WHILE the company had been at the Batistelli castle, Jack had performed the task intrusted to him. Cromillian had been brought in, a doctor called, and the flow of blood stanched. He was in a high state of fever and was delirious. He kept calling for his men to follow him and save Vandemar and Vivienne by tearing down the castle walls. “It is the only way,” he cried time after time, and after each exertion would fall into a stupor.
The next morning, when the doctor came, he was rational. He had been told that Vandemar and Vivienne had been liberated, and the intelligence had produced a most quieting effect.
“What is my real condition, Doctor?” he asked. “Tell me the truth. I can bear it. I have a duty to perform and wish to know whether there is time.”
“Well, sir,” said the doctor, “your wound is a mortal one. You are a very strong man and have great vitality. You will live another day, perhaps two, but I can offer you no hope beyond that.”
“Thank you,” said Cromillian. “I knew as much. I wish to see Vandemar. Let him come to me at once and have him bring two witnesses. I have something to tell him about his father.”
It was not long before Vandemar appeared, accompanied by the Admiral and Countess Mont d’Oro. Vandemar’s first words were:
“They said you could tell me something of my father. Where can I find him?”
“You will not have to go far. I am he—I am called Cromillian, but my right name is Manuel Della Coscia.”
His hearers were astonished, Vandemar most of all. Could this bandit be the father whom he had so longed to see?
“I do not expect you to love me, my son. It is unnatural that you should, for we have never been close to each other. But, before I die, I must remove a stigma from our family name. You are the last of the line, Vandemar, and should know the truth. Let your friends draw near, for my story is a long one and I am weaker than I thought.
“Vandemar and friends, as sure as there is a God in Heaven, I did not kill Conrad Batistelli. The old Count Mont d’Oro and Conrad Batistelli had a dispute about some land, for you know their estates adjoin. Pardon me, lady, for what I am forced to say, but it is the truth.
“One day, I met the old Count, who asked me if I had my stiletto with me. He had left home without his, and as he was going to examine his estate and might meet Batistelli, he was afraid that an altercation might ensue, when he, being unarmed, would be at a disadvantage. That evening I went to the Count’s house to get back my stiletto, for it was a valuable one and bore my initials. To my horror, I learned that he had killed Conrad Batistelli with it and, unthinkingly, had left the weapon beside the dead body of his victim.
“I was a widower; you were a little boy of six. The Batistellis were powerful, and I knew that our lives would be forfeited if we remained in Corsica. The Count gave me all the money he had in his possession, and a letter of credit for a large sum. I took you, mounted a fleet horse supplied by the Count, and made my way to Ajaccio. I obtained a disguise and, a few days later, secured a passage to France. I made my way at once to England, where I placed you at school. The Count sent me more money, from time to time, and I lived the life of a man of leisure; but when you were old enough to enter the Navy, my occupation was gone. I had taken the name of Hector Duquesne, and had given you that of Victor.
“I wearied of my quiet, do-nothing life, and decided to come back to Corsica. But what could I do here? If I returned under my own name, although I was an innocent man, the vendetta would claim me as a victim. I assumed the name of Cromillian and organised my company of moral bandits, pledged to do all they could to discountenance the practice of the vendetta.
“But I yearned to see you, and wrote to you, telling you who you were and why you had been banished from your native land, though I did not tell you when and where you could see me. I had hoped to meet you in some way, look upon your face for the last time, and then warn you to leave Corsica forever. You must do it now. My life will soon pay the forfeit, and yours will if you remain here. The vendetta never dies while food for the stiletto or the rifle remains alive.”
The Countess was deeply affected by Cromillian’s story. She had never dreamed that her husband was connected in any way with such a tragedy. What a whirligig of fate it was which had brought the father and son together under her roof. Cromillian must have divined what was passing in the Countess’s mind.
“My dear lady,” he said, “do not worry about what I have told you. The Corsicans are born murderers. If your husband had not killed Conrad Batistelli, he would have lost his own life. Is Pascal dead?”
“Yes,” said Vandemar, “he is to be buried to-morrow.”
“I shall soon follow him. Have they found old Manassa? I fired at him after he shot me, and then he ran for the woods.”
“We shall have a search made for him,” said Vandemar.
Father and son were left together. Each was at the portal of a new life. One was to go—he knew not where; the other looked forward to a life of happiness with the woman he loved.
As the Admiral and the Countess left the room, the former asked:
“Have you ever found anything among your husband’s papers bearing on this affair of the vendetta? I believe this man’s story, but even the truth should be verified.”
“No,” the Countess replied; “since my husband died in Paris, I have visited Corsica only when it was absolutely necessary to learn from my steward the condition of my affairs. The Count’s private papers are here, but they have never been disturbed since his death.”
“Suppose we look at them now,” suggested the Admiral.
A careful search disclosed a sealed packet, endorsed “Manuel Della Coscia. Statement of Account.” Below was written in a trembling hand, “Closed.” It was opened by the Admiral, and found to contain, among other papers, a signed statement corroborating in every particular the story told by Cromillian. The writer expressed his regret that he could not make a more adequate return for the great service rendered him by Manuel Della Coscia.
Vandemar’s father was sinking rapidly. The Countess and her guests were gathered at his bedside, and she had informed him of the finding of the paper, among her late husband’s effects, which entirely exonerated the Della Coscias from all complicity in the murder. A look of pleasure overspread the face of the wounded man as he motioned for Vandemar and Vivienne to approach. He joined their hands.
“Thus ends a Corsican vendetta,” he said, solemnly; then, seeing Jack and Bertha, he smiled faintly and added: “And an English family feud.”
His passing was painless and peaceful. At his request, his gravestone bore but one word—CROMILLIAN.
The searching party that had been sent out to look for Old Manassa returned and reported that they had scoured the maquis, but could see no trace of him. His body was never found.
Admiral Enright at last received the orders from London for which he had been waiting so long. He told his hostess that he must join his ship and proceed at once to Portsmouth.
“Young man,” he said, turning to Vandemar, “you ought to go with me. On Mademoiselle Batistelli’s account, however, I will allow you to reach Portsmouth by way of Paris.”
“You will find me there waiting for you,” said Vandemar Della Coscia.
“And what am I to do?” asked Jack, turning to Bertha.
“You have neglected your duties as heir of the Earl of Noxton,” broke in the Admiral, with mock severity, “and you have added to your responsibilities by that neglect.”
Jack looked disturbed.
“I know, my dear Admiral, I have been very remiss, but you must own there have been extenuating circumstances.”
“Oh, yes,” said Admiral Enright, “I see her,”—and he looked at Bertha, who blushed prettily.
“No doubt we all wish to leave these scenes,” said the Countess. “I shall return eventually, but for the present I shall open my Paris residence, where, with Bertha, we shall be pleased to welcome you as our guests so long as you can find it convenient to stay.”
On the afternoon preceding the day of departure, a solemn conclave was held in the library of the Mont d’Oro castle.
“Mademoiselle Batistelli,” said the Admiral, turning to Vivienne, “is it your intention to return to the Batistelli castle eventually, or——”
“Never!” broke in Vivienne. “I shall never step within its doors again. I couldn’t. Nothing but distressing memories are connected with its walls, and I never wish to set foot in Corsica again.”
“I had thought as much,” remarked the Countess, “and had so expressed myself to Admiral Enright. As it adjoins my estate, I will make you a proposition. With your consent—and also that of your future husband—I will purchase the Batistelli castle and grounds at their proper valuation. Should this offer prove acceptable, it is my intention to raze the castle to the ground, and remove the hedge which has divided the estates for so many years. Thus all unpleasant memories will be banished. I shall be glad, for Paris is too noisy, and I shall have this castle to be the shelter of my declining years.”
This plan proved agreeable, and it was arranged that some of the Batistelli servants, including Clarine, should be added to the Mont d’Oro household; the others were dismissed with gratuities.
The next day the Osprey set sail from Ajaccio, bearing the Admiral and his daughter. It was arranged that Vandemar and Vivienne, and Jack and Bertha, accompanied by the Countess Mont d’Oro, should go at once to Paris.