carriage this afternoon.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Count. “I know she is afraid of a spirited horse, and old Pierre will drive you, with a pair of horses almost as old as he is. I have a high-stepper in the stables, a spirited beast that curvets, prances, and amuses you with his antics.”
“I think,” replied Bertha, “for carriage driving I should prefer the quieter animals. I am not afraid when I am on horseback, but really I must decline your invitation. There are reasons——” She hesitated. The Count drew his chair closer to her.
“And what are the reasons, do you suppose, that have caused me to give up my pleasant life in Paris and come down here to this humdrum place?”
Bertha felt piqued by his persistency. “To see your lady-love, I suppose,” she said.
“To see a lady-love, yes. Do you know her name?”
“Mademoiselle Vivienne Batistelli, I presume,” replied Bertha, with a tone of restraint in her voice.
The Count laughed. “She is one of them. I suppose you may have heard that she is my prospective bride. But a Corsican falls in love many times before he weds.”
“I am not used to the ways of your country,” said Bertha, “and, for that reason, I cannot fully appreciate what you have just said.”
“But I know a great deal about your country,” rejoined the Count. “I had the pleasure of coming from Marseilles to Ajaccio on the same vessel with a true friend of yours.”
Bertha started and her cheeks flushed. Whom could he mean but Jack? He was only teasing her after all. She must be more gracious. She turned a smiling face towards the Count and said:
“I have so few friends in Corsica I should be pleased to learn that I have one more. When may I expect to see him?”
“Well,” replied the Count, “he is not coming here until I tell him that you are ready to receive him. He has promised to be guided by me in the matter.”
“That is strange. I do not understand you.”
“Well, you will when I tell you who he is.”
Bertha was in a quandary. What could it mean? Who would make a promise to Count Mont d’Oro that he would not come to see her except with the Count’s permission? It must be Jack—and yet, she hesitated to mention his name.
The Count thought the time had come to relieve her suspense.
“My companion,” he said, “was your guardian, Mr. Thomas Glynne.”
Bertha started to her feet. The smile faded from her face and a look of apprehension, almost terror, succeeded it.
“But you will not tell him where I am?” she cried, appealingly.
“Oh, he knows where you are,” replied the Count, “but I imagined from what I heard that you were not very desirous of seeing him, so I made him promise that he would not come here until I told him he might.”
“That was very good of you, Count. I do not wish to see him. You will do all you can to keep him away from here, won’t you?”
“Well, that depends,” said the Count. “I do not think I should enjoy your society if he were here, and, if there is any prospect of our passing some pleasant days together, you may be sure that he will not hear from me while they last.”
Bertha divined his purpose and her proud spirit rebelled at the virtual threat. So this young man proposed to force himself upon her and to oblige her to endure his society. If she did not comply, then he intended to send for her guardian. Whatever slight feeling of respect she may have had for him vanished at once. No wonder that his mother hated him. What a mean-spirited young man he was! But what could she do? Then the thought came to her that Jack was coming to Corsica. Perhaps he had already arrived and would soon be there to protect her. She turned to the Count.
“It makes little difference to me, Count Mont d’Oro,” she said, “whether my guardian comes here or not. I have other friends upon whose protection I can rely.”
“I know whom you mean,” said the Count, “but he will not come. You are thinking of Monsieur De Vinne. Your guardian expected to break the sad news to you himself, but as he is not here I will tell you what he told me. Your young friend, Monsieur De Vinne, was, unfortunately, killed in a fight which took place between a Frenchman and an Englishman.”
There was a look of scorn upon Bertha’s face and a withering tone of disdain in her voice when she spoke. “Count Mont d’Oro, what you have just told me is a falsehood. I know that it is not true. I have a letter from Mrs. Glynne in which she tells me that Mr. De Vinne expressed his intention of starting for Corsica at once. If he has not already arrived, he will be here very soon. I do not understand what your motive has been in telling me such untruths. I do not believe that my guardian is here or that he has made you any such promise as you say he has. While I remain in your mother’s care, which I trust will not be for long, I will try to be civil to you, but I do not care to have any further conversation with you upon any subject whatever.”
As she uttered the last words the door opened and Countess Mont d’Oro entered. She took in the situation at a glance. Her son, as usual, was making himself disagreeable. She had heard Bertha’s closing words and her womanly intuition supplied the rest of the story.
“Napier,” she said, “your presence here, as I have told you many times, is unwelcome to me, and I know that it must be to Mademoiselle Renville, from what I have just heard. If you insist upon remaining, it must be in your own apartments. I will see that your meals are sent to you. Come, mademoiselle.”
She took Bertha’s arm and the two women left the room.
The Count stepped out upon the terrace. The hunt was up. He had been beaten at his own game. What a fool he had been to say anything about De Vinne. He had gone too far, had said too much, and had lost all. Well, there were plenty of pretty women in the world, but this fair, young Miss Renville was so different from the others. The case was not hopeless, after all. De Vinne had not arrived, and the guardian had. He would see the guardian and put him on the watch. Some plan could be formed, no doubt, by which the lovers could be kept apart.
He descended the long flight of steps and walked towards the gateway. A horse was fastened to a tree just outside. To whom could it belong? Perhaps young De Vinne had arrived, his mother knew it, and had taken Madamoiselle Renville to meet him. Hearing voices, he glanced down a wooded path and saw a young man in naval uniform, and—he was speaking to a young lady. Who could it be? A few quick strides down the path and he saw that it was Vivienne Batistelli.
Now, Count Mont d’Oro knew in his heart that he did not really love Vivienne, but the mutual wish of his father and her brother had been carried out so far as he was able, and he reasoned that she had no right to love anybody else and no one else had any right to love her. Victor’s words—“To see her is to love her”—rang in his ears. Had matters, then, gone so far as that? A moment later the two young men stood face to face.
“What right have you to that flower?” demanded the Count, his voice choked with passion.
“The right of possession,” said Victor, quietly; “but what right have you to ask such a question?”
“I am Count Napier Mont d’Oro, of Alfieri,” was the reply.
“Such extreme confidence merits reciprocity,” said Victor. “I am Lieutenant Victor Duquesne of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Osprey, now lying at anchor in the harbour of Ajaccio.”
“Where did you get that flower?” cried the Count, at the top of his voice, his feelings evidently becoming ungovernable.
“It was given to me by a young lady. She said her name was Vivienne Batistelli.”
“I only know,” said Victor, “that she is beautiful in person and charming in her manners. I may have been presumptuous in asking for the flower, but she certainly excused it or she would not have given it to me. Are you well acquainted with her?” and Victor calmly regarded the angry face of the Count.
“She is to be the future Countess Mont d’Oro,” was the reply. “She is betrothed to me and has no right to give flowers or any other token to an absolute stranger. Give me that flower.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Victor. “If the young lady who was so kind as to bestow it upon me asks for its return, I will give it to her, but nothing shall force me to give it to you.”
“We will see about that,” cried the Count, and before Victor had divined his intention, the enraged man drew his stiletto and made a thrust at him. Victor threw up his left hand to ward off the thrust, receiving a severe cut which bled freely.
Physically, Victor was much more than a match for the Count. Grasping the latter’s wrist, he bent his right hand backward until the fingers loosed their hold upon the stiletto and it fell to the ground. Victor gave the weapon a vigorous kick, and it disappeared from sight in a clump of bushes. He next gave the Count a push backward, crying as he did so:
“Now, let me pass!”
But the Count had reached that stage where ungovernable fury takes the place of reason. He aimed a blow with his fist at Victor, which the latter parried, while with his right hand, which was tightly clenched, he struck the Count fairly between the eyes and felled him to the ground.
In the struggle the white rose, which had been the cause of contention, had fallen upon the ground. Victor picked it up, and as he did so he noticed that its former white petals were now blood-stained. Her flower and his blood! He unbuttoned his coat, placed the rose over his heart, and then buttoned the garment again.
Casting a contemptuous look at his late antagonist, who seemed to be recovering consciousness, he retraced his steps through the wooded path, vaulted over the low gate, mounted his horse, and rode at a rapid rate towards Ajaccio.