CHAPTER XXI.
A BIRTHDAY PARTY.
ON the anniversary of her birthday, Vivienne received many congratulatory letters, and many visits from personal friends who could not be present to enjoy the festivities in the evening. From nearly all of the writers or callers she received some visible tokens of love or esteem. Vivienne was delighted with these evidences of regard, but looked forward with intense interest to the hour when the message from her dead father was to be placed in her hands.
Clarine had told her that she was born at six o’clock in the afternoon, and, as she would not be eighteen years old until that hour arrived, she would not give her the paper until that time. Vivienne coaxed, pleaded, and finally remonstrated, but the old nurse was inexorable.
After the candles were lighted in the rooms which were to be used by the guests, Clarine and Manassa made a tour of them. Manassa wished to remain through the evening, to be sure that the festivities were carried out in proper form. Clarine laughed and said:
“Why, you foolish old man, you would be sound asleep by seven o’clock, and if I stayed here to look after you, I should fall asleep, too. Wouldn’t it be a pretty sight for the other guests to see us two old fogies sound asleep in the corner of the room? You know you snore terribly.”
“No, I don’t know it,” snapped Manassa. “I never heard myself snore in my life, and never expect to.”
“Well,” said Clarine, “Vivienne is coming to my room, for I have something to give her, and you must go to your own room, for, much as we usually enjoy your company, to-night we do not care for it.”
When Clarine and Vivienne were alone together in the nurse’s room, the former took from her bosom a sealed packet and handed it to the young girl.
“When your father gave it to me, the day of his death, it was unsealed. He told me that I might read it, and I have done so many times. Of late, I have feared that some prying eye might discover it, so I sealed it. My next fear was that some one might take it, and for a year I have carried it with me while awake and have placed it under my pillow when sleeping. I have kept the vow that I made to your dead father. Now I can die in peace, when Heaven wills.”
“Shall I read it now?” asked Vivienne.
“Yes, dear, for I may be able to assist you if you do not understand it.”
Vivienne ran her eyes quickly over the page. The writing was in a large, round hand, and although the paper was discoloured and the ink faded, each word was easily deciphered. As Vivienne read, the old nurse watched her attentively.
“Have you come to the part where it tells how to open and close the dungeon door?”
“Yes,” cried Vivienne. “What wonderful mechanism! Who could have invented it? Oh, Clarine, it makes my blood run cold to think of that fearful dungeon shut out from the world by such demoniac ingenuity.”
“But the Hall of Mirrors is considered the most beautiful room in the castle,” said Clarine.
“And so it is. Julien and I used to love to play there, for as we ran about the room, or danced, we could see ourselves in the mirrors, and it always seemed as though we had many visitors who were joining in our games. We were too young to think that any of those mirrors were hinged, and that when opened they would disclose a dungeon door behind them. Heaven grant that I may never have cause to open that door!”
“Never, unless in great extremity or to save human life,” said Clarine, solemnly. “Those were your father’s words to me, and I have never forgotten them. Now, darling, you must forget everything that will call up unpleasant memories, and be joyous and happy. I will go with you to your room and help you put on that beautiful dress which your brother Pascal gave you. There will be pretty girls here to-night, but none will be so beautiful as my little Viva.”
What the old nurse had said was surely realised. There is no woman whose natural beauty is so great that it cannot be enhanced by the aid of art. Poets and painters rave over peasant girls and fisher maidens, and write about and paint them. Near the close of the poem, however, the poet makes a lady of his country or seaside heroine—clothes her in costly raiment and decks her with jewels. In poetry, as in music, there must be a crescendo. Again, the artist may marry an ideal face and form, but when she has become his, he selects delicate tints and filmy garments with which to clothe her, and his artistic sense inevitably leads him to the conclusion that the golden or raven-black hair, parted in the middle, with modest simplicity, should be replaced by the latest coiffure.
Beneath the dexterous hands of Clarine, who had dressed many a bride, Vivienne was transformed, and when the young girl looked in the mirror she started back in honest astonishment at the sight of her reflection.
“Viva,” cried the old nurse, “you are perfect, and if I were Count Mont d’Oro I would fall down and worship you.”
“If you were Count Mont d’Oro,” replied Vivienne, “I would allow you, but I shall not give the real Count any such opportunity.”
“Well,” said Clarine, “I will not worship you, but I will give you my blessing. May you have a long life, and health, happiness, and prosperity be ever yours.” She kissed the young girl and the caress was returned in manifold. “Now I will go with you to your brothers,” said Clarine, “and introduce you, for I am sure it will be necessary.”
“Not until I have seen Manassa,” cried Vivienne, and she made her way quickly to the old man’s room. He sat in his chair, sound asleep, his hands resting upon the head of the oaken staff, his head bowed upon them.
Vivienne touched him upon the shoulder. He slept lightly, and awoke easily. At sight of the vision before him he started to his feet, rubbing his eyes.
“Beg pardon, Lady Julie,” he exclaimed, “but I did not hear your bell. What are your commands?”
“This is not Lady Julie,” cried Clarine; “this is our own Viva, but it is not strange that you do not know her. She has come for your blessing.”
Vivienne sank upon her knees before him. The old man placed his trembling hands upon her head.
“May you be as happy as was the Lady Julie—she was the most beautiful woman in Corsica, and I was her favourite servant. I saved her life one day. I came near losing my own, but I would have given it willingly. My dear, you are a Batistelli, but the family has fallen from its high estate. The shame of the Rimbecco is upon it. Be true to your name and to your brothers who have sworn to remove the stigma.”
The old man fell back heavily into his chair and covered his face with his hands. As Vivienne and Clarine left the room they heard him say: “Rimbecco! Rimbecco!!” and there were pathos, bitterness, and anger commingled in his voice.
The guests began to assemble. The Batistelli family had been one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most influential in Corsica, and although its prestige had waned, it had not wholly departed. Vivienne had spread her invitations far and wide, and the acceptances indicated that the gathering would include representatives from the best families in Ajaccio and the surrounding country.
Among the first to arrive was the Mayor of Ajaccio, accompanied by his two daughters, Carlotta and Josefa. Count Napier Mont d’Oro escorted his mother, the Countess, and Miss Renville. Admiral Enright was accompanied by his daughter, Helen. Vivienne, whose quick eye saw every guest long before he was presented to her, noticed that Lieutenant Duquesne was not with them. The thought came to her that her brother Pascal had, without doubt, told the young Englishman that his presence was no longer desired, but her inward anger against her brother was far less intense than against Count Mont d’Oro, whom she looked upon as the real cause of the young man’s proscription. Among the late arrivals was Dr. Valentino Procida, who was the proprietor of a private asylum for the insane at Salvanetra, a village about five miles from Alfieri. The company grew by constant accessions, until it became both large and brilliant, completely filling the spacious drawing-room.
Pascal and Julien, attired in the national costume, over which they wore the regalia of the Batistelli family, together with the traditional red rosette upon their left breasts, acted as ushers and presented the guests to Vivienne, upon whose face forced smiles quickly appeared, immediately followed by unmistakable looks of disappointment.
At a signal from Pascal the musicians began to play, while Julien motioned to the guests to step back, thereby leaving Vivienne standing alone in the middle of the great room.
Seven young and pretty girls, also wearing the national dress, entered, one of them bearing a floral wreath containing eighteen roses, which she placed upon Vivienne’s head. As she did so, the musicians, who were provided with bells, rang out a silvery chime. The girls then joined hands, formed a circle about Vivienne, while their fresh young voices sang the Birthday Song:
“Set the birthday bells a-ringing;
To our queen her friends are bringing
Freshest flowers of every hue,
Dripping with the evening dew.
All advancing,
We are dancing,
Bringing flowers of every hue,
Dripping with the evening dew.
Hear the ringing and the chiming
Of the merry, merry bells,
Eighteen years their story tells.
How within the heart it swells!
All advancing,
We are dancing,
To the ringing of the bells,
Merry, merry birthday bells.”
At the close of the song they let go of each other’s hands and formed in line, facing Vivienne. Seven young men, dressed in the costume of peasants of the better class, next entered, and took positions behind the row of maidens. Pascal and Julien then stepped forward and escorted Vivienne to a rustic chair, which was covered with a profusion of flowers and which had been reserved for her use.
Now the musicians played some weird, peculiar dance music and the fourteen youths and maidens took part in a wild, characteristic Corsican dance. The steps and gestures were full of abandon, and although the staid Miss Helen Enright was not absolutely shocked, when the dance was over she had the impression that the conventionalities of society were not kept within as strict lines in Corsica as they were in England.
All sailors love to dance and to see others dance, Admiral Enright was delighted. In the exuberance of his feelings, he grasped Pascal’s hand and ejaculated:
“Bless my soul! A most re-mark-a-ble performance!” He turned to his daughter—“Helen, would it not be a grand idea to introduce so pleasant a custom into English society?”
Miss Enright was an adept in concealing her real thoughts—the ability to do so is a defensive armour which education only can supply—and she responded:
“I fear we could never acquire the habit of doing it so gracefully, papa.”
Pascal bowed and replied: “I am pleased to know that you are not bored. We are not, as a general thing, fortunate in pleasing strangers with our manner of doing things.”
Helen profited once more by her ability to conceal her displeasure and express the contrary:
“I am sure we have visited no place since we have left home that has afforded us so much pleasure as Corsica.”
To this commendatory remark, the Admiral added: “We shall carry with us many happy recollections of this island, I assure you. That dance was really re-mark-a-ble; was it not, Helen?”
She whispered in her father’s ear: “Yes, papa, I really think it was.”
Adolphe, clothed in the livery of the Batistellis, announced that the birthday supper was served.
Events proved that in Corsica, as in other countries, this announcement was the signal for the gentleman guests to choose partners to accompany them to the supper room. Count Mont d’Oro offered his arm to Vivienne, who drew back with a marked gesture of refusal. Pascal saw it and, in a low voice, commanded her to accept the courtesy and not cause a scandal. They, accordingly, took their positions at the head of the line, being followed by Pascal and Miss Renville, Julien and Miss Enright, while the Admiral escorted the Countess Mont d’Oro. The musicians struck up a march and the procession made a tour of the great room. As it was about to enter the corridor, Lieutenant Duquesne suddenly made his appearance in the full dress uniform of a naval lieutenant in Her Britannic Majesty’s service.
Vivienne turned impulsively towards him, releasing her hold upon the Count’s arm, and the procession, necessarily, came to a standstill.
Lieutenant Duquesne apologised to Vivienne for his late arrival, explaining that he had been obliged to go to the ship to make his preparations.
“I am glad that you are in time for supper,” exclaimed Vivienne.
He bent low and said to her in an undertone: “I shall not enjoy it unless in your company.”
“But I am engaged,” and Vivienne looked towards the Count, who stood with face averted.
“You told me you were not.”
A hot flush mantled Vivienne’s cheek—she was not an adept in English humour or wit.
“You hesitate, but when we were in the forest that night you said that you would not forget me.”
“Neither will I,” she cried, with sudden determination. Before the Count could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to interpose, she had taken Victor’s arm and they proceeded to the supper room, closely followed by the company, that regarded further delay as unnecessary.
The Count was filled with rage at the insult which he had received, and was deeply mortified because his discomfiture had been witnessed by so many. He looked for some avenue of escape from further observation. Espying a door partly open, he quickly entered the room and found himself in the ante-chamber of the great drawing-room—from which the singers and dancers had emerged. Under the circumstances, he could not go to the supper room, nor would his pride allow him to leave the house until he had received an apology and reparation for the insult.
He finally decided to call a servant and have him summon Pascal and Julien. They soon appeared. The Count was resourceful and able to curb his passion when it was for his interest to do so. He began speaking in a severely dignified manner:
“Monsieur Pascal Batistelli, your sister has grossly insulted me in your presence and that of your guests. I demand an apology or reparation. I think I deserve both.”
“My dear Count,” said Pascal, “I deeply regret this unfortunate occurrence. My sister is self-willed, but she knows that she must ultimately do as I wish. I cannot humiliate her before her guests to-night. You must allow me to apologise for her rudeness, and I promise, as reparation, that she shall become your wife before a month has passed, and the same guests who are here to-night shall be bidden to witness the marriage ceremony.”
“I accept your pledge,” said the Count, “because I love your sister. Were it not so, I should demand satisfaction from you, her elder brother.”
“I acknowledge your right to do so,” said Pascal. “If I fulfil my pledge, will you be satisfied?”
“I will exact but one simple condition,” the Count answered.
“And that is?” Pascal queried, while Julien clutched nervously at his sword-hilt.
“A simple request and one easily granted,” said the Count. “It is that Lieutenant Duquesne shall leave this house at once.”
Julien looked at his watch. “It is beyond the hour, Pascal. If we do not go at once we shall be too late.”
“And you would postpone complying with my request until he has eaten his supper and can retire gracefully?” asked the Count, sarcastically.
“Let me explain,” cried Pascal. “You have, no doubt, heard the rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is in Corsica. You know what that means to us—and to him! Julien and I have an engagement to meet a man in the maple grove who has given us his word of honour that he can tell us where to find this man. Come with us, Count. We are well armed—we have our swords—and need fear no danger from a single man, who is, probably, unarmed.”
The Count’s first impulse was to speak and disclose what he had learned through the strategy of Villefort. Then he reflected that if the death of his enemy could be compassed without his complicity being apparent, his marriage to Vivienne might not, after all, be impossible.
On the way to the maple grove, Pascal told the Count how an old man had called upon him and had disclosed his identity, under a pledge of secrecy, and declared that he could point out Vandemar Della Coscia.
“I agreed to give him one hundred louis d’or,” said Pascal, “if his information proved to be correct. Some time passed, and I heard nothing from him. Then he sent a letter by a messenger, who, in turn, intrusted it to a shepherd boy to deliver to me. I saw the messenger and learned that the possessor of the secret wished to know if the money would surely be paid. I have it with me, and if the man puts me on the track of Vandemar, he shall have the promised reward.”
“I will pay half of it,” said the Count, generously, but unguardedly.
They were now nearing the maple grove. The Count’s offer had not been heard by Pascal, but it did not escape Julien’s quick ear. The three men, with swords drawn, entered the grove.
“I am here,” said Pascal, in a hoarse whisper.
The same old man who had visited him at the castle emerged from a clump of bushes. He carried a small lantern, which he held up so that its rays fell on Pascal’s face and those of his companions. The man started back with a cry of dismay.
“We are friends,” said Pascal. “Is that you, Paoli?”
“Hush!” growled the man. “Mention no names—the trees have ears. Have you brought the money?”
“I have it with me,” said Pascal.
“Shall I come to the house and point him out, or shall I tell you how to identify him?” asked the man.
“Give us the name he is known by—that will be sufficient,” said Pascal.
“He is called——” began the man.
Before he could speak the name there came a flash and a report from behind a clump of bushes not more than twenty feet away, and the man fell headlong to the ground, dead!
The three men advanced boldly towards the place from which the shot had come. They were met by a fusilade, the bullets, fortunately, perhaps intentionally, going over their heads.
“It is too hot for us here,” said Pascal. “Let us go back to the house at once, where your request, my dear Count, shall be complied with.”
Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the only one who knew that Victor Duquesne and Vandemar Della Coscia were one and the same person.
“My dear young lady,” said the Count to himself, “what a sweet revenge I shall have when I disclose my secret to your guests.”