CHAPTER XXIII.
“HE IS THE MAN!”
COUNT MONT D’ORO, Pascal, and Julien did not loiter on their return to the castle. An unseen enemy is always more terrible than one who stands out in plain view, and although the three men were not devoid of physical courage, and possessed the natural pride of their race, they felt greatly relieved and breathed much easier when they reached the reception room of the castle, which they had left such a short time before on what had proved to be a dangerous and fruitless errand.
They found the place empty, for the guests had not yet returned from the supper room. They could hear the hum of voices, and occasionally one broke into a song, the refrain of which was taken up by the company at the table, while at intervals the music of the orchestra could be heard.
“Who could have fired that shot?” asked Julien.
“It was Cromillian,” replied Pascal. “The man who was on the point of disclosing the identity of Vandemar Della Coscia was Paoli, Cromillian’s lieutenant. That moral bandit, as they call him, is a devil. I shall send to France for authority to hunt him down and kill him, as a foe to society. Vandemar has escaped us, but Cromillian shall not!”
“Vandemar has not escaped us,” said the Count. “It is unfortunate that Paoli was killed, but I possess the secret which he would have disclosed.”
“You!” cried Pascal and Julien, astonished. “Who is he? Where is he?”
“Let us seek some other room,” suggested the Count. “The guests will soon return.”
They passed into the adjoining ante-chamber. When there, Count Mont d’Oro told of the discovery made by Villefort, but took all the credit to himself.
“You have a double claim upon our gratitude,” said Pascal. “Your forbearance under the insult to which you were subjected this evening by our sister, and the great service which you say you can render our family in enabling us to remove the stain of Rimbecco from our name, will make us your friends for life. The boon you ask—the hand of our sister—is a compliment to us rather than a reward to you.
“Go, Julien,” he cried, “and acquaint Vivienne of our discovery. Then see that the ladies remain in the supper room, for this affair shall be settled within the walls of the castle. Vandemar shall not leave this house alive. The Count and I will send word to our retainers and friends, so that they may be witnesses of this act of justice.”
Julien sent Adolphe to summon Vivienne to the ante-chamber. She came immediately, for the disappearance of Count Mont d’Oro and her brothers, together with their long absence, filled her with indefinable fear.
“What is it, Julien?” she cried. “Why have you sent for me? What has happened?”
“We have made a most miraculous discovery,” he answered, and Vivienne judged from the expression on his face that whatever it might be, the knowledge gave him great pleasure.
“Tell me,” said Vivienne. “I hope it is something that I can enjoy as well as you. Now, Julien, was not that a selfish remark?” and she laughed at her own desire to be pleased.
“We have learned,” said Julien, and he lowered his voice, “that this so-called Englishman, this Lieutenant Duquesne, is the enemy of our family—Vandemar Della Coscia!”
For a second it seemed to Vivienne as though the blood ceased to move in her veins, and that her heart stood still, but she summoned courage.
“Who told you this?” she gasped.
“Count Mont d’Oro.”
“A miserable plot!” she exclaimed. “He looks upon Lieutenant Duquesne as a rival and has hatched up this story to compass his death. How can men be so base?”
“You have answered your own question,” said Julien. “For the love of a woman man can make himself either a hero or a villain. But think, Vivienne, when this man is dead, no one can point the finger of scorn at us, or couple the word Rimbecco with our family name.”
“But it is a wicked plot,” cried Vivienne. “The Count has no proof. He could easily invent such a story as he told you. The night I followed you to the woods, Julien, I was robbed of my clothing and jewels and left to die in the storm. Lieutenant Duquesne saved my life. Then I saved his, for it was I who killed the two men who had been hired by Count Mont d’Oro to murder the man who, he now says, is Vandemar Della Coscia. How plain this all is! It is strange that you cannot see it, Julien. You and Pascal may do as you will, but I shall warn Lieutenant Duquesne so that he may escape. He is unarmed, and cannot defend himself against you all.”
Julien grasped his sister by the arm, but she broke away. Breathing heavily, and with wild, staring eyes, she rushed into the reception room, to the great astonishment of the assembled guests.
Before she could speak, other voices were heard. They were the voices of men, and they chanted the words which had so often preceded the death of some man or woman doomed by the vendetta:
“Place on the wall before my bed
My cross of honour well gained.
To my sons, my sons, in a far country,
Convey my cross and bloody vest.
He, my first born, will see the rents.
For each rent, a rent in another shirt,
A wound in another heart. Vengeance!
The hour for vengeance is nigh.
Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls;
He comes, the last of his race, but he
Comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud,
Only to die; the vendetta, the spirit of the vendetta
Is awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood!
The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall
Bear the dread reproach of Rimbeccare; the stain
Shall now be washed away in blood.
Vandemar must die!”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Admiral Enright. “A most re-mark-a-ble serenade. What does it mean?”
The question was answered by the Mayor of Ajaccio: “It is the chant of the Death Brothers.”
“The Death Brothers?” asked Helen. “But this is a birthday fête, not a funeral.”
“In Corsica,” said the Mayor, “one is often followed by the other.”
“But,” cried the Admiral, “cannot you as mayor, order them away?”
“I am unarmed,” was the reply, “and have no posse with me.”
“But you represent the law,” cried Helen.
“I do,” said the Mayor, “but the vendetta is above the law. I can deal with the offenders afterwards, when known, but it is impossible to prevent the tragedy.”
So saying, he beckoned to one of the gentlemen present and they left the room together.
While this conversation was going on, Vivienne had eagerly scanned the faces of the guests, but Victor was not there. Where could he be? Had they already killed him? Were the Death Brothers chanting over his dead body? Had Pascal and the Count met him in the garden and wreaked their double vengeance upon him?
At that moment Victor entered, escorting the Countess Mont d’Oro and Miss Renville. Conducting them to chairs, he made his way at once to Vivienne.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but after I was forsaken by you, I discovered that the Countess and her friend had been deserted by their cavaliers, and I proffered myself as escort.”
Vivienne moved to a part of the room where there were fewer listeners. Then she said in suppressed tones:
“You must leave the castle at once, Lieutenant Duquesne. You are in danger. The Count wishes your life. It is my fault, for I insulted him grievously, and now you must suffer. Oh, leave the castle before they come back. Go to your ship—that is your only place of safety. I will have a horse saddled and you can escape easily.”
Vivienne did not mention that he was suspected of being Vandemar Della Coscia. She did not believe the story, and why should she speak of it? If she did, he might think that she, too, believed it; so she simply warned him, in order to keep her word.
Victor stood irresolute. He was unarmed, and knew the Count to be a vindictive, revengeful enemy, but he certainly would not murder him in cold blood in the presence of so many witnesses. He turned to Vivienne:
“Let the Count do his worst! I shall remain!”
The chanting of the Rimbeccare had ceased, but it was followed by shouts and cries which portended death to the object of the Death Brothers’ vengeance. The sound of moving men was heard; then Count Mont d’Oro, followed by Pascal, Julien, and the Death Brothers, entered the room, the startled and affrighted guests making way for them. The Count advanced towards Victor, who stood beside Vivienne. He pointed his finger at Victor and cried:
“He is the man!”
Then, turning to the guests, he said, in his most polite manner:
“I beg the pardon of the ladies and gentlemen present for what is about to occur. I would advise the ladies to leave the room, for the scene which is to follow is not one they should look upon. It will be an act of justice long delayed.”
The Mayor of Ajaccio, who had returned and heard the Count’s words, stepped forward, and said, in firm tones:
“If it is an act of justice, I represent the law and will see that it is administered.”
“It is an act of justice,” cried Pascal; “but it is more. It is something that affects the honour and good name of the Batistellis, and that is beyond your jurisdiction. Speak up, Count Mont d’Oro, and let all listen.”
“Before you all,” cried the Count, “I declare that the man standing there,” and he again pointed his finger at Victor, “is masquerading under an assumed name. He is not the one he seems to be. He is not an Englishman, but a Corsican. His name is not Victor Duquesne, but Vandemar Della Coscia!”
“It is false, good friends,” cried Vivienne. “The Count does not contemplate an act of justice, but one of vengeance.”
“It is true,” cried Pascal. “He is a son of the man who murdered my father, and by our unwritten law, handed down to us for hundreds of years, his death is but a poor requital for his father’s crime.”
Count Mont d’Oro unsheathed his sword and addressed Pascal:
“It is my right to secure satisfaction for the insult given me before your guests to-night. If in doing this I avenge your wrongs, so much the better.”
As Count Mont d’Oro, with drawn sword, advanced towards Victor, who, unarmed, looked at him proudly and defiantly, loud cries burst from many of the ladies, who averted or covered their faces, while some of the gentlemen exclaimed:
“It is not the Count’s right. It belongs to Pascal and Julien.”
Vivienne turned an entreating face towards Admiral Enright. Would he do nothing to save his friend and brother officer? Then she noticed for the first time that the Admiral’s sword hung by his side. She leaped towards him, grasped the hilt, drew the weapon from its scabbard and, an instant later, placed it in Victor’s hand. Then she reeled, and would have fallen had not the Admiral and his daughter supported her.
Victor was an adroit swordsman. He was cool and collected, while his antagonist was angry and over-confident. Victor felt that the contest meant death to one of them. He loved, and he wished to live. The Count’s passion made him almost a madman, and the fight was of long duration.
“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “That is the most re-mark-a-ble bit of fencing I ever saw.”
But the end came. For an instant the Count was off his guard. Victor saw his opportunity and sent his blade through the Count’s sword-arm.
Pascal, sword in hand, rushed forward and joined in the attack. At the same moment Julien signalled with his sword to the Death Brothers, who, with stilettos, gathered about the contestants.
“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “This is murder.”
Pascal was not a good swordsman, and his advent disconcerted rather than aided the Count, who struck wildly, putting at defiance both science and skill. Victor did not wish to injure Pascal, but he had no compunctions as regarded the Count. Although opposed by two men, he changed his tactics from the defensive to the aggressive. Using a trick which he had learned from his French fencing-master, he disarmed Pascal, sending his sword flying into the air. As it fell the hilt struck the Count upon the head. Bewildered by the blow, he dropped his sword-point so low that it left the upper part of his body unguarded, and the next moment Victor ran him through.
The Count dropped his weapon and threw both hands into the air. The horrified spectators expected to see him reel and fall backwards, but, instead, he placed both hands upon his chest, as though striving to check the stream of blood which welled forth. His strength soon failed him; he sank upon his knees, then fell prone upon his face.
Pascal regained his sword and was joined by Julien. Victor was now confronted by the brothers of the woman whom he loved. The situation was a terrible one. His first thought was to throw down his sword and let them wreak their vengeance upon him. But life is sweet, and love is sweeter. Perhaps he could disarm them both, for even together they were not his equal in swordplay.
At that moment a loud report was heard outside, and a rifle bullet struck Victor’s wrist. It did not pass through it, but, momentarily, paralysed his sword-arm and the weapon fell from his nerveless grasp. Victor retreated several paces—he must gain time. He soon felt the strength returning to his arm, but how could he regain possession of his sword? Pascal and Julien were advancing towards him, when Vivienne threw herself upon her knees, and grasping her brothers, prevented their onward movement.
“Traitress!” cried Pascal. “Get out of the way. You are no longer a Batistelli.”
Releasing her hold, Vivienne accomplished her purpose. Reaching behind her brother Julien, she secured Victor’s sword. Then, leaping to her feet, she cried:
“You may kill him, but you shall not murder him.”
Armed again, Victor faced his opponents, but the apparently unequal hand-to-hand conflict was over. With howls like those of a pack of hungry wolves, Cromillian, followed by his moral bandits—who, in fact, looked more like a band of ragged rascals—burst into the room, and the tide of battle was turned. As Cromillian reached the body of the Count, he stooped and picked up the sword, at the same time dropping his rifle upon the floor. It was he who had fired the shot which had been intended for Pascal or Julien, not for Victor. The uncertain movements of the swordplayers had affected his usual unerring aim.
“Two against two is fair fighting,” he cried. “Come on, you noble sons of Batistelli, or I will cry Rimbecco so that all can hear it.”
Stung to the quick by this, to them, insulting bravado, they rushed forward. Despite the injury to his arm, Victor, encouraged by the presence of Cromillian, repeated the trick, and once more sent Pascal’s sword flying through the air. But Julien’s fate was more serious. He was a better swordsman than his brother, but he could not withstand the furious onslaught of Cromillian, who battered down his guard time after time, and finally gave him a mortal wound.
Vivienne had watched the fight in every detail. She saw her brother Pascal disarmed and at Victor’s mercy—but she had no feeling of sorrow at his impending fate. Then she saw her brother Julien fall and, still, there was no pang of regret. Her thoughts were of Victor, and of him alone.
The Death Brothers were cowed, for the muzzles of the bandits’ rifles covered them. Vivienne grasped Victor’s arm.
“Come with me,” she whispered, “and I will lead you to a place of safety.”
He obeyed without a word. She pulled aside some tapestry, opened a door which had been concealed by it, and a moment later he was following her down a long passageway, so dark that he was unable to discern the outlines of her form.