AJACCIO, Alfieri, and Cromillian’s camp formed the angles of an equilateral triangle; in other words, it was about five miles from Ajaccio to Alfieri; it was another five miles from Alfieri to Cromillian’s camp. The two members of his band, however, who formed Andrea Fortier’s escort, for Jack had given his assumed name to his companions, were too well acquainted with the country and too anxious to reach camp to travel ten miles when they knew that, by a short cut over the mountains and up the ravine, the distance was not more than five.
If some of the residents of Ajaccio, who had experienced a taste of Cromillian’s justice, had known that his camp was in such close proximity to the town, they would certainly have tried to induce the officers of the law to attempt his capture. Yet, this would have been hard to effect. They would have had to rely upon the gens d’armes who, although they could not shirk duty when called upon to arrest a person within the limits of the town, were decidedly averse to invading the maquis. The bandits were such good shots, had such far-reaching rifles, and, besides, had such a way of firing from behind trees and stone walls, that the gens d’armes always scouted the idea of their being able to capture a bandit, and their officers were not loath to embrace the same opinion.
It was after midnight when Jack and his escort reached Cromillian’s camp. He was at once taken into the presence of the Chief who, seated in a little grove, was writing by the light of a fire. Jack presented the letter given to him by Victor, which Cromillian opened and read.
Thomas Glynne, who had followed close upon the heels of Jack and his companions, was very anxious to learn the reason for the young man’s visit, under such circumstances, to this particular locality. He approached the camp, skulking behind one tree and then another, when a firm hand from behind grasped his coat collar, and he was hurled violently to the ground. He attempted to rise, but found himself surrounded by four heavily bearded, fierce-looking men, who grasped him and, without saying a word, took him at once to the little grove where Cromillian sat.
Thomas Glynne looked at Jack, who returned the gaze, and instantly recognised the man whom, of all on earth, he least desired to see. The thought occurred at once to each, “Why is he here?” but neither could answer the question.
Cromillian looked up. “Monsieur Andrea Fortier,” said he, addressing Jack, “my thanks are due you for the great service which you have rendered one of my band. This letter, although addressed to me, is for another person. He cannot read, but I will communicate the contents to him and will write his reply, which you can take back to him to-morrow. See that he has food and a bed—the best we can afford,” and Cromillian waved his hand towards the two men who had accompanied Jack to the camp.
As soon as Jack had departed, Cromillian turned to the four captors of Thomas Glynne.
“Whom have we here?” he asked.
Glynne felt that it was a crucial time with him. He must tell a good story, or the bandits might look upon him as a spy and treat him in a summary manner. He was naturally bold and resourceful, and he now summoned all his wits to his aid.
“Will you allow me to ask a question?” he said, addressing Cromillian.
The latter nodded.
“What did that young man who brought the letter to you say his name was?”
“He gave the name of Andrea Fortier,” Cromillian replied.
“That is not his real name,” cried Glynne. “My name is Thomas Glynne. I am an Englishman. His name is Jack De Vinne and he, too, is an Englishman. He caused my ward, Bertha Renville, to run away and he is here to join her. I promised her father on his dying bed that I would be a father to her and protect her. This Andrea Fortier, as he calls himself, is of low origin, while she is a girl of wealth and refinement. He seeks but her fortune, and I appeal to you for justice.”
“Take him away,” cried Cromillian, “and bring the other man here.”
His commands were quickly carried out and Jack, who left his supper unfinished, once more stood before Cromillian.
“What did you say your name was?” asked Cromillian.
Jack, who had no idea of what had been said by Glynne in his absence, replied: “Andrea Fortier.”
Cromillian smiled grimly. “I mean your real name young man. I know what it is, or I think I do.”
It immediately dawned upon Jack that Thomas Glynne had told some sort of a story in order to explain his presence near the bandit camp, and he resolved to make a clean breast of it and tell the whole truth.
“Sir,” he began, “I assumed the name of Andrea Fortier as I did not wish my presence here to become known to the man who has just left you. This I explained to Lieutenant Duquesne, who intrusted me with the letter which I delivered to you. My real name is John De Vinne. I am a Englishman. I am in love with the ward of the man Glynne. Because of dislike and dissatisfaction she left his home, from no suggestion of mine, as I knew nothing whatever about it until she arrived in Paris. Her guardian is withholding from her facts relative to the wealth left her by her father, and is using every endeavour to keep it in his own hands. She fears her guardian, and I am here to protect her and, if possible, make her my wife. I am well connected and am amply able to give her the position in life to which she is entitled. This man, her guardian, must have followed me from Ajaccio.
“Owing to a combination of circumstances which it would take a long time to relate, the young lady went to Paris to avail herself of the protection of Countess Mont d’Oro, an old friend of her father’s. She is now visiting the Countess at Alfieri. We both learned of her presence here and each of us has come to claim her. I have not seen her as yet, nor do I think he has. Sir, that is the whole story.”
“I believe you have spoken the truth, young man,” said Cromillian. “The guardian has told an entirely different story, which may or may not be true. If yours is true, his is false. If his is true, yours is false. When in doubt, I always settle the matter for myself. I will go to Alfieri, see this Mademoiselle Renville and her chaperon, the Countess, and find out which of the stories is true. In the meantime, both you and her guardian will be obliged to remain with my band and, necessarily, share our comforts and discomforts, the latter predominating.”
He sent for Paoli and gave him a strict command that neither Glynne nor Jack should be allowed to leave camp until permission name from him.
The next morning, Paoli asked Cromillian if there was anything special on hand for that day.
“I have not seen my old mother for three months, and I thought, if you could spare me, I should like to make her a visit.”
“Go, by all means,” said Cromillian. “I know of nothing now that will require your services, particularly. I am sorry I cannot send that young fellow who brought the letter last night back with the answer. Can you pick me out a good man who can disguise himself so well that the gens d’armes at Ajaccio will not recognise him? If you can, send him here. I do not care to know who he is.”
An hour later, an apparently old man, with long white hair, a bent figure, and a wrinkled face, presented himself to Cromillian and said, in a squeaky voice:
“I was sent by Paoli.”
Cromillian did not speak, but handed him a letter addressed to Lieutenant Victor Duquesne, at the hotel at Ajaccio.
“Bring back an answer,” said Cromillian. The old man bowed and withdrew.
The bearer of the missive appeared old and decrepit until he was beyond the borders of the camp. Then he suddenly developed an agility entirely at variance with his aged appearance, for he ran at full speed along the road which led to his destination. Hearing a woodsman singing at his work, he quickly resumed the appearance of old age and maintained it until he was out of sight of the wielder of the axe.
When he arrived at the hotel, he learned that Lieutenant Duquesne was in his room. He refused to state his business, saying that what he had to deliver he must place in the Lieutenant’s hands himself. So Victor told the servant to have him shown up to his room.
The old man sat down while Victor read his letter. It was with difficulty that he refrained from exhibiting physical signs of astonishment at its contents and, on several occasions, he came near giving audible vent to his feelings. He restrained himself, however, and only the play of his naturally expressive features gave any indication of what was passing in his mind.
“There was to be an answer, to show that I delivered the letter to the proper party,” said the old man.
Victor wrote, folded, and sealed the missive and placed it, with a silver coin, in the man’s hand.
“Take it to the one who sent you,” was Victor’s parting admonition.
The old man thanked him. Victor opened the door, and, standing at the head of the stairs, watched the aged messenger as he went slowly down and out into the street. Then Victor returned to his room and read and re-read his letter until the words and the lines became blurred and he could see no more.
It began:
“You will no doubt be surprised when you see the name upon the outside of this letter, and then compare it with the one which you have just read, upon learning that it means one and the same individual. You will also, no doubt, be surprised to learn that your right name is Vandemar Della Coscia, instead of Victor Duquesne, and that your father’s name is not, and never was, Hector Duquesne, but the one which you will find at the end of this letter.”
Vandemar looked and read the name—Manuel Della Coscia.
“An explanation is due you, my son. Seventeen years ago, a man named Conrad Batistelli was found dead in one of his fields, and the evidence pointed to me as the murderer. There was no vendetta between our families, and I could not have pleaded that in justification. I did not commit the deed. The one who did is dead and cannot exonerate me. In order to save him, I consented to leave the island and take you with me. I did not care for my own life, but I did not wish to see yours cut short by the hand of the assassin.
“I have sent for you to come to Corsica because I wish to prove my innocence and to restore to you the noble name which is your birthright. There is no older family on the island than that of Della Coscia, and no young Corsican can boast a prouder lineage of noble and patriotic men. Your ancestors were Corporals, and the honour of their names descends and rightfully belongs to you.
“Beware of the Batistellis. They are your sworn foes, and seek your life. Be wary and commit no indiscretion. Above all, do not allow yourself to be entrapped. I will see you soon, but I must choose the time and place. Do not leave Corsica until I have seen you. Until then,
“Your loving father,
“MANUEL DELLA COSCIA.”
The aged messenger who had brought the letter to Vandemar, and who had the reply in his possession, walked slowly along the main street of Ajaccio, accosting no one, looking neither to the right nor left. When he reached the Batistelli castle, he made his way to the servants’ quarters and asked to see Manassa.
In response to his summons, a man appeared whose white hair and wrinkled skin indicated that he was very old, but whose erect figure and strenuous walk both seemed to deny the imputation. He was a man of great stature, apparently still retaining marked bodily strength. He must have been handsome in his youth, and was still attractive and commanding in appearance.
“I wish to see your master, Pascal Batistelli,” said the messenger.
“He is busy in his library,” was Manassa’s reply. “Come again some other time.”
“Lean down and I will tell you something.”
Manassa complied. A smile, fiendish in its nature, went over his face. He nodded his head a dozen times, chuckling as he did so.
“Come with me,” he said. “My master will be glad to see you.”
“Who are you?” asked Pascal Batistelli, as Cromillian’s messenger approached the table where he sat.
The man looked to see if Manassa had left the room. Assuring himself of the fact, he asked:
“Will you keep my secret if I tell you who I am? It will pay you to do so and will injure you if you do not.”
“Under those circumstances, I will give you my word,” said Pascal.
“I am Paoli, Cromillian’s lieutenant.”
Pascal started to his feet, crying: “What are you here for? What business have I with you or your leader’s gang of thieves and cut-throats?”
“Not so fast, my good sir,” said Paoli. “We may injure some, but we benefit others, and I have come here to do you a great favour.”
“I do not understand you,” said Pascal, “but go on,” and he sank back into his chair.
“You have heard, I suppose,” said Paoli, “that Vandemar Della Coscia, whose father murdered yours, was about to be foolish enough to come back to Corsica. What would you say if I told you that both Vandemar and his father were now on the island.”
“I should say that you lied!” cried Pascal.
“Let it go that way then,” Paoli coolly replied. “I know Vandemar is here, for I have seen him. No one who had known a Della Coscia could mistake him. I am sure, too, that the father is here; I don’t yet know where he is, but I shall find him. If I put you on their track, what do I get?”
“A hundred louis d’or for each,” cried Pascal Batistelli.
“Will you put it in writing?” asked Paoli.
“No,” said Pascal, “the word of a Batistelli is sufficient.”
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when the old man again presented himself to Cromillian and handed him the letter which Vandemar had written, and which he had most carelessly and incautiously addressed to Manuel Della Coscia.
Cromillian looked at the superscription, and then said:
“I will see that this letter reaches the party to whom it is addressed.”
The old man bowed once more, and soon vanished among the trees.
Cromillian looked again at the superscription on the letter.
“Young and thoughtless!” he ejaculated. “Headstrong and brave, too, or he would not be true to his name.”
He placed the letter inside of his jacket and walked briskly into the dense wood, nor did he stop until he was fully a mile from the camp. He then threw himself upon the turf, broke the seal, and read the following:
“MY DEAR FATHER:
“I was not only surprised but delighted to receive your letter. I have never felt that I was of French birth, and I knew I was not English. I am glad to know that I am a Corsican. I never knew before what ancestral pride was, but now it surges over my heart like the waves of the ocean. Do not fear that I will leave Corsica before we meet. If the vessel sails, I will endeavour to get a furlough. If I cannot, I shall resign my position in the British Navy and devote my life to proving your innocence and reclaiming my heritage. I do not fear the Batistellis. I hear that one is a coward and the other a drunkard, but the daughter is an angel, who is betrothed to a devil named Count Mont d’Oro. I will keep away from them.
“Ever your loving and dutiful son,
“VANDEMAR DELLA COSCIA.”
It was long after dark when Paoli reported for duty to his chief.
“How is your mother?” asked Cromillian.
“But poorly,” was Paoli’s reply. “I do not think that she can live much longer. She made me promise that I would come to see her again in a week.”
“And you must go,” said Cromillian. “Bad men, as well as good men, usually have good mothers, and wickedness in a son can be atoned for greatly by filial tenderness.”
“How did the messenger succeed with his errand?” asked Paoli.
“Completely,” said Cromillian. “I have had a long walk. I am tired and footsore, for I had to go a long way from here to find the one who wrote the letter which I sent, and to whom the reply belonged.”