CHAPTER XXVIII.
“WE WILL DIE TOGETHER!”
VIVIENNE went from room to room, calling loudly for Manassa, but there was no answer. Espying Terence at work in the garden, she asked him if he had seen Manassa. He answered her politely in the negative, but said, in an undertone:
“No, the old omadhaun; an’ may the divil fly away wid him before I do.”
At last Vivienne reached the foot of the long flight of stone steps that led to the Hall of Mirrors. She sank down exhausted; she was unused to such great physical exertion, besides being almost mentally distracted when she thought how powerless she was to save Vandemar without the help of one who, she knew, hated him as intensely as did her own brother.
At length, she arose and, going to an open window, again called loudly for Manassa; but there was no response. Sick at heart, she turned away from the window and went slowly up the steps.
At sight of the closed door of the dungeon chamber, her forced composure gave way. She ran to it and beat wildly against it until the blood oozed through the tender skin; then she sank upon her knees. She raised her clasped hands to Heaven and cried:
“Oh, mon Dieu! Give me back my memory but for one moment. Pardon me, mon Dieu, not for what I say, but for the way I say it. I learned the instructions in the paper by heart, but they called me mad, and I have forgotten them. Then I fell sick, and all is a blank. Oh, mon Dieu, give me back my memory, that I may save a precious life. Oh, my dear father in heaven, entreat the good God, who is God of Love and Mercy, to help me!”
Full of her simple faith, she arose and stood before the door, as though expecting to see it open of its own accord; but there it stood, immovable, relentless, merciless. She regarded it for a time with a helpless, dazed look. Then there came a revulsion, and the weak woman, with a feeble voice, was transformed into a new creature; for the time being she was mad, and, with that madness came the fictitious physical and mental strength, the showing of which deceives all but those who are acquainted with such manifestations of mania.
“I must open it,” she cried; “I will! I will!! Oh, father! father!! Clarine! Clarine!! Where are you? Where is Manassa? He is lost—lost! Come listen, Clarine—come! Five days, Clarine, five long days and nights! Dear God, one long night—one hundred and twenty hours of darkness; no food, no drink, and naught but the cold stones to lie upon.
“I see him now, with his eyes turned towards that merciless door; watching, praying for the ray of light that never comes; waiting for the sound of the voice that promised to save him; listening for the step he can never hear.
“Oh, I shall go mad! Mad!! Vandemar! Vandemar!! It is I, Vivienne. I have come to save you, but the cruel walls will not let me in. Speak to me, Vandemar. Tell me that you live. I am coming—coming!”
Again she struck the wall, frantically, with her bleeding hands:
“He is dead! I see him—I see the black, crawling things—they are fighting over him—they are feeding upon his forehead—back, back, back! Back, I say! They are tearing his flesh—hark! They are feasting royally. No, no, no! Spare him—spare him! He is mine, mine!”
She stamped her feet upon the stone floor: “I will crush you, you ravenous reptiles, despoilers of the dead; cold, venomous worms! Brush them away, Vandemar! Keep them back, beloved, for I am coming—coming to save you.”
Again, as though under the influence of an ungovernable passion, she struck the wall until the sense of intense pain obliged her to desist. Then came another revulsion. From a state of exaltation, she fell into one approaching stupor, and for some time seemed unconscious of her surroundings, of time, and of the terrible errand which had brought her there. Was this condition of quietude to be followed by another outburst of passion, or was she so exhausted that further effort would be impossible?
Suddenly, she awoke from her lethargy and listened intently. No, yes it was—she could not be mistaken—the sound of footsteps upon the stone stairway. Hope revived. Clarine had found Manassa and had sent him to open the door for her. But would he? He hated Vandemar. Perhaps he was coming only for the purpose of finding out if his enemy were dead. Madness always engenders suspicion. She would be cautious. If he opened the door, she would force him to let her in. She would fly to Vandemar—nothing should prevent her.
Behind one of the mirrors which, when thrown back, exposed the door of the dungeon chamber, Vivienne hid herself.
Pascal Batistelli was a brave man. He preferred to carry out his purposes by diplomacy rather than warfare, but it was only natural, after the tragic events which had deprived him of both a friend and a brother, that his heart should be filled with thoughts of vengeance—and, to a Corsican, vengeance and death are closely related terms. Vandemar was in the dungeon chamber and his death from starvation was certain. Vivienne was securely locked up in a madhouse and could not interfere with his plans. But there was one man, still living, who must die before his vengeance would be complete, so he gathered a large body of his adherents and started out in quest of Cromillian.
Old Manassa was a curious individual. At times, he seemed to be in his dotage, his memory gone, while his words were often childish and, more often, foolish. At other times, he seemed to have recovered all his youthful shrewdness and sagacity. He constantly bewailed the passing of the “good old times,” and often declared himself more worthy to be the head of the Batistelli family than Pascal, whom he looked upon as the degenerate son of a noble sire.
Now that Pascal was away, Manassa assumed all the airs, and, also, the powers of the lord of the manor. He considered that the honour of the Batistelli family was in his keeping and gloried in the fact that his enemy was in the dungeon chamber, condemned to a slow and horrible death from starvation.
Manassa was not only revengeful, but vindictive. He was not satisfied to allow his enemy to die in peace, even by slow torture. No, he would tempt him, taunt him, and then revile him. These acts would make his vengeance more satisfactory. So, he filled a basket with the most enticing food that he could find, put in a bottle of choice wine, and then made his way to the Hall of Mirrors.
Vivienne could hardly refrain from uttering an exclamation of delight when she saw him bearing the basket of food. Manassa was a good man, he was merciful, he had relented, and Vandemar was saved! She would have sprung forward and embraced him, so great was her joy, but there was a look on his face which chilled her blood, and she stood as if frozen to the spot. His expression was demoniac—but for what purpose had he brought the food? With every sense alert, Vivienne watched and listened.
Manassa placed the basket upon the floor, then took a piece of paper from his pocket—the instructions for opening the door of the dungeon chamber! Should she rush from her hiding-place, tear it from him, and open the door herself? No, she would let him do that. She would save what strength she had for what might come afterward.
With much difficulty, Manassa succeeded in opening the door:
“Vandemar! Vandemar Della Coscia! I have brought you some food and a nice bottle of wine. You must be hungry. Come and eat.” The words were spoken in a taunting tone, which belied their meaning. There was no response, and the old man laughed, mockingly.
“If I were not so old,” said he, “I would bring it to you; but, if you cannot come for it, you will have to go without it. I am so sorry, my good Vandemar, for I am sure you must be very hungry.”
After hearing these sarcastic words and, again, that horrible, mocking laugh, Vivienne could restrain herself no longer. With a cry like that of a tigress, she leaped upon old Manassa and hurled him to the floor. He was stunned by the fall and lay motionless. Vivienne took up the basket of food and tried to carry it, but her strength failed her and she was obliged to put it down upon the floor again. Then she grasped one side of it and was pulling it towards the dungeon door, when Manassa revived and saw who his assailant had been. He quickly divined her evident purpose to take the food to Vandemar. He did not try to regain his feet, but crawled upon his hands and knees until he was able to grasp the other side of the basket.
It was literally a contest for life or death—to Vandemar. Manassa was the stronger, and Vivienne felt herself being drawn slowly away from the dungeon door. In her fury, she drew from her bosom the stiletto which she had taken from Madeline Villefort and, making a desperate lunge, stabbed Manassa in the arm. With a cry of pain, he released his hold upon the basket. Vivienne, full of exultation, dragged it along the stone floor and pulled it into the dungeon chamber.
Manassa scrambled to his feet and stood, for a moment, uncertain what course to pursue. Then that look of demoniac wickedness, which had so startled Vivienne, came into his face again. He chuckled—a savage, unearthly sound:
“She loves her enemy. She is no longer a Batistelli, but a Della Coscia—and she shall die with him!”
Summoning all his strength, he closed the great door, and then, with the blood streaming from his wound, shambled from the room. Again that mocking laugh and those revengeful words:
“She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. She shall die with him!”
When Vivienne entered the dungeon chamber, her thoughts were of Vandemar, and of him alone. Was he alive or dead? The darkness was so intense that she could discern nothing. Where was he? She listened for some sound which might indicate in what part of the room he was. When the great door was closed behind her by Manassa, she had not heard. She stood irresolute, not knowing in which direction to proceed. Her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she perceived a faint ray of light piercing the gloom.
“Vandemar,” she cried, “are you there, near the light?”
Although there was no response to her question, she made her way towards the beam of light, the only sign of hope in what she feared—and that fear made her hold her breath—was the chamber of death.
Suddenly, her foot struck against something. She reached down and placed her hand upon it. It was the body of a man—it must be that of Vandemar. She longed to give relief to her pent-up feelings—she could have screamed with delight at finding him—but no, that would do no good. If he were alive, he must have wine and food.
She placed her hand upon his heart; it was beating, though but faintly. She knelt—she could feel his breath upon her cheek—he was alive! With a loud cry of joy which she could not repress, she leaped to her feet. Wandering aimlessly for a while, she sought ineffectually for the basket of food. Again guided by the ray of light, she made her way back to where Vandemar lay. Following along by the wall, which she touched lightly with her hands, she came to the corner opposite the small window. Still keeping close to the wall, she reached the dungeon door. There she stopped to collect her thoughts; but, even then, it did not occur to her that the door was closed; and, if it had, her memory would not have told her that there was no way of opening it from the inside.
In her mind there was but one thought, one desire—to find the food and wine. Although Manassa had brought it only to tantalise the helpless prisoner, in her heart she almost forgave him, for it meant life—and with life would come safety—for Vandemar, her beloved.
Feeling that every moment was precious, she resumed her search and soon stumbled over the basket, which she had left not ten feet from the door. Keeping her eyes upon the ray of light, which was her guiding star, she pulled the basket across the stone floor until she once more came in contact with the almost lifeless form.
She remembered that she had read somewhere that but little food, at first, should be given to starving persons, but the wine—there was life in that! The bottle was tightly corked and she could not open it. She struck it against the stone wall and the neck fell to the floor. She dipped her fingers in the wine and wet Vandemar’s lips with it. There was bread in the basket. She moistened it with the wine and, raising his head from the floor, fed him as she would have a child.
Vivienne could not see his face, for the ray of light did not reach the dark corner beneath the window, but the bread and wine did their good work, and Vandemar, reviving, heard the soft tones of a woman’s voice—a voice which kept repeating:
“Vandemar, come back to me. Vandemar, you are saved. It is I, Vivienne.”
There was more inspiration, more strength, in that voice than bread or wine could give.
“Vivienne? Is it really you, Vivienne? Have the guests all left the castle? May I go now? The Admiral and his daughter and I are going back to the ship to-night. What time is it? I must have fallen asleep. I tried to keep awake because you said you would come for me.”
“I have come, as I promised I would,” she said. “I have brought you wine and food. You must drink some of the wine and, when you feel stronger, you may have something to eat; but not very much, for your fast has been a long one and it would not be safe to eat too heartily.”
The stimulant warmed him and sent the life-blood coursing through his veins. He sat upright, without support, and when he spoke, his voice was stronger and fuller. Then he seemed to remember what he had at first forgotten—that many days, and not one night, had elapsed since he had entered the dungeon.
“Oh,” he said, “I have had both food and drink. I have not suffered for want of either. My wound gave me a fever. That is what has made me so weak, but I shall soon be well, and we will leave this place.”
“Yes, Vandemar, we will go. But tell me, for I cannot understand, how did you get both food and drink?”
“I have not been alone,” said Vandemar. “I have had some good friends. They came at night—it has been all night here—and fetched me kernels of corn—and once they brought an egg. That saved my life. They were so tame, too. It was so dark they could not see me. Perhaps they thought I was one of them—so old and feeble that I could not go with them to the kitchen to get my own food.”
“But the drink?” cried Vivienne. “How did you get anything to drink? The rats could not bring water to you.”
“No,” said Vandemar, “I had to get that myself, and that was much harder. It rained one night and some drops were blown in at the window and fell upon me. I was feverish and knew that I must have water. I tore my sword scarf into strips and knotted them together. Then I tied one end to the sleeve of my coat and finally succeeded in throwing it so that it lodged between the window-bars. When it was saturated, I pulled it down, wrung it and drank my fill.”
“Do you feel stronger?” asked Vivienne.
“Why, yes. I am almost as good as ever. I must have been asleep when you came in. I had a bad dream. I thought your brother sent you away from the Castle so that you could not come and let me out.”
“He did,” cried Vivienne, “and for that I shall never forgive him. He told Doctor Procida that I was mad, and they took me to the lunatic asylum at Salvanetra, but I escaped the next day. Then I fell ill and, for three days, I knew nothing. To-day is the fifth day and I thought you must be dead, for I had not faith enough in God to believe that He would send His dumb creatures to feed you and rain from Heaven for you to drink. I have been so wicked—but now that God in His mercy has brought us together again, we will be good—will we not, Vandemar?”
“Give me more of that wine, Vivienne. It is very good, and you are the best woman I ever knew. With good wine and a good woman, no man should be bad.”
“Hush, Vandemar,” said Vivienne; “do not speak so. We should be good because we ought to be and not because we get what we wish for. Come, come, let us be going. My brother is away and you must get to a place of safety before he returns. Give me your hand. I will lead you, for I know how to find the door.”
When they reached it, the terrible truth dawned upon her. She stood rooted to the spot—she could not speak.
“Open the door quickly, Vivienne,” he said, and he had never spoken so gently before. “This has been a long night, Vivienne, and my couch was not a soft one. Open the door, for I yearn to see the blue sky, the trees, and the flowers, and hear the songs of birds. Then, too, I would look out upon the water and see my good ship riding at anchor. How glad the Admiral will be to see me, and how interested Helen will be to hear of my adventures—and how Heaven sent my good angel to rescue me and make me happy for life. I will take you to England, Vivienne, where there is no cruel vendetta—but why do you not open the door?”
“My God!” she cried, and her voice was tense with pain, “I cannot.”
“Let me try,” he said, “I am stronger than you are. Tell me how to open it.”
“We are lost!” she moaned. “I had forgotten—the door cannot be opened from the inside.”
“What? You forgot? We are lost?” There was passion, suspicion, despair, in the words.
“I left it open when I came in. Some one must have closed it.”
“Some one must have closed it?” His voice was harsh, and there was unbelief in the question. “Speak, Vivienne, who could have closed it? Who was with you? You said your brother had gone away, and even he would not close a dungeon door upon his only sister.”
“I will tell you all,” she said, piteously.
“I think the time has come,” was the stern reply.
“Pascal took the paper from me, which told how to open the door, and tore it in pieces. I had learned the instructions by heart before they took me to the asylum, but when I came back my memory was gone. I should have died outside the door, and you would have perished in here, had not Old Manassa brought a basket of food. He did not mean to give it to you, for he hates you because you are a Della Coscia. He came to taunt you, but I sprang upon him and stabbed him with my stiletto. I wrenched the basket from him. After I came in, he must have closed the door. Oh, Vandemar! After all our pain and suffering, to have it end thus!”
There was silence for a time, then Vandemar spoke, but there were no love tones in his voice:
“Does no one know that you are here? Did you not tell some one that you were coming to release me?”
“As I came through the garden, some one called my name, but I do not know who it was. I did not look. I thought only of you, I wished only to see you, for I would give my life to save you, Vandemar—but you do not believe me, you do not trust me, you do not love me——”
Vandemar put his arms about the weeping girl and drew her close to him.
“Forgive me, Vivienne; I am racked in mind and body, and am not myself. What I said just now was unjust and unkind to you. Believe me, dear one, the Vandemar that was, would never have harboured a thought or spoken a word to bring tears to those sweet eyes. I cannot see them, but I know they are filled with the love-light which neither time nor death can dim. Do you not believe, Vivienne, that, if God wishes us to live and be happy together in this world, He will send us help?”
“I do,” said Vivienne. “We will hope on, will we not, Vandemar? We have food and wine, your little friends will bring us corn and eggs, and the good God will send us rain that we may drink. I am with you, and you with me. We can love each other as well in this dark dungeon as we could if we sat beneath the trees, with the birds singing above us. That love will bless us, and if no one comes to save us, you will kiss me for the last time, tell me that you love me, and, clasped in each other’s arms, we will die together!”