CHAPTER XXX.
THE GARDEN OF EDEN.
THOMAS GLYNNE knew that Jack De Vinne had gone with Cromillian and his party, though he did not know for what purpose. Doubt engenders suspicion, and he came to the conclusion that Cromillian had decided to espouse Jack’s cause, and had taken him to Ajaccio so that he could meet with Bertha.
Glynne was well provided with money, and it was in that shape which passes current in all lands—honest gold coins; he did not have to look far before he found one of the bandits who was willing to make an exchange, and Glynne soon learned what he most wished to know—the shortest and safest road to Ajaccio.
One night, Glynne, at his purchased friend’s suggestion, was put on guard. While his companions were sleeping soundly, in supposed safety, Glynne stole away in the darkness.
It was not quite daylight when he came suddenly upon Cromillian’s party, encamped in the maquis. A sleepy guard called to him, but receiving no reply, and still hearing the noise of his approach, fired in his direction. There was the sound of a falling body, then all was still. The sentry shortly reconnoitred and came upon the body of Thomas Glynne, who had been shot through the heart. He resumed his post, and it was not until morning that he informed his fellow bandits that he had called to the person, and, receiving no answer, supposed he was a spy, and had fired in his direction, as it proved, with unerring aim.
Among those to whom he told his story was Jack De Vinne, whose curiosity led him to look upon the supposed spy. He was startled beyond measure when he found that it was Bertha’s guardian, Thomas Glynne.
Jack was brave and resolute, but he could not look upon that still form with complacency. Bertha was deprived of her appointed protector. What would she say when she learned the truth? Jack thought that the least he could do was to give the body a decent burial and, with the assistance of some of the band, Thomas Glynne was interred near where he had been shot. Before this was done Jack took such papers as Glynne had upon him, thinking possibly there might be something of value to Bertha. Nor was he mistaken. To his surprise, he found the last will and testament of Oscar Renville and what he opined were other valuable papers in reference to her estates.
He went at once to the leader of the band, one Giuseppe Pisano, who had been appointed in place of the recreant Paoli, and explained the matter to him.
“I must go to Ajaccio,” said Jack, “and take this document to the dead man’s ward. It is of great importance, and it is my duty to take it at once. I know our good Captain would agree to it if he were here.”
Lieutenant Pisano gave him permission to go to Ajaccio, first exacting a promise that after having performed his mission, he would report to Cromillian, who was encamped in the maquis near Alfieri.
It would be hard to explain Jack’s feelings. They were an admixture of remorse, fear, hope, and love. He was sorry that Bertha’s guardian had been killed, even though he might be a villain and false to the trust imposed on him by Bertha’s father, and he was sorry for Clarence.
As a lover, his heart was full of happiness, for was he not to see Bertha after a separation which had seemed almost an eternity? He concealed the papers about his person, and set out with a light heart to find Bertha, vowing that they never should be parted again.
After Cromillian had killed Pascal, he declared his intention of demolishing the Batistelli castle if there were no other means of rescuing Vandemar and Vivienne. To do this, he must have the assistance of his followers, who were encamped in the maquis about a mile from the village.
Before entering the castle, he had hidden his rifle in the shrubbery, for, if possible, he wished to make his visit a peaceful one. For this reason, he had come alone to see Pascal, hoping to induce him to release Vandemar and, perhaps, bring about a truce, thus preventing more bloodshed. In this he had failed. Vandemar and Vivienne were in the dungeon chamber, and the demolition of the castle seemed to be the only way in which their lives could be saved.
Cromillian walked along, his rifle over his shoulder, unconscious of imminent danger. He was thinking of the most expeditious manner in which the walls of the castle could be so breached as to make the rescue of the lovers possible, when he felt a stinging, smarting sensation between his shoulders. Instantly his throat filled with blood, he choked, a momentary weakness overcame him, and he fell to the ground; but he was a man of large stature and great muscular strength. With the revulsion that followed such a severe physical shock, came the desire to be revenged upon his assailant, for he knew that an attempt had been made to assassinate him.
Grasping his rifle, which had fallen from his hand, he gave a quick, energetic lurch to his body, which enabled him to face in the opposite direction to that in which he had been walking. Not twenty feet from him, Cromillian saw an old man, with long white hair, who was brandishing a sword—his own sword, for there was not another like it in Corsica—it was old Manassa!
“A life for a life!” he cried. “The Batistellis are avenged!”
The old man turned and, with surprising agility, ran in the direction of a thick grove of trees. A moment later he would have vanished from sight. With an almost superhuman effort, Cromillian raised his rifle and fired. A yell of pain was proof that the bullet had struck, but the wound was not a mortal one. Old Manassa kept on and disappeared among the trees.
The exertion was too much for Cromillian; his throat again filled with blood and, weakened by its loss, consciousness left him.
Shortly after the meeting between Cromillian and Pascal, during which the latter was killed, the Countess and Bertha, with their guests, Admiral Enright and his daughter Helen, were seated together in the library of the Castle Mont d’Oro. Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who said:
“Adolphe, Monsieur Pascal Batistelli’s valet, wishes to speak with you, madame.”
The Countess arose. “I will go and see him. No; let him come in. We are all friends, and equally interested to hear what he may have to say.”
Adolphe entered shortly and told his story, somewhat disjointedly, but from it his hearers learned that a fight had taken place between Cromillian and Pascal, in which the latter had been killed; that Manassa had told him that Vandemar and Vivienne were in the dungeon chamber and that there they must die, for the paper telling how to open the door had been lost; that Manassa had gone, no one knew whither, and that his master lay unburied. “There is no head to the house, and I know not what to do,” he exclaimed. “I have come to you, Madame la Comtesse, for advice.”
The Countess turned to Bertha. “What can we say?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement.
“We must leave it all to the Admiral,” replied Bertha.
Turning to the Admiral, the Countess said: “I am sorry, my dear Admiral, to thus burden you, but there is no one but you to whom we may turn in this dreadful dilemma.”
Thus summoned to take the leading part in the affair, the Admiral at once displayed that great faculty in grasping details and organising action, which had made him famous.
“Go home, young man,” he said to Adolphe, “and tell the nurse, Clarine I believe you called her, to prepare your master’s body for burial. I will come to the castle soon and tell you what to do next.”
After Adolphe had gone, the Admiral turned to the Countess and said: “It is our duty to go at once to the castle. That poor girl hasn’t a relative in the world. Nor the boy either. Not a soul to take charge of an effort for their liberation but ourselves. It is horrible. They shall be freed, and it devolves upon us to do it.”
“I agree with you, Admiral,” said the Countess, “but I do not think it safe for us to do so unless we are accompanied by a proper guard.”
“Have no fear,” said the Admiral; “fortunately, that is provided for. I am momentarily expecting the arrival of a detachment of sailors and marines from the ship, for whom I have sent to protect myself and daughter until we are safe again on board our vessel. When they arrive, we will see what strong hands and willing hearts can do in so worthy a cause. Let us make preparations to go at once.”
The Countess left the room to give an order to her male retainers to accompany them.
Both the Countess and Bertha were greatly interested in the terrible condition and probable fate of Vandemar and Vivienne. The Countess had known Manuel Della Coscia and remembered the pretty little boy who had now grown to man’s estate. Then, too, she had thought a great deal of Vivienne, but had not allowed her interest to go beyond a certain point. She knew that the girl was lovable, but she felt that if she betrayed her own affection, it might lead her to encourage the Count in his attentions to Mlle. Batistelli. In her heart she knew that her son would never make Vivienne a good husband, and she was too honest and sincere a woman to wish to secure her own happiness by making another unhappy.
Bertha’s feelings were prompted by the natural sympathy of youth for youth. This sympathy was intensified by the fact that her own love affair was in a similar condition. To be sure, she did not feel that her life was in danger, but she did not know but that Jack was already dead. Were not Vandemar and Vivienne happier than she? They were together and, if they could not be saved, they could die in each other’s arms. If Jack were dead and she thus left alone, what possible hope of future happiness could there be for her?
“My dear,” said the Countess, as she re-entered the room, “there is a messenger downstairs who wishes to see you on very important business.”
“A messenger?” exclaimed Bertha, and her cheek paled. “Why, who can it be? I know no one in Corsica——”
“He would tell me nothing except that he came from your guardian.”
“My guardian!” cried Bertha, and her pale face grew still whiter. “I will not see him.”
“I think it best that you should,” said the Countess, decidedly.
Bertha thought for a moment: “I will go down, if you will come with me.”
“I think it best that you should go alone,” the Countess rejoined.
When Bertha reached the room, a man who had been seated at the farther end arose and came towards her. He was heavily bearded and Bertha considered him to be a stranger to her. She lowered her eyes.
“You have come from my guardian?” she asked, in a voice hardly audible.
“Yes—he is dead.”
“Dead?” cried Bertha. She knew her thoughts were wicked, but the words gave her a sense of relief.
“How—” she had wished to ask—“How did it happen?” but she could utter only the monosyllable.
“He was killed by one of Cromillian’s band, who mistook him for a spy.”
Something in the man’s voice caused her to gaze at him intently, searchingly.
“Jack!”—and with a glad cry Bertha sprang forward and threw her arms about the young man’s neck.
“Forgive me—that beard—I did not know you—and your voice—I am so glad that you are safe”—and she laid her head upon his shoulder.
“I am sorry for him. He may be better off,” said Jack. “Here are some valuable papers that he had on him wholly relating to yourself, and which you should guard carefully.”
“I hope this is the end, Jack,” she breathed, softly.
“I hope so—of our troubles,” he answered, “but others are in trouble. I must get help for a man whom I found in the road, shot through the lungs. I was not strong enough to carry him. Where is Count Mont d’Oro?”
“He, too, is dead,” said Bertha. “Perhaps Admiral Enright can help you—but what is that?” she cried.
They listened.
“It sounds like the beating of a drum,” said Jack, and he ran to the window. “Come here, Bertha. There is a body of sailors—English sailors, I think—and marines in front of the house.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bertha. “Admiral Enright sent to his ship for them, and now let us seek him out and also the Countess Mont d’Oro, who will be glad you are come, for everything here in Corsica seems to be at sixes and sevens.”
The Admiral greeted Jack with the utmost cordiality. “I knew that your good friend, and my Lieutenant, Victor Duquesne, was very much worried because of your absence, and I am glad you have returned to give a good account of yourself.”
Jack gave a brief recital of his wanderings since he left the hotel at Ajaccio, and also explained the condition of the wounded man, upon hearing which the Admiral immediately detailed four sailors to accompany Jack on his humane errand.
“My dear Countess,” said the Admiral, “our young friend has gone to save one life; it is now our duty to see if we can save two.”
It was a strange procession that left the house of the Countess Mont d’Oro and, escorted by the sailors and marines, soon reached the Batistelli castle. The Admiral and his daughter were in advance, while close behind them were the Countess Mont d’Oro, and Bertha who insisted upon accompanying them, declaring that nothing would induce her to remain at home alone.
Adolphe and Clarine stood in the open doorway waiting to receive them, and led the party through rooms and corridors, and up the steep stone stairway to the Hall of Mirrors. The picture they formed, transferred to canvas, would have won fame and fortune for the artist. There was the Admiral in the handsome uniform of his rank; the Countess dressed in the latest Parisian style, and Helen and Bertha in plain and simple attire, forming a marked contrast with the uniforms of the jack-tars and marines. The company was not very large, but its numbers were, apparently, multiplied by the mirrors on the walls, and it seemed as though a vast concourse was present.
The Admiral studied carefully the picture disclosed by the parting of the hinged mirrors. All could see that the artist had depicted a well-known incident in the garden of Eden.
“Does any one here know aught about the dungeon?” inquired the Admiral.
Adolphe led the old nurse, Clarine, forward. “I am the only one who knows,” she said. Clarine then told what she knew of the history of the dungeon chamber, the paper left by Vivienne’s father, how she had given it to the young girl on her birthday, and how it had disappeared, no one knew how or where.
“I understand,” said Admiral Enright. “There is no key to the door, nor handle, so it must be opened from the outside, by some ingenious concealed mechanism. To state the problem is easy, but I fear it will be hard to solve it. My dear,” turning to his daughter Helen, “you are well versed in regard to the castles of olden times and their dungeons. Have you learned, in all your studies of them, anything which may aid us in the present case?”
Helen had been standing apart from the rest, eagerly scanning the picture before her. At her father’s words she came forward and lightly touched the picture at different points with her finger.
“May one of your men assist me?” she asked, turning to the Admiral.
The Admiral motioned for one of the sailors to come forward.
“There must be some connection, father,” she said, “between the picture and what we may call the lock, which, in cases I have read of, is formed of bolts held in place by certain springs acted upon in a way which we must ascertain. You see, here are Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, standing beneath a tree, and above them the wicked serpent with glistening eyes. There is the apple in Eve’s hand. Now, if we follow the story as it is written, the serpent tempted Eve and Eve tempted Adam, who ate the apple. Now, supposing your man will place the forefinger of his right hand on the eye of the serpent and keep it there. Now, place the forefinger of your left hand on the stem of the apple. Now, press hard.” Suddenly there was a sound—a grating sound—like the moving of one metallic surface upon another; yet there was no movement of the door.
“Not quite,” exclaimed Helen, excitedly, “but thank God we must be nearing the solution. Now place a finger upon Eve’s mouth; now on Adam’s ear. Now, press hard.”
Again the grating sound, but still the doors did not open.
Helen now gazed long at the picture, while all present watched her in tense silence.
“Two of the bolts have been shot, father,” she said at last, “but there must be a third, and possibly more. Ah!” she exclaimed, as a sudden thought seemed to strike her, no doubt impelled by the idea of pushing Adam out of the garden of Eden, “press with all your might upon Adam’s chest!”
The sailor sprang forward to obey her command. Again the grating sound; this time much louder. There was a creaking noise, and the door opened slowly, as though pushed from within by invisible hands.
A wild shout of delight arose from the company, for there, standing side by side, were Vandemar and Vivienne. They had heard the grating and creaking and knew that the hour of their deliverance had come. All stood awe-hushed as Vandemar, seemingly the shadow of his former self, and Vivienne, with tear-stained face and pallid cheek, came forth.
“Bless—my—soul! Re-mark-a-ble!” exclaimed the Admiral, and he ran forward and grasped the young man’s hand.
The strong-armed sailor started to lend his support to Victor, but he was abruptly put aside by a young man, who now rushed through the crowd and helped lead Victor forward. It was Jack, who had performed his errand of humanity, and had arrived just in time to witness the release of his friend.
Pylades and Orestes were again reunited.
Simultaneously Vivienne was clasped in the arms of Clarine, who had been as a mother to her and had loved her all her life. With the assistance of the Countess and Bertha, Vivienne was led to a chair. Her first words were:
“Where is my brother Pascal?”
“He is dead,” cried Clarine. “Cromillian killed him. You are the last of the Batistellis.”