CHAPTER XIX.
THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.
NO two individuals could be more dissimilar as regards the essentials which enter into the composition of human character, than Helen Enright and Vivienne Batistelli. Helen’s education had been devoted chiefly to the head, with but little attention to the finer sensibilities, and virtually none at all to the passions of the heart. Mrs. Inchbald and Mary Wollstonecraft had not voiced the rights, or rather the wrongs, of women, so that her education was the result of an individual inspiration instead of proceeding from a preconcerted and combined movement on the part of her sex. She was fortunate in having a father who loved her so well that he pushed aside the conventionalities of the time and allowed his daughter to have her own sweet will in everything which did not interfere with his personal comfort.
When he fully realised the extent of her acquirements, he became intensely proud of her; but his praises in those days were more calculated to drive away suitors than to attract them, for by the men of that time a highly educated woman was looked upon as one to be avoided and not likely to make, what Englishmen most desire, an obedient wife.
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.”