CHAPTER XXIX.
A DOUBLE VENDETTA.
PASCAL BATISTELLI and his adherents were unsuccessful in their search for Cromillian and his moral bandits. If they had not been looking for each other, they might have met, for while Pascal sought for Cromillian in the maquis, the bandit chief, with a picked body of men, Jack De Vinne being one of the company, was on his way to Batistelli Castle with the fixed determination of finding Vandemar, or of exacting stern retribution if the young man had been foully dealt with.
Pascal dismissed his followers, telling them that they must go home and take needed rest, for he should soon call upon them again. He maintained his usual composure before them, but, after their departure, in the solitude of his library, he felt utterly disheartened. Then his thoughts turned to Manassa, and he sent Adolphe to summon his old retainer.
“What is the matter?” cried Pascal, as the old man entered. “What has happened to you? Why is your arm bound up? There is blood upon your clothing.” He paused. “Has Vandemar escaped? Sit down, Manassa, and tell me who did this.”
The old man seated himself.
“Vandemar has not escaped,” he began. “He is safe in the dungeon—” he gave a low chuckle—“but he is not alone.”
“Not alone?” cried Pascal. “Who is with him? Come, quick, tell me all,” and, unthinkingly, he grasped Manassa’s wounded arm, making him wince with pain.
“It is a long story,” said Manassa, “and I don’t know just how to put it together. I thought that Vandemar might be hungry, having had nothing to eat for five days, so I took him a basket of food and a bottle of good wine.”
“You fool!” cried Pascal. Then he remembered. “What was there in that? You could not open the dungeon door.”
“Oh, yes, I could.” The old man chuckled again. “I was in the Hall of Mirrors when you tore up that paper. After all of you were gone, before I put out the lights, I picked up the pieces and pasted them together. Nobody knows I have it but Vivienne.”
“Vivienne? How could she know anything about it, locked up at Salvanetra?”
“Yes, she was locked up,” mused the old man. “I don’t know how she got away, but she did.”
Pascal started to his feet. “Vivienne here? Where is she? Did you give her the food to take to Vandemar? I thought you were a friend to the Batistellis.”
“I didn’t mean to give it to her,” and Manassa wrung his hands, apologetically; “I didn’t mean to give it to him. I had opened the door, was telling him what nice things I had for him,—just to make him feel hungrier than ever,—when Vivienne came from behind one of the mirrors and caught at the basket. Just as I was getting it away from her, she drew a stiletto and stabbed me here,” and he placed his hand upon his wounded arm. “I fell, and before I could get up again, she had dragged the basket of food into the dungeon chamber.”
“What did you do then?” asked Pascal, excitedly.
“I did as I thought you would have done—I shut the door and left them there together. She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together!”
“You were right, Manassa. I should have done as you did. But where is the paper?”
“Here it is,” and Manassa passed it to him.
“Come with me, Manassa,” said Pascal. “She is my sister—a poor, weak, foolish woman. It is my duty to give her one more chance to repent of her folly, and I must have a witness.”
“Vivienne, are you there?”
There were tones in her brother’s voice which the young girl could not mistake. The prisoners had gone back to the corner beneath the window, for the friendly ray of light made the dungeon seem less like a tomb.
Vivienne sprang to her feet. “Yes, Pascal, I am here,” she cried, joyfully, “and Vandemar is so strong now that he can walk.”
“Come here to the door,” said Pascal.
“What is it?” she asked, when she reached it.
“Come with me,” said her brother.
“I will bring Vandemar.”
“No,” said Pascal, “if you come out you shall come alone. You must renounce that man.”
“Then I will not come,” said Vivienne, positively. “I love him. We will either live together or die together.”
“Is that your final answer?” questioned Pascal, angrily.
“It is,” she said.
He drew his stiletto.
“I do not fear that,” she cried. “You may kill me, but I will give you no other answer. I will not leave here without Vandemar.”
While they had been talking Pascal had stepped within the dungeon door, still holding the paper.
“So be it!” he cried.
An instant later the door was closed and Vivienne knew that she and Vandemar were doomed to a lingering death.
Manassa had been an interested observer: “I was right, was I not, master? She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together.”
“Let them die together,” echoed Pascal, but although he spoke the words, he knew that they did not come from his heart.
“Master, where is the paper?”
Pascal searched his garments; then they both looked in every direction, but it could not be found. A feeling of remorse seized Pascal. He had not meant to go so far. He knew that they had food and he would have come again. He wished for Vandemar’s death, but if he did not love her, he was proud of his sister. Now she must die, and by his hand.
“Have you found the paper?” the old man asked again.
“I must have dropped it as I came out of the dungeon, and the great door closed over it.”
“That is good,” said Manassa. “Then the vendetta is ended. A life for a life. Two Della Coscias for one Batistelli—for she is no longer a Batistelli.”
“Come, Manassa, you will bear witness that I gave her a chance for life.”
As Pascal turned to leave the Hall of Mirrors, to his surprise he was confronted by Cromillian. Pascal was filled with fury at the sight of him.
“What brings you here, robber, murderer?” he demanded.
Cromillian replied coolly: “Well, I don’t mind telling you I have come on a tour of investigation. You asked me a question and I have answered it. Now I will match yours with another. Where is Vandemar?”
Pascal dissembled: “I cannot be expected to know the whereabouts of all those who have been my guests.”
“Your guest!” said Cromillian, sneeringly. “I have my suspicions that he has been foully dealt with. He has not been seen since you and your host of ruffians that are called Death Brothers attacked him here in your own house. The world has been able to give us credit but for one thing—that is, the virtue of hospitality; that law has ever been held sacred by Corsicans, as you well know. You have basely violated it, and thereby brought dishonour and shame upon your countrymen. By all that is holy, when Cromillian brutalises his manhood to that extent, may the very heavens fall and crush him!”
Pascal drew his stiletto. “You murdered my brother, villain, and you dare preach to me!”
“You lie! I but defended an innocent life. Your brother fell by his own rashness. It is one thing to assassinate your enemy—that requires little bravery; it is another to face your foe like a man and give him a chance for his life. My sword is longer than your stiletto, and I could murder you easily.”
He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it with the sword and scabbard upon the stone floor. Then he drew his stiletto, and the two men stood facing each other, for each knew that but one of them could leave that room alive.
Cromillian was the stronger man, but much heavier and slower in his movements than Pascal, who was muscular and agile. For a time it was a drawn battle. Skill parried strength, and strength overcame skill. Then happened that which has happened so often before—it was a question of endurance, and the stronger man could endure the most. Pascal lost his head and struck wildly, aimlessly.
“I could kill you now,” said Cromillian, “but I will spare your life if you will tell me where I can find Vandemar.”
Pascal pointed to the dungeon door. “He is there with my sister Vivienne. She loves him, and I have given her to him.”
“She is no longer a Batistelli,” croaked Old Manassa; “she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together.”
“Open that door,” said Cromillian, with an air of command.
“You forget,” said Pascal, “that this is my castle. I am master here and take orders from no one.”
“I forget nothing,” replied Cromillian. “I know that you are a heartless, inhuman wretch, and the would-be murderer of two innocent hearts. I say to you again, open that door.”
“I would not if I could,” was Pascal’s defiant response; “but the instructions for opening the dungeon door have been lost—the door can never be opened.”
To Cromillian’s mighty strength was now added the fury of despair. “I do not believe you!” he cried. “You shall die with that lie upon your lips.”
There were a few hurried passes, an intertwining and glistening of the sharp blades, and that of Cromillian pierced Pascal’s heart. As Cromillian started to leave the room, his eyes fell upon Manassa.
“I ought to send you to join your master, for I believe you are as wicked at heart as he was, but you are an old man and powerless to defend yourself. It would be murder to kill you. But they shall be saved.” He pointed to the dungeon door. “I shall come back with my men. We will pull this castle down; I will not leave one stone standing upon another.”
After Cromillian bad gone, Manassa picked up the sword and buckled the belt about his waist. What he did next would have surprised Cromillian if he had seen it. The old man took up the dead body of his master, clasped it firmly in his arms, and carried it slowly, step by step, down the long stone stairway, then farther down until he reached the library. Placing the body upon a low couch, he fell upon his knees beside it. Raising his right hand, he cursed the Della Coscias, he cursed Cromillian, and swore vengeance against him who had caused his master’s death.
“The Della Coscias are dead—so are the Batistellis. I am master now!”