CHAPTER XX.
“WHO IS MASTER HERE?”
AT the Count’s request, Villefort accompanied him home and assisted him to his room. The Count’s next desire was that he would summon the physician who was attendant upon him, and Villefort complied, inwardly grumbling because the carriage was not placed at his service. The doctor was out and not expected to return for a couple of hours. Ordinarily, under such circumstances, he would have gone back to the Count and have informed him of the prospective delay.
He took out the four louis d’or and looked at them:
“How cursed mean to make me pay Barbera! I expected at least ten louis d’or for myself besides the one for expenses. I have always said that if he played me a mean trick, I would drop him. He has never half paid me for what I have done.”
Thus soliloquising, he walked on until he once more reached the cabaret. Again he beckoned to Barbera to follow him to the private room.
“I have an explanation to make to you,” said Villefort.
“I think it is about time,” exclaimed Barbera. “What in the devil did you get me to write such a letter for, then bring it back and tell me to tear it up? I thought you had something on hand that would pay us both well.”
“That’s what I’m going to explain,” said Villefort. “Order up a bottle of wine. I’m cursed thirsty, for I have been walking an hour over dusty roads, and I get nothing for my time or trouble.”
“I thought Monsieur Villefort was too sharp-witted, and his services too valuable, to long serve a poor paymaster.”
“I am done with him!” cried Villefort with sudden determination, and, as he spoke, he brought his wine-glass down upon the table with such force as to break it into fragments.
“Well spoken, Villefort!” cried Barbera. “You are too smart a man to play second fiddle always.”
“I’m coming to think so myself,” said Villefort. “Let me explain. I am going to tell you the whole story, but you must keep your mouth shut.”
“If I told all I knew,” said Barbera, “there would be many more widows in Ajaccio than there are now. But go on.”
“Well, the fact is,” began Villefort, “Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica.”
“I don’t believe it!” cried Barbera.
“I know it,” said Villefort, “so we won’t argue the matter. That young Englishman whom they call Victor Duquesne is really Vandemar Della Coscia in disguise. You know all about the duel between Count Mont d’Oro and the Englishman, so I won’t go over that again. You have heard, I suppose, that Paoli Tarenti and Giuseppe Mondolo were found dead in the woods.”
“Yes!” cried Barbera. “Do you know who killed them?”
“Yes, and I am going to tell you. I got Paoli and his friend to pick a quarrel with the Englishman and finish him before it was over.”
“What did you have against him?” asked Barbera.
“Nothing, but Count Mont d’Oro wished to get him out of the way and I did what I could to help him.”
“For a consideration, of course,” said Barbera, smiling.
“And a mighty poor one, too,” said Villefort.
“Only five poor little louis d’or, and I gave you one for writing that letter.”
“That letter is what I wish to know about,” rejoined Barbera.
Villefort then told how the initials “V. D. C.” were found cut into the table, and how it had occurred to both the Count and himself that the supposed Englishman was in reality a Corsican.
“The Count wished me to find out whether the Lieutenant had a middle name. When I came to you and asked you to write the letter, my idea was to have the Englishman drugged, then send for the Count, and let him settle the matter in his own way. On my way to the English frigate, it occurred to me that I was getting too deeply compromised, with no promise of reward, and, especially, nothing in advance. You see, I asked the hotel keeper who had last occupied the room, and found it was the Englishman; then I asked you to write the letter, and, besides, whoever I met at the vessel would surely remember me. I knew the Count wouldn’t give his life to save mine and I didn’t propose to give mine for nothing. So I managed the affair in another way, found out all that I wished to know, and that’s why I told you to destroy the letter.”
“Well!” cried Barbera, “I wouldn’t have done that job under twenty-five louis!”
“I got five and had to pay you one out of it, and that’s why I’m through with Count Mont d’Oro. I can stand anything in a man but meanness. I’ll make him pay dearly for that louis d’or—damn me if I don’t.”
After Villefort left the cabaret his copious draughts of wine began to take effect.
“How shall I get even with him? By St. Christopher! I have it. He will tell Pascal Batistelli and the old vendetta will be revived. There is one man in Corsica who is bound to put down the vendetta. They call him Cromillian, the moral bandit. I will go and see him. There’ll be no money in it, but revenge is sweet, and Count Mont d’Oro and his friend Pascal will find themselves deprived of their victim.”
As the anniversary of her birthday approached, Vivienne spent the greater part of her time with her old nurse, Clarine. Rendered motherless, as she had been when only a few days old, Clarine had been both nurse and mother to her, and it was only natural that she should pour into the ear of her only confidante those troubles and secrets which a young girl usually makes known to her mother alone.
One morning she sat talking to Clarine, the coming birthday party being the subject under consideration. As was his habit of late, Old Manassa was apparently asleep in his arm-chair, but still half conscious of what was going on. The conversation between Vivienne and her old nurse was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Pascal, who, paying no attention to the other occupants of the room, approached Vivienne and asked, abruptly:
“Have you sent out all your invitations for the party?”
Vivienne looked up inquiringly and answered: “Yes.”
“That is strange,” said her brother; “I saw Count Mont d’Oro this morning and he told me that he had not received one.”
“I did not desire his company,” Vivienne replied, “and, therefore, did not invite him. I have asked the Countess his mother, and Miss Renville, and that ought to satisfy you.”
But Pascal was not satisfied. He had met the Count that morning, who had told him that he had a most important secret to communicate, but that it would not be proper to tell it until his sister Vivienne had become Countess Mont d’Oro. He had added:
“Vivienne will be a woman in a few days. Why not have the wedding occur within a week thereafter and end all this nonsense?”
The Count then remarked that he had not received an invitation to the birthday party.
Again turning to his sister, Pascal said: “I presume that you have invited Lieutenant Duquesne.”
“How could I omit him,” asked Vivienne, “when he is our own guest?”
“I invited him,” said Pascal, “out of compliment to the Admiral, but did not suppose that he would accept, nor would he have done so if he had not met you that day in the garden.”
“I am ashamed of you, Pascal,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to speak to me in that way, even if you are my brother. You have no right to assume that Lieutenant Duquesne and I are anything more to each other than acquaintances—no, that is not quite honest—I mean good friends.”
“If you do not invite Count Mont d’Oro,” said Pascal, “I shall. But, considering their enmity to each other, it would be the height of incivility to ask both the Count and the Lieutenant. I will tell the Englishman that his invitation has expired by limitation, or better still, I will ask the Admiral to send him back to his ship.”
“I have invited Admiral Enright and his daughter. It would be the height of incivility, as you term it, not to ask Lieutenant Duquesne. You can tell both the Count and Lieutenant Duquesne that the other is coming and, if they do not wish to meet, both can stay away.”
“Is that the proper way for a young lady to treat her betrothed lover?” asked Pascal, indignantly.
“Pascal, you have no right to dispose of my hand without consulting my wishes, and I will not submit to it. I do not love the Count and I will not marry him.”
“No, no!” cried Clarine. “She shall not be compelled to marry a man whom she does not love.”
The interposition of Vivienne’s ally raised Pascal’s latent anger to a high pitch.
“Clarine,” he cried, “I command you not to meddle with matters which do not concern you! I act in her father’s stead, and it is my right and my duty to see her properly married and settled in life. For that reason, I have decided that Count Mont d’Oro shall be a guest, but I will not allow Lieutenant Duquesne to be present.”
“You have no right, Pascal,” cried Vivienne, “to take such a course.”
She raised her voice and cried, with all the decision of her impetuous nature:
“I say that Lieutenant Duquesne shall come!”
“And I say he shall not!” thundered Pascal.
Old Manassa, awakened by the loud voices, started to his feet.
“What is the matter, Clarine?” he cried. “What is all this loud talk about?”
“Why,” said Clarine, “Vivienne has asked Lieutenant Duquesne to come to her birthday party and Pascal says that he shall not.”
“But I say he shall come!” cried Manassa, and he brought down his heavy staff with a loud whack on the floor.
“Don’t cry, little girl.” Hobbling up to Pascal, he shook his staff in his face and exclaimed with more vehemence than before:
“I say he shall come! Do you hear me, young man? Do you hear me, sir?”
Pascal saw that numerically the odds were against him, for they stood three to one. He knew from past experience that, if goaded on, he would grow more and more intemperate in his language. He would reply to him with dignity and keep his temper:
“You forget yourself, Manassa. I am master here.”
“You master here!” shouted Manassa. “Then who am I? Who am I, sir?”
Clarine interposed: “You are only a servant, Manassa.”
“Am I a servant, Clarine? That boy is getting impudent, extremely impudent! I must bring him down a bit.” He shook his staff in Pascal’s face, again saying:
“I say he shall come. Do you hear?”
“There, there,” said Clarine, soothingly, “you are too old to get angry. A man a hundred years old ought to know better.”
“Old, hey! What if I am a hundred years old? Every day I live I learn something new. Who is this man that Vivienne wants to come to the party? Is he a Corsican?”
“No,” said Clarine, “he is a stranger—an Englishman—a sailor.”
“A sailor! They are good, true men. Speaking of sailors, I remember that soon after Manuel Della Coscia, the murderer and coward, ran away from Corsica, taking his son with him, I had a dream. I thought that the vessel in which he sailed, while on its way to Marseilles, was becalmed, and as it drifted there, helplessly, the devil came up out of the sea and, grasping the old Della Coscia and the young one, dragged them down with him—and I have liked the devil a little ever since.”
Even Pascal could not help smiling at this exhibition of devotion on the part of an old servant, but he did not propose to be further humiliated.
“Manassa,” he said, sternly, “we have had enough of this. Go to your own room.”
The old man grew still more incensed. “You talk as though you were my master,” he cried, “but you are not. I am master here. How dare you vex your sister? I say he shall come!”
Pascal’s anger rose again: “If you do not leave the room, I will put you out.”
“How can you speak so,” cried Vivienne, “to a weak, foolish old man?”
Manassa’s temper was equal to his age. “Hear him order me about, Clarine! Is he my master? The little good-for-nothing! Say, Clarine, is he my master?”
“Oh, Manassa, how forgetful you are getting to be! You know you were valet to Joseph, who had a son Conrad. This is Conrad’s son.”
Pascal was weary of the fruitless discussion. Why continue it? He had declared his intention of inviting Count Mont d’Oro and of requesting Lieutenant Duquesne to leave the house, and that settled the matter. Without replying to Manassa, he withdrew and proceeded to his library.
Manassa went on, apparently regardless of Pascal’s departure:
“Yes, I was Joseph’s valet. I remember now, and was I not Lady Julie’s valet?”
Clarine laughed. “Why, of course not. But you used sometimes to drive her out when the coachman was sick. How you do forget!”
“Well, whose valet am I now, Clarine?”
“You are nobody’s valet.”
“Is Pascal my valet?”
“No, no, Manassa! There now, don’t ask any more questions.”
“I do not wish to ask any more. I have heard all that I care to. I am going into the garden to take a walk. Run into my room, Clarine, and get me my other cane. It is not proper that the master of the house should walk out with an old stick like this,” and he threw his oaken staff upon the floor.
“Do hear the man talk,” said Clarine—“as if I could run.”
“I will go,” said Vivienne. “Sit still, Clarine.”
When Vivienne had gone, Manassa said: “How tall she is! How she has grown! She is almost as tall as Susette.”
“Why, Manassa, I haven’t heard you speak Susette’s name in ever so long,” said Clarine.
Manassa chuckled. “Do you remember, Clarine, the minuet we had that night over in the new barn at Prospero Point? My stars, how Susette did throw those black eyes at me that evening! I really do believe that the girl loved me, Clarine. Now, don’t you think she did?”
Clarine placed her hand upon Manassa’s arm. “Why, to be sure, else why did she marry you? For mercy’s sake! You can’t have forgotten that Susette Cornelli became your wife!”
Manassa rubbed his forehead meditatively. “So she did! Why, really, so she did. Poor Susette, she’s dead. Have I got a wife now, Clarine?”
“It beats all how you do forget. No, no, of course you have no wife, and are not likely to have any. You would not think of marrying at your age, I hope.”
“So you think I am too old to have a wife. Well, I will have a wife if I want one. Do you hear? I will have one! You are very impudent for a servant. I will have one if I want to! You are nothing but an old woman. What do you know about a gentleman’s affairs? Wasn’t I bodyguard to Conrad, Pascal’s father?”
“You mean Pascal’s grandfather, Joseph. How you do get things mixed up!”
“Here is your cane, Manassa,” said Vivienne, softly.
The old man took it, forgetting to thank her for her kindness, and stamped across the floor to the door which led to the garden. With his hand upon the latch, he turned, and casting a spiteful glance upon Clarine, ejaculated:
“I will have a wife if I want one!”
Then he went out, slamming the door viciously.
Pascal made his way to the library, with the firm intention of sending an invitation to Count Napier Mont d’Oro to become one of the guests at the birthday party. He had hardly completed his self-appointed task when Adolphe entered and informed him that a shepherd boy wished to see him.
“Who is he?” asked Pascal.
“I never saw him before,” Adolphe replied. “I think he has a letter for you.”
A few minutes later the boy entered. “I have a letter for Pascal Batistelli,” he said.
Pascal reached out his hand to receive it.
“I was to put it into the hands of Pascal Batistelli. Are you the right man?”
“That is my name,” said Pascal.
The boy handed him the letter and then retreated slowly towards the door. Pascal threw him a small coin, which the boy deftly caught, and then quickly withdrew. Pascal broke the seal and read:
“I cannot give you my real name in this note, for reasons which you will understand. I have found the man you seek. This is all I can tell you until some arrangements are made in relation to the reward offered. I am playing false to a friend in order to serve you—a friend who will fight for Vandemar to the death. I am obliged to act, therefore, with the utmost caution. I will meet you to-morrow night at twelve, precisely, in the maple grove behind the castle.”
“I understand,” said Pascal, as he laid down the letter. “This must come from the man who called himself Paoli, and who said that he belonged to Cromillian’s band. To serve me he must prove false to a friend. That friend, I suppose, is Cromillian, and, reading between the lines, I infer that Cromillian is a friend of Vandemar Della Coscia. So be it. The Batistellis have friends, also, and we shall soon learn which is the stronger party.”
At that moment Julien entered the room.
“Read that, Julien,” said Pascal, as he handed him the letter.
Julien grasped it, and seating himself near his brother, read it aloud, Pascal several times cautioning him to lower his voice. When Julien finished reading he jumped to his feet and exclaimed excitedly:
“At last! At last!! The hour of vengeance is near! If we find this man Vandemar, it should not take us long to avenge the murder of our father; then our sister will never again be able to reproach us with cowardice or wilful delay.”
“Be not over-confident, Julien. You know how sanguine we were when we sent Alberto Cordoni to England in search of some trace of Manuel Della Coscia, and you know what a large sum that effort cost us, and all for nothing. We were duped by Cordoni! This may be nothing but a plot to capture the reward. We must be on our guard!”
“But you will meet this man?” queried Julien.
“Certainly,” said his brother, “and you shall go with me. If he does what he says he can, I shall have to pay him a hundred louis d’or, but that is little for so much.”
Pascal changed the subject abruptly: “Julien, I have a favour to ask of you. Will you deliver this letter into the hands of Count Mont d’Oro?”
“Why, of course,” said Julien, taking up the letter. “But I hope you have not invited him to the party. Vivienne told me that she had not sent him an invitation. She doesn’t like him, and if he comes she will be unhappy.”
“Thank you for your advice,” said Pascal, coldly. “I never afflict her willingly, Julien, but brothers or sisters who do not, by their virtuous lives and firm counsels, support the customs and dignity of their ancestors do not deserve to bear their name. She is younger than I; it is my right to command and hers to obey.”
As Julien walked through the garden on his way to Mont d’Oro Castle, he said to himself:
“Pascal hit Vivienne and me with one stone. ‘A brother who does not by his virtuous life——’ That was meant for me. The rest was for Vivienne. That brother of mine is a shrewd man, very.”
Manassa’s colloquy with Pascal had left him in a very excited condition mentally. After uttering his spiteful declaration and slamming the door, he went into the garden prepared to be at war with all mankind. It so chanced that the first person with whom he came in contact was Terence, the head gardener.
Terence Devlin held the position of head gardener at Batistelli Castle. He had been guilty of an infraction of a law made by Englishmen for the government of Irishmen, and had left Ireland—not for his country’s good, but for his own personal safety. He had made his way to France, but soon found that British spies were on his track, and he chose Corsica as a country not likely to be very thickly populated with British emissaries.
“What are you doing, sir?” yelled Manassa, as he bent over the Irishman, who was upon his knees, trimming a garden border.
“Did yez spake to me, sor?” asked Terence, looking up.
“Of course I did. I wished to tell you that I am greatly displeased with your management of the grass-plots. Instead of pulling up the weeds one by one, as you should do, you let them grow, and they are taking deeper root every day. Why do you hire yourself out as a gardener without understanding your business?”
“Business, is it? And didn’t I take the full charge of the parks and gardens of his Lordship, the Earl of Bamford, and her Ladyship, Countess Stannerly’s gardens? No better gardener, sor, thin mesilf iver handled a spade, sure. This blatherin’ country, sor, was born in wades, reared in wades, and, God willin’, it will die in wades and be buried in wades. And is it mesilf that’ll pick thim out wan by wan? Whin Terry Devlin gets upon his knays to do the loikes o’ that, sor, you may put him down as a brainless jackass, widout any sinse at all, at all.”
“As I was saying when you had the impudence to interrupt me, there are far more weeds than grass in those plots—a most heathenish and unsightly spectacle. What did I hire you for, if not to do your work, and do it in strict accordance with my instructions? You forget yourself, sir!”
“I admit, sor, that the wades have got the best of the grass, and divil a doubt that they’ll kape it, too. They niver was known to give in if they have a show of a chance. They are just like your counthrymen, sor. If a poor divil is cross-eyed, they kill him, and if he is not, they kill him all the same, sor. An’ I take the liberty to tell ye, sor, that I resave my orders from the masther, Mr. Pashcal Batistelli, and no wan else. Do ye moind that, now?”
“The master!” exclaimed Manassa. “Pascal, the master! What folly! What do you suppose the lad can know about it? Why, that boy knows no more about gardening than a child unborn.”
“But he is masther of the Castle, all the same, sor,” said Terence, decidedly, “and I shall obey nobody else.”
Manassa was thunderstruck, but he managed to ejaculate:
“Who is master here? Who am I, sir?”
Terence looked up, and with a slight twinkle in his eye, said:
“Mathoosaler’s grandfather, I belave, sor!”
Manassa struck his cane upon the ground and cried, angrily: “You are an impudent puppy and blackguard. How dare you address me in that audacious manner? I’m not master, eh? You won’t obey me, eh? I say you shall weed the grass-plots! We’ll see whether you will obey or not. Clarine! Clarine!! Where’s the jade gone? Gadding about, I suppose, as usual. I say you shall weed the grass-plots! Now go, sir, and send Pascal to me. We’ll see whether you will obey me!”
Terence, who had remained upon his knees during this battle of words, now rose to his feet and started off as though he intended to summon Pascal Batistelli; but, instead of doing so, when he was out of sight of his recent antagonist, he entered the arbour and sat down, filled and lighted his pipe, and smoked contentedly. As he did so, he soliloquised:
“A foine, healthy counthry this is to allow a man to live afther he’s lost his wits intoirely. Faith, I belave he was a captain of the big craft at the toime of the flood!”
Manassa walked on through the garden paths, striking now and then with his cane at a flaunting weed, but his mind did not run in one channel very long and his thoughts soon reverted to the coming birthday party.
“I shall be very busy,” he thought, “until this party is over. What could they do without me? I am the only one who knows how things used to be done and how they ought to be done now. I have always been used to lords and ladies. People have no manners at the present day; even our children, although of baronial descent, have but little idea of true gentility. Pascal and Julien appear every day without their regalia, but I insist upon their wearing the badge—the red rosette—when in full evening dress. The degeneracy of the present age is truly most shocking. Why, you would hardly believe they have not even the old coat of arms upon their carriage, and no outriders. Even the footman is dressed like a circus clown, and the coachman looks like an aide-de-camp. Shocking! Shocking!! If only the barony had descended to me. I wonder if it did descend to me.”
Tired out mentally by his exciting controversies, and physically fatigued by his long walk, the old man sank upon a moss-covered stone which lay at the foot of a large tree, whose wide-spreading branches gave a grateful shade. He leaned against the old, worm-eaten, gnarled trunk, and was soon fast asleep.