CHAPTER XVIII.
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.
WHILE Victor and Vivienne were participants in the exciting events which took place in the maquis, Bertha Renville was seated in the cosey little room which had been assigned to her, and in which she had passed many happy hours. She derived much pleasure from the thought that Jack was on the way. She had caught Count Mont d’Oro in one falsehood and did not believe his statement that her guardian, Thomas Glynne, was in Corsica. Since the Count’s accident, the real cause of which was unknown to her, for he had told a plausible story of missing his footing when stepping from his carriage, both the Countess and Bertha had passed an hour each day with him; for what woman is there who does not have some compassion for so helpless and harmless a creature as a man with a sprained ankle?
Vivienne had not felt inclined to make a confidante of Snodine, for she knew that she was a great gossip, and that what she told her would be retold the next day with many fanciful additions to the other servants. But Vivienne could place implicit trust in her old nurse, Clarine; so, the next morning, she went to her room, determined to confide in her and to ask her what could be done, if anything, to induce Julien to give up his evil ways.
She was obliged to postpone her disclosures, however, to a more opportune time, for Old Manassa had made an early morning call on Clarine and, according to his usual custom, had fallen asleep in the easy-chair which he considered his personal property when he paid a visit to the old nurse. His head had fallen forward and his wrinkled hands were clasped tightly over the huge head of the big oaken staff which was his constant companion. He declared that he was a hundred years old, and there was no one to gainsay his claim to that advanced age. He had, upon several occasions, when supposed to be asleep, evinced a comprehension of, and a marked interest in, the conversation which was going on about him. For that reason, Vivienne thought it best to put off giving Clarine an account of her adventures until she could speak to her alone.
Clarine, however, had something to say to Vivienne, being apparently unmindful of the presence of Old Manassa, or willing to have him hear what she said.
“Do you know,” asked Clarine, “that in two weeks you will be eighteen years old?”
“I really had not thought of it,” Vivienne replied. “My birthdays have never been occasions of particular enjoyment to me.”
“But this one will be,” cried Clarine. “You will not be a young girl then, but a woman, and such events are always celebrated in Corsica, and also, I have heard, in other parts of the world. Yes,” the old nurse repeated, “in two weeks you will be eighteen years old.”
“How old are you, Clarine?” asked Vivienne.
“Manassa says his mother told him that he was four years old when I was born. If his memory can be depended upon, I am ninety-six. How well I remember the day your grandfather brought me to the castle! I came to nurse your grandame. Your dear sainted mother was but two weeks old when I first saw her sweet face. How swiftly the time has sped, and you, the little weeny baby which she laid in my arms eighteen years ago, have been spared to bless my old age. God is good! Yes—yes.”
“Oh, Clarine, you have acted a mother’s part to us all. We can never repay you but by loving you dearly, as we do.”
“I know you do, child. I know it. But how vividly the old times come back to me to-day. For Old Manassa there once asked me to be his wife, but I had no heart to give. It was buried, years ago, in the grave of my husband.”
“Dear Clarine, is love so tenacious as to wed a living heart to the tomb?”
“Not all hearts, dear, but mine could never love again.”
“I suppose the times and the people have changed much since you were a girl, Clarine.”
“Ah, yes, child,” said the nurse. “The people most of all. I remember when this castle was a fortress for hundreds of brave warriors and, too, when poor refugees sought safety within its strong walls. Ah, me, those were dreadful times. I have seen a hundred soldiers upon the ramparts, firing upon our enemies, and many a prisoner has ended his life in the tower dungeon.”
“The dungeon! I never knew there was one. Do my brothers know about it?”
“No human being but myself knows. Even Old Manassa there is ignorant of its existence. To my hands alone was intrusted the duty of carrying food to the poor prisoners confined there, who were destined never more to see the light of day.”
“Oh, Clarine, can this be true!” Vivienne cried. “You did but dream it. You sometimes have bad dreams, you know, when you are not well.”
“Ah, child, you will soon know whether it be a dream. Now, listen to me, darling; don’t lose a word I say, for I am about to impart a message from the dead.”
“What? From the dead?”
“Yes, from your dead father. He called me into the library two hours before he went out for the last time alive. He shut the door, took my hand in his, and made me promise that upon your eighteenth birthday I would impart to you a knowledge of the existence of the dungeon, and also give you a paper of written instructions, telling you how to open its great door—a door which can never be unfastened but by one possessing the secret of its complicated springs and bars.”
“But why did my father desire this secret to be divulged to me alone? Why not to my brothers as well?”
“He thought, no doubt, that they might, in some emergency, make bad use of such knowledge. He knew not how headstrong they might become, or how fiery their passions might be when they reached manhood. He had come to abhor the spirit of revenge and murder which pervades our country. I will repeat to you his very words: ‘My daughter’s gentle heart will understand my motives when you say to her from me: Never open that door except in case of great extremity, and never reveal the secret to any living being unless it be to save human life!”
“To what extremity could I ever be driven which would oblige me to open that terrible door? I shudder to think of it, Clarine.”
“Heaven knows, child—we do not. But I believe such a time will come.”
“What makes you think so? What good reason can you give?”
“Your father had a presentiment that he would die a violent death when he was a comparatively young man, and he told me that when the door was opened by your hand, he would be there to meet you.”
“Ah, Clarine, I think it is superstition rather than reason that leads you to think as you do. I never saw my dear father, nor my mother to know her, but my father’s words are sacred to me and I will be true to the trust that he has confided to me.”
“You had a noble father and a beautiful mother. He was brutally murdered by an assassin. When your poor mother heard the news, just after you were born, she went out of her mind, and a few days later we laid her beside the one whom she had loved so well. Their blood cried aloud for vengeance, but the murderer was a coward. He ran away from Corsica and the curse of Rimbecco still rests upon our family. But come, child, we have talked enough about such matters. Let us go into the garden and the bright sunshine will drive away unhappy memories.”
When they had gone, Manassa opened his eyes, then, raising his oaken staff, brought it down upon the floor with all the strength he possessed.
“They say women cannot keep a secret, but Clarine has kept that one for nearly eighteen years. She would have made a good wife, but she wouldn’t have me, although I was only seventy-five when I proposed to her. I think I know where that dungeon is and I will find out how to open the door. But when I shut it, I hope that Manuel Della Corsica and his son Vandemar will be on the inside. When they are, I shall never try to open the door. No, I will let them starve and die there—then no one can say Rimbecco to the Batistellis, or to their servants who love them and will ever be faithful to them.”