CHAPTER XXIV.
THE HALL OF MIRRORS.
CROMILLIAN’S keen eye had seen Vivienne approach Victor. She could not have said much to him, for, an instant later, she disappeared from the room. Cromillian looked at Pascal, but the latter did not seem inclined to measure swords with him, so he glanced once more at the spot where Vivienne had stood, and found that Victor, too, was gone.
The object of his visit to the Batistelli castle had been attained—in fact, he had done more than he had intended, for the killing of either Pascal or Julien had not been premeditated.
One of his objects had been to punish treachery—and Paoli was dead; another had been to protect Victor from the vendetta—and that, too, had doubtless been accomplished, and Victor was probably now on his way to his ship, beyond the reach of his enemies.
As active hostilities seemed to be at an end, Cromillian quickly came to the decision that he and his men would be more at home in the maquis than in the Batistelli reception room.
When they reached the door, they found their way barred by a body of gens d’armes. The Mayor of Ajaccio had dispatched a special messenger to summon them, and, as usual, they had arrived after the trouble was over. Neither Cromillian nor his men feared the gens d’armes. With loud yells, they rushed forward, scattering the police as though they had been puppets.
After Cromillian and his bandits had left the castle, the gens d’armes recovered from their surprise and, with commendable courage, started in pursuit of the outlaws. Half an hour later they returned, and the leader reported to the Mayor that their search had been fruitless. That official provided them with a task much more to their liking—to act as his escort back to Ajaccio.
Dr. Procida came forward at once to see if he could be of assistance to the wounded men. After examining the Count’s body, he looked up and found Pascal regarding him attentively. The doctor shook his head, ruefully: “He is past human aid.” He then turned his attention to Julien, making his examination much more thorough. Again, he looked up—Pascal still stood regarding him fixedly.
“Nothing can be done,” he said; “he is dead.”
The evening which had opened so pleasantly had ended tragically. The guests expressed their sympathy to Pascal and to Countess Mont d’Oro, then departed quickly for their homes.
A messenger was sent to summon the servants of the Countess Mont d’Oro, and the body of the young Count was conveyed to his mother’s house.
During the evening, Miss Enright had become acquainted with the Countess and Bertha. At the latter’s suggestion, the Countess invited the Admiral and his daughter to return home with her, as it would be almost impossible to reach their vessel at that late hour, and the invitation was gladly accepted. After what had taken place, a longer residence at the Batistelli castle would have been intolerable to Helen. Her father, used to scenes of blood, would not have been so sensitive about the matter, although he warmly resented the treatment which his lieutenant had received.
“This is a most re-mark-a-ble country,” he said to his daughter, as they were on their way to the Countess Mont d’Oro’s. “I thought you said the Corsicans were noted for their hospitality, and that the person of a guest was sacred.”
“So it is,” replied Helen, “until it comes in conflict with the vendetta, whose demands are superior to custom and to all law, whether human or divine.”
“Bless my soul! What a swordsman Victor is! I’ll have him made a captain as soon as I get back to England.”
Before retiring, Bertha went to the Countess’s boudoir to express her sympathy for her great affliction.
“It is a terrible blow to have lost your only son.”
The Countess’s eyes were tearless.
“He has lost more than I have,” she said. “He was never a good son to me. I would have been a good mother to him, but he spurned my advice and cursed me when I reproved him for his folly or his wickedness. His life has been cut short, and so have his sins.”
Manassa had been awakened by the shouts and the firing of the gun which had wounded Victor, and made his way to the reception room. He knelt beside the body of Julien, alternately weeping for the dead Batistelli and cursing the Della Coscias.
Pascal reasoned that Victor had not escaped from the castle, but had been taken by Vivienne to some hiding-place within. Bidding the Death Brothers follow him, he searched every nook and corner of room after room, without success, until only one remained—the Hall of Mirrors.
At the top of the large square tower of Batistelli Castle was the dungeon chamber mentioned in the letter left by Vivienne’s father. That letter, together with the instructions for opening the dungeon door, had been given to Vivienne that evening by Clarine. They were too precious to be trusted even to the guardianship of lock and key, and Vivienne had concealed them in the bosom of her dress.
In front of the dungeon chamber was the Hall of Mirrors, so called because the four sides were covered by large mirrors which extended from floor to ceiling. One unacquainted with the fact would never have imagined that the four mirrors, covering the walls in which was the door leading to the dungeon chamber, were hinged. When these four mirrors, which opened like doors, were thrown back, a new surprise greeted the eye. Upon the wall was painted a picture—the subject being the Garden of Eden. In the foreground stood Adam and Eve, while a short distance from them was a tree, among the leaves of which the body of a serpent could be seen.
On this fatal night, the mirrors concealing the dungeon door were closed, as they had been for a score of years, at least. How often Conrad Batistelli had visited it during his lifetime, no one knew. But, some twenty years before, Clarine had told Manassa that she had seen the master coming down the long flight of stone steps that led to the Hall of Mirrors. After making him promise not to reveal what she should say, she told him that the master’s face was white as a sheet; that he had sent her for some wine, and that when she went into his room an hour later, the bottle was empty.
“And you know, Manassa,” she had said, “he has never been a drinking man. Something must have frightened him. I wonder what there is in that old tower.”
And Manassa, who had a poor opinion of women, had replied, sneeringly:
“If there is anything mysterious up there, you will probably find out what it is before you are satisfied. In woman, curiosity takes the place of courage.”
On the evening of the birthday anniversary, Pascal had given orders that every candle in the castle should be lighted, and when Vivienne and Victor entered the Hall of Mirrors they found them burning brightly in the sconces on the wall between the mirrors, and in the candelabra.
“You are safer here than outside,” said Vivienne. “I will let you know when the castle is clear, and then there will, no doubt, be a chance for you to escape, and if you will allow me to advise you, monsieur, I should say leave Corsica—for a season at least. No doubt, you and your friends will be glad to turn your backs upon a nation which you must henceforth consider as inhabited by barbarians.”
“Not at all, dear friend! There are some here, mademoiselle, whom I shall greatly esteem while life lasts.”
“Try to forgive my brothers, if you can; they have been fearfully misled.”
“I would forgive any whom you love, mademoiselle, even though they subjected me to the keenest torture, but never can I feel greater remorse than I do at this moment.”
“Remorse—and for what?” cried Vivienne.
Victor was obliged to strain a point in order to supply a suitable explanation of his feelings. He remembered that Vivienne had told him that she did not love Count Mont d’Oro, and would never marry him. Victor knew that Vivienne was his friend, or she would not have twice placed a weapon in his hand to enable him to defend himself. He had never declared his love for her, and he had no right to presume that she was in love with him. He felt that she would not have aided him had she known him to be a Della Coscia. Then Miss Enright had told him that Corsican women were passionate—adding that passionate women were usually fickle. Did Vivienne love him? He would test her.
“My remorse,” he said, “is due to the fact that I have caused the death of Count Mont d’Oro. Do you remember the flower you gave me the morning that we first met? Here it is. I have it with me always.” and he held up the white rose with blood-stained petals. “I had sworn by this little flower never to injure any whom you loved, even to save my own life. And now, God forgive me! I have killed one dearer to you than a brother. I dare not ask your pardon for the rash act—I can only plead with Heaven to soften your heart towards me.”
“I do not understand you,” said Vivienne. “The Count dearer to me than a brother? Did I not tell you——”
Victor persisted:
“How can I hope for pardon from you, his betrothed wife!” He looked at the flower: “On each tiny petal I read a lesson—peace and love. I have proved recreant to my vow, sweet emblem. I am unworthy of a gift so pure. Die, then, with the fondest hopes my heart ever cherished. I crush both beneath my feet!”
He threw the flower upon the floor and raised his foot——
“No, you shall not!” cried Vivienne. “Do not destroy it!” As she spoke, she knelt and picked up the flower. “There is a magic charm hidden within its petals. The assassin’s steel could not pierce the breast upon which it reposed. Would you, then, throw away so powerful a talisman?”
“Assassin? You do not mean——”
“Yes, Count Mont d’Oro was no better than an assassin. Three times he sought your life, not because you had injured him, but because you stood in his path.”
“Then you did not love him?”
“I hated—I abhorred him! I honour the hand that struck him down.” She took Victor’s right hand in hers: “This is the hand, and to its keeping I intrust, once more, this little, faded flower. Keep it as a memento of me, and when you are far away, look at it sometimes and remember that you left one true friend in Corsica.”
Victor took the flower and pressed it to his lips:
“It shall never leave me more! Vivienne, you have saved my life, not only once, but twice, at the risk of your own. I must—I will speak, now that we are about to part forever. I must tell you that the life you saved is henceforth worthless to me unless blest by your love. Oh, you could not have avoided seeing my struggle, even while it seemed most hopeless. My future happiness is in your keeping. A word from your lips will forever seal the fate of one who loves you with a devotion second only to that which we owe to God. Speak, Vivienne! But, remember, you hold my life and its dearest hopes in your keeping. One word will bid me live and hope, or blast forever the fondest dream of my life!”
Vivienne was unconventional. She lifted her luminous black eyes and looked straight into his. There was no time for idle sentiment. The happiness of two lives, the fate of one, hung upon her answer.
“If, indeed, it rests with me, then I bid you live and be happy, as I shall be.”
Vivienne extended her hand, which Victor took and held for one brief moment. It was with difficulty that he restrained the impulse to clasp her in his arms and kiss her sweet lips, which had so frankly confessed her love for him. But Victor had a chivalric nature and he knew that, considering the avowal that must be made, such an act would be ungenerous. Hard as it was to utter the words which would part them forever, he realised that they must be spoken. Victor flung her hand from him, and cried:
“You love me, rash girl! I see it in the soft tenderness of your eyes—I felt it in the fervent pressure of your hand. No, no, you must not! Speak but one kind word to me and you outrage every inherent principle of your race! Dare even to regard me with pity and you forfeit every right to your boasted name and lineage! Oh, I cannot—will not—deceive you, even to win your matchless heart. You shall know me as I am, and then I will die at your feet!”
He passed her the sword, the blade still reddened with the blood of Count Mont d’Oro. He sank upon his knees, threw his coat wide open, baring his chest for the expected blow, and cried:
“Strike, for I am Vandemar!”
Vivienne started back, gazing at him with horror-stricken eyes. She raised the sword as if to strike—then it fell from her hand, clanging loudly upon the stone. She staggered, and leaned for support against one of the mirrors, which reflected her shrinking form, her death-white face, and closed eyes. She had shut them tightly, for before her had risen the picture of Vandemar lying dead at her feet, she standing over him, the sword, dripping with his blood, in her hands.
Vandemar saw her distress and, arising, said:
“You are suffering. Let me assist you.”
“Stand back! Do not touch me!” and Vivienne retreated towards the door which led from the room.
“What was that?” She bent low and listened. It was the sound of many feet on the stairway. They came nearer and nearer; then there were shouts and cries.
Summoning all her strength, she shot the rusty bolt into place. Some one tried to open the door, but it resisted his efforts. Then heavy blows rained upon it and a voice cried:
“Open the door! You cannot escape! We have you safely cornered.”
There was a lull for a moment, then Vivienne heard her brother’s voice:
“Vivienne, I command you to open the door. If you do not, it will be broken down.”
Vivienne heard the command, but she did not obey it; instead, she turned a pleading face to Vandemar.
“I will open it,” he said, and placed his hand upon the bolt.
She grasped his hand and pulled it away. “Come with me,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. He followed her, wondering what the meaning of this new move might be.
“You are mad!” she cried. “They would have pierced your defenceless breast with a dozen stilettos if you had opened that door.”
“As well now as later; it is only the difference of a few minutes.”
Vivienne paced back and forth, apparently in great distress of mind, as if hesitating between love and duty. Again, the cries were heard outside:
“Open the door, or we shall break it in! Vandemar must die! Blood for blood!”
The assailants had secured possession of a heavy piece of timber, for it was heard to crash against the stout oaken door.
Vivienne clasped her hands and stood as if praying:
“‘Never open that door except it be in case of great extremity, and never divulge the secret unless it be to save human life.’ Father, thou knowest that the hour of extremity has come, and that a life, dearest to me of all on earth, must be saved.”
Again the battering-ram struck against the door, and Vivienne felt that it would not long resist such terrific blows. She drew a paper from her bosom and rapidly scanned it, repeating the words to fix them in her memory. The hinged mirrors were thrown back and the wonderful picture of the Garden of Eden was revealed. Hidden springs were quickly touched, and soon the massive dungeon door creaked, and flew open without the aid of human hands. A noisome vapour came from the dungeon chamber and all looked black within. Vivienne pointed to the open door:
“It is your only chance for life. You must go in!”
Vandemar looked in, then turned away.
“It is a tomb!” he cried. “I would rather meet my fate here at once, than to suffer slow torture from starvation, and perish at last in a loathsome vault. I will not enter!”
“You do not value your life,” cried Vivienne. “If you will not save it for your own sake, I entreat you that you will do it for mine. If I live, I will release you.”
Vandemar gave her a questioning look—he did not dare to believe what he had heard.
“You hesitate! You do not believe me!” and there was a plaintive entreaty in her words. “Look in my face and see whether I could treacherously consign you to a death so terrible!”
Vandemar took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. “Vivienne,” he said, slowly, “I would trust you though all the demons of hell were combined to tempt you.”
He threw his arms about her—he might never see her again. Perhaps this was their last farewell. He drew her close to him and kissed her upon brow, cheek, and lips. With all the contrariness of woman, even at this crucial moment, she clung to him, for he was the first love of her young life—and this love was so sweet—how could she ever forget those kisses?
Again, with a terrible crash, the battering-ram was brought against the door, impelled by a dozen strong arms and hands. One more such blow and it must give way.
Vivienne threw her arms about Vandemar’s neck, but he gently freed himself from her loving embrace. He pulled the dungeon door to after him, but it was still ajar. Vivienne threw herself against it, and the hidden bolts sprang into their places. Vandemar was safe!
It was with difficulty that she reached the centre of the great room. She knew that she was alone, but, as she looked from side to side, it seemed as though the room was full of weeping women, unhappy as she was herself.
Once more the dull thud of the ram as it struck the oaken door! The iron bolt was torn from its fastenings and the door fell inward. Loud cries of exultation were heard as Pascal, followed by his retainers and the Death Brothers, burst into the room and rushed towards Vivienne.
Pascal grasped her arm roughly:
“You conspire against the honour of your family, faithless girl! Ingrate!! Tell me where you have hidden this villain—the son of him who killed our father.”
Vivienne released herself from her brother’s hold and looked at him defiantly:
“Pascal, remember that I am your sister. Our father was a gentleman. Do not forget that you are his son.”
“Stop!” shouted Pascal. “You are not worthy to speak his name. Tell me where you have hidden this sneaking lover of yours, for, by Heaven, you shall deliver him to us or it will be the worse for you. It was for him, the coward, coming here under a false name, that you trampled upon the love of an honest man and set my wishes at defiance. You false-hearted liar! You are no sister of mine! Hypocrite! Now speak!”
“You see he is not here.”
“But you know where he is!”
“I swear to you, Pascal, that I know not at this moment whether he be an inhabitant of earth or heaven. It does not require much time to waft a spirit to the skies.”
Her brother’s eye caught sight of the blood-stained sword upon the floor:
“Have you killed him? Where is he? I will not believe it until I see his dead body.”
“That time may come soon,” she replied. She was thinking of Vandemar in the dark dungeon behind her. Then she wondered if the mirrors had been closed. If not, Pascal would see the picture and discover her secret. She could not resist the impulse to turn and look at the dungeon door.
Pascal had waited for her to say more. When she did not, he cried:
“This is but a weak attempt at evasion. You have become an adept in trickery and deception. Now, hear me, Vivienne, and be warned in time. I shall ask you but once more—where is Vandemar?”
Vivienne realised that her entreaties, no matter how strong or how persistent they might be, would have no effect upon her brother, who was animated by the spirit of his race—the spirit of the vendetta—which demands a victim, a sacrifice, an atonement. In her veins flowed the blood of the Batistellis. Now that Vandemar was beyond their reach, she became strong, self-reliant, courageous.
“Find him, if you think I have hidden him! You have the keys of the castle, and see,” pointing to the men, sneeringly, “your friends are here to help you; and when you have found him, let your band of Death Brothers chant his dirge.”
Pascal advanced towards her, his sword raised in a threatening manner.
“I will have no more of this insolence,” he cried. “You shall answer, or I will strike you down!”
His anger was so intense that he might have carried his threat into execution if his followers had not interposed.
“No, no!” cried one, grasping his arm. “Bethink you, sir. Bethink you, sir, she is a defenceless woman. You must not strike.”
Then a chorus of voices arose: “She is your sister. You must not strike.”
Pascal let his sword-point fall, but there was no hope of mercy in his voice when he spoke. He evidently had a new project in mind, and was determined to carry it out.
“I will not kill you,” he exclaimed, “but he shall die!”
Then he beckoned to one of the men:
“Go tell Doctor Procida to come here at once.”
At the mention of the doctor’s name, Vivienne’s thoughts reverted to Julien:
“Pascal, tell me of Julien! Oh, tell me, is he dead?”
Pascal did not answer. Vivienne appealed to the men: “You will tell me. Is my brother——”
One of the men bowed his head, and she knew the worst.
“Oh Pascal!” she cried, “how can you think of murder, of revenge, when Julien is dead?”
“Your tears are out of place. Why should you weep for one whom you have insulted by unjustly taunting him with cowardice and delay of duty? Have you not reproached him often for not killing the very man whom you now screen from justice?”
Vivienne, who had felt no sorrow at the death of Count Mont d’Oro, now wept unrestrainedly when she learned that her beloved brother Julien was no more.
“I have, I have! Heaven forgive me! I will go to him. I must look into his face again. I will beg him to forgive me. You say he is dead, but when I speak to him, he will come back to life and forgive me, for I loved him, and he loved me.”
Pascal smiled grimly, and touched his forehead significantly. To one of the men, he said in an undertone: “She has lost her reason.”
Vivienne was determined to see Julien. She started towards the door, but Pascal grasped her arm and drew her back:
“Stay! You shall not insult him with your presence.”
At that moment, Dr. Procida entered. He was a dapper little man, with small, beady eyes, and was clad in a suit of black. His voice was soft and apologetic, his manners suave; he approached Pascal, bowing low:
“How can I serve you?”
“My worst fears are realised, Doctor,” said Pascal. “My poor sister is mad.”
The doctor rubbed his hands together—professionally, it seemed to those who saw him; in reality, gleefully—for he was saying to himself: “A thousand francs in my pocket, at least.”
“I am not surprised,” said the doctor. “The events of the evening have been too much for her sensitive nature, but we will soon have her cured, Monsieur Batistelli. What she needs, and must have, is retirement—rest. Our private asylum at Salvanetra offers the first, and I will see that she gets the other.”
“Stop, sir!” cried Vivienne, addressing the doctor. Turning to her brother, she said:
“You cannot mean it! You cannot be so cruel, so utterly heartless, as to carry out such a farce as this! I must be dreaming!”
The doctor nodded his head. Pascal saw the movement and understood.
“I know, I know, my dear,” said the doctor. “Yes, it is a dream, but you will be much better when you awake to-morrow. You will get up looking as fresh as a rose, and you shall have a nice drive with my wife. Would you not like to go with me to Salvanetra and see the pretty house in which I live?”
Vivienne turned her face away. She could not answer, for she already loathed the man.
“Doctor,” said Pascal, “I wish her to have the best of care.”
“All my patients get that,” the doctor replied, blandly.
“She is in good bodily health,” Pascal continued. “Give her no nostrums. I do not believe in them.”
“Neither do I,” said the doctor. Until his patients were under his charge, he always agreed with the ideas of their relatives and friends. There is a saying that some persons are “All things to all men,” and there are none who so fully exemplify it as those who have charge of the insane.
“Pascal,” cried Vivienne, “you mistake me much if you think I will tamely submit to this terrible outrage. I will die first!”
“Ah, monsieur, do not answer her,” said the doctor. “She is becoming excited, a condition to be avoided if possible, at least until she is in more suitable quarters.”
“I will order the closed carriage, Doctor,” said Pascal, “and my servants, who will accompany you, can drive it back to-morrow morning. Come along!” he said to Vivienne, and he attempted to grasp her hand.
Vivienne recoiled: “Now? To-night? You cannot mean to-night, Pascal?”
“I mean now, at once,” he cried. “Come!”
“Better try gentleness before using force,” Dr. Procida suggested.
“Force? You would not force me from this room? Oh, Pascal, shut me in here, give me bread and water, and naught but the cold stones to lie upon, and I will bless you!”
Pascal turned to Dr. Procida: “Better take her at once.”
Then Vivienne appealed to the doctor. “No, no! For the love of Heaven, tell him to leave me here! I shall go mad, indeed, if you take me from the castle.”
She threw herself at her brother’s feet: “Here upon my knees, I beg that you will not send me away from the dear home I love, to live, and eat, and sleep with lunatics. Oh, God! Suffer not a thing so horrible! Torture me, Pascal. I will endure anything at your hands if you will but let me remain here!”
Dr. Procida placed his hand on Pascal’s arm: “Gently, monsieur.”
Pascal raised Vivienne, and adopted the doctor’s suggestion:
“It is for your good, sister. I will come to Salvanetra in two weeks. If your health is restored, you shall come back with me.”
“Two weeks! Two weeks!! Oh Heaven! Doctor, tell me, tell me, can one live two weeks without food or drink, without the light of the sun, or moon, or stars?”
“You shall have all you want,” the doctor replied, irrelevantly.
“Stop!” she cried; “your voice is like the doom of hell in my ears!”
Pascal and the Doctor each grasped a hand, Vivienne struggling violently to free herself, and they were obliged to let go their hold.
“Oh, Pascal, one word—one word more—one last appeal! Let me see Clarine for one minute, just one! Let me breathe but one word into her ear, and I will go with you quietly. Oh, you will not refuse this, my last request? Say I may, dear brother, oh, say I may!”
The thought had come to her that if she could see her old nurse, tell her where Vandemar was and give her the paper, he might yet escape. Clarine knew all the secret passages in the old castle. Hope still remained. Was the paper safe? Yes, it was there. The poor girl was nervous, excited, almost distracted. When she withdrew her hand from her bosom, she unknowingly brought the paper with it. It fluttered a moment on the air, and then fell to the floor.
Pascal had been watching her closely. Her action had disclosed the hiding-place of her secret. By this paper, she knew how to open the dungeon door—and now it was in his possession. A look of almost fiendish exultation came into his face. He tore the paper in pieces, threw the fragments upon the floor, and stepped upon them.
Vivienne had seen the paper in Pascal’s hands.
“Oh my God!” she had thought, “he will open the dungeon door and kill him!”
With a wild, despairing cry, she threw up her hands, and was falling, senseless, to the stone floor, when the doctor sprang forward and caught her in his arms.
Pascal signed to one of the men to assist the doctor. “Order the carriage,” he said to another; then he added: “Go, all of you! I will meet you soon in the reception room. I have something for you to do to-morrow. Manassa, put out the lights.”
As he descended the long, steep stairway, he soliloquised:
“It is just as well; it will be a slow and lingering death, while my sword or stiletto would have ended his pain at once. ’Tis better thus, for we shall not have to bury him.”
Manassa had heard the last words uttered by Vivienne. Before snuffing the candles, he picked up the pieces of paper and put them in his pocket. When he reached his room, he locked the door.
An hour later, he looked up with a satisfied smile.
“It is all here!” he exclaimed. “I have the secret of the dungeon door. Vandemar shall die by my hand. I will avenge the wrongs of the Batistellis!”