Guillaume returned from his conversation with the innkeeper just as the last glass was poured out. To Paul's annoyance he snatched it up and drained it – an act of familiarity that reached insolence.
"To the success of our enterprise!" said he, grinning at his discomfited companion. "All goes well. The innkeeper knows the Countess's maid, and the note will reach the Countess by midday; I have described Dieppe to him most accurately, and he will hang about till he gets a chance of delivering the second note to him, or seeing it delivered."
"And what are we to do?" asked Paul, still sour and still thoughtful.
"As regards the Countess, nothing. If the money comes, good for you. If not, I presume you will, at your own time, open communications with the Count?"
"It is possible," Paul admitted.
"Very," said M. Guillaume dryly. "And as regards Dieppe our course is very plain. I am at the rendezvous, waiting for him, by half-past six. You will also be at, or near, the rendezvous. We will settle more particularly how it is best to conduct matters when we see the lie of the ground. No general can arrange his tactics without inspecting the battlefield, eh? And moreover we can't tell what the enemy's dispositions – or disposition – may turn out to be."
"And meanwhile there is nothing to do?"
"Nothing? On the contrary – breakfast, a smoke, and a nap," corrected Guillaume in a contented tone. "Then, my friend, we shall be ready for anything that may occur – for anything in the world we shall be ready."
"I wonder if you will," thought Paul de Roustache, resentfully eyeing the glass which M. Guillaume had emptied.
It remains to add only that, on the advice and information of the innkeeper, the Cross on the roadside up the hill behind the village had been suggested as the rendezvous, and that seven in the evening had seemed a convenient hour to propose for the meeting. For Guillaume had no reason to suppose that a prior engagement would take the Captain to the same neighbourhood at six.
CHAPTER V
THE RENDEZVOUS BY THE CROSS
Beneath the reserved and somewhat melancholy front which he generally presented to the world, the Count of Fieramondi was of an ardent and affectionate disposition. Rather lacking, perhaps, in resolution and strength of character, he was the more dependent on the regard and help of others, and his fortitude was often unequal to the sacrifices which his dignity and his pride demanded. Yet the very pride which led him into positions that he could not endure made it well-nigh impossible for him to retreat. This disposition, an honourable but not altogether a happy one, serves to explain both the uncompromising attitude which he had assumed in his dispute with his wife, and the misery of heart which had betrayed itself in the poem he read to Captain Dieppe, with its indirect but touching appeal to his friend's sympathy.
Now his resolve was growing weaker as the state of hostilities, his loneliness, the sight of that detestable barricade, became more and more odious to him. He began to make excuses for the Countess – not indeed for all that she had done (for her graver offences were unknown to him), but for what he knew of, for the broken promise and the renewal of acquaintance with Paul de Roustache. He imputed to her a picturesque penitence and imagined her, on her side of the barricade, longing for a pardon she dared not ask and a reconciliation for which she could hardly venture to hope; he went so far as to embody these supposed feelings of hers in a graceful little poem addressed to himself and entitled, "To My Cruel Andrea." In fine the Count was ready to go on his knees if he received proper encouragement. Here his pride had its turn: this encouragement he must have; he would not risk an interview, a second rebuff, a repetition of that insolence of manner with which he had felt himself obliged to charge the Countess or another slamming of the door in his face, such as had offended him so justly and so grievously in those involuntary interviews which had caused him to change his apartments. But now – the thought came to him as the happiest of inspirations – he need expose himself to none of these humiliations. Fortune had provided a better way. Shunning direct approaches with all their dangers, he would use an intermediary. By Heaven's kindness the ideal ambassador was ready to his hand – a man of affairs, accustomed to delicate negotiations, yet (the Count added) honourable, true, faithful, and tender-hearted. "My friend Dieppe will rejoice to serve me," he said to himself with more cheerfulness than he had felt since first the barricade had reared its hated front. He sent his servant to beg the favour of Dieppe's company.
At the moment – which, to be precise, was four o'clock in the afternoon – no invitation could have been more unwelcome to Captain Dieppe. He had received his note from the hands of a ragged urchin as he strolled by the river an hour before: its purport rather excited than alarmed him; but the rendezvous mentioned was so ill-chosen, from his point of view, that it caused him dismay. And he had in vain tried to catch sight of the Countess or find means of communicating with her without arousing suspicion. He had other motives too for shrinking from such expressions of friendliness as he had reason to anticipate from his host. But he did not expect anything so disconcerting as the proposal which the Count actually laid before him when he unwillingly entered his presence.
"Go to her – go to her on your behalf?" he exclaimed in a consternation which luckily passed for a modest distrust of his qualifications for the task. "But, my dear friend, what am I to say?"
"Say that I love her," said the Count in his low, musical tones. "Say that beneath all differences, all estrangements, lies my deep, abiding, unchanging love."
Statements of this sort the Captain preferred to make, when occasion arose, on his own behalf.
"Say that I know I have been hard to her, that I recede from my demand, that I will be content with her simple word that she will not, without my knowledge, hold any communication with the person she knows of."
The Captain now guessed – or at least very shrewdly suspected – the position of affairs. But he showed no signs of understanding.
"Tell her," pursued the Count, laying his hand on Dieppe's shoulder and speaking almost as ardently as though he were addressing his wife herself, "that I never suspected her of more than a little levity, and that I never will or could."
Dieppe found himself speculating how much the Count's love and trust might induce him to include in the phrase "a little levity."
"That she should listen – I will not say to love-making – but even to gallantry, to a hint of admiration, to the least attempt at flirtation, has never entered my head about my Emilia."
The Captain, amid all his distress, marked the name.
"I trust her – I trust her!" cried the Count, raising his hands in an obvious stress of emotion, "as I trust myself, as I would trust my brother, my bosom friend. Yes, my dear friend, as I now trust you yourself. Go to her and say, 'I am Andrea's friend, his trusted friend. I am the messenger of love. Give me your love – '"
"What?" cried the Captain. The words sounded wonderfully attractive.
"'Give me your love to carry back to him.'"
"Oh, exactly," murmured the Captain, relapsing into altruistic gloom.
"Then all will be forgiven between us. Only our love will be remembered. And you, my friend, will have the happiness of seeing us reunited, and of knowing that two grateful hearts thank you. I can imagine no greater joy."
"It would certainly be – er – intensely gratifying," murmured Dieppe.
"You would remember it all your life. It is not a thing a man gets the chance of doing often."
"No," agreed the Captain; but he thought to himself, "Deuce take it, he talks as if he were doing me a favour!"
"My friend, you look sad; you don't seem – "
"Oh, yes, I do – yes, I am," interrupted the Captain, hastily assuming, or trying to assume, a cheerful expression. "But – "
"I understand – I understand. You doubt yourself?"
"That's it," assented the Captain very truthfully.
"Your tact, your discretion, your knowledge of women?" (Dieppe had never in his life doubted any of these things; but he let the accusation pass.) "Don't be afraid. Emilia will like you. I know that Emilia will like you. And you will like her. I know it."
"You think so?" No intonation could have expressed greater doubt.
"I am certain of it; and when two people like one another, all goes easily."
"Well, not always," said the Captain, whose position made him less optimistic.
The Count felt in his waistcoat-pocket. Dieppe sat looking down towards the floor with a frown on his face. He raised his eyes to find the Count holding out his hand towards him; in the open palm of it lay a wedding-ring.
"Take it back to her," said the Count.
"Really had n't you better do that yourself?" expostulated the Captain, who felt himself hard driven by fate.
"No," said the Count, firmly. "I leave it all to you. Put it on her finger and say, 'This is the pledge of love – of love renewed – of Andrea's undying love for you.'" He thrust the symbol of bliss into Captain Dieppe's most reluctant hand. The Captain sat and looked at it in a horrified fascination.
"You will do it for me?" urged the Count. "You can't refuse! Ah, my friend, if my sorrow does n't move you, think of hers. She is alone there in that wing of the house – even her cousin, who was with her, was obliged to leave her three days ago. There she sits, thinking of her faults, poor child, in solitude! Alas, it is only too likely in tears! I can't bear to think of her in tears."
The Captain quite understood that feeling; he had seen her in them.
"You will help us? Your noble nature will force you to it!"
After a moment's hesitation, pardonable surely in weak humanity, Dieppe put the Countess's wedding-ring in his pocket, rose to his feet, and with a firm unfaltering face held out his hand to his friend and host.
"I can refuse you nothing," he said, in most genuine emotion. "I will do what you ask. May it bring happiness to – to – to all of us!" He wrung the Count's hand with a grip that spoke of settled purpose. "You shall hear how I fare very soon," he said, as he made for the door.
The Count nodded hopefully, and, when he was left alone, set to work on a little lyric of joy, with which to welcome the return of his forgiven and forgiving spouse.
But it was hard on Captain Dieppe; the strictest moralist may admit that without endangering his principles. Say the Captain had been blameworthy; still his punishment was heavy – heavy and most woefully prompt. His better nature, his finer feelings, his instincts of honour and loyalty, might indeed respond to the demand made on them by the mission with which his friend entrusted him. But the demand was heavy, the call grievous. Where he had pictured joy, there remained now only renunciation; he had dreamed of conquest; there could be none, save the hardest and least grateful, the conquest of himself. Firm the Captain might be, but sad he must be. He could still serve the Countess (was not Paul de Roustache still dangerous?), but he could look for no reward. Small wonder that the meeting, whose risks and difficulty had made it seem before only the sweeter, now lost all its delight, and became the hardest of ordeals, the most severe and grim of duties.
If this was the Captain's mood, that of the lady whom he was to meet could be hardly more cheerful. If conscience seemed to trouble her less, and unhappy love not to occupy her mind as it governed his, the external difficulties of her position occasioned her greater distress and brought her near despair. Paul de Roustache's letter had been handed to her by her servant, with a smile half reproachful, half mocking, she had seized it, torn it open, and read it. She understood its meaning; she saw that the dreaded crisis had indeed come; and she was powerless to deal with it, or to avert the catastrophe it threatened. She sat before it now, very near to doing just what Count Andrea hated to think of and Captain Dieppe could not endure to see; and as she read and re-read the hateful thing she moaned softly to herself:
"Oh, how could I be so silly! How could I put myself in such a position? How could I consent to anything of the sort? I don't know what 'll happen. I have n't got fifty thousand francs! Oh, Emilia, how could you do it? I don't know what to do! And I 'm all alone – alone to face this fearful trouble!" Indeed the Count, led no doubt by the penetrating sympathy of love, seemed to have divined her feelings with a wonderful accuracy.
She glanced up at the clock, it was nearly five. The smile that came on her face was sad and timid; yet it was a smile of hope. "Perhaps he 'll be able to help me," she thought. "He has no money, no – only fifty francs, poor man! But he seems to be brave – oh, yes, he 's brave. And I think he's clever. I 'll go to the meeting-place and take the note. He 's the only chance." She rose and walked to a mirror. She certainly looked a little less woe-begone now, and she examined her appearance with an earnest criticism. The smile grew more hopeful, a little more assured, as she murmured to herself, "I think he 'll help me, if he can, you know; because – well, because – " For an instant she even laughed. "And I rather like him too, you know," she ended by confiding to the mirror. These latter actions and words were not in such complete harmony with Count Andrea's mental picture of the lady on the other side of the barricade.
Betaking herself to the room from which she had first beheld Captain Dieppe's face – not, as the Count would have supposed, as a consequence of any design, but by the purest and most unexpected chance – she arrayed herself in a short skirt and thick boots, and wrapped a cloak round her, for a close, misty rain was already falling, and the moaning of the wind in the trees promised a stormy evening. Then she stole out and made for the gate in the right wall of the gardens. The same old servant who had brought the note was there to let her out.
"You will be gone long, Contessa?" she asked.
"No, Maria, not long. If I am asked for, say I am lying down."
"Who should ask for you? The Count?"
"Not very likely," she replied with a laugh, in which the servant joined. "But if he does, I am absolutely not to be seen, Maria." And with another little laugh she began to skirt the back of the gardens so as to reach the main road, and thus make her way by the village to the Cross on the hill, and the little hut in the hollow behind it.
Almost at the same moment Captain Dieppe, cursing his fortune, his folly, and the weather, with the collar of his coat turned up, his hat crashed hard on his head, and (just in case of accidents) his revolver in his pocket, came out into the garden and began to descend the hill towards where the stepping-stones gave him passage across the river. Thus he also would reach the village, pass through it, and mount the hill to the Cross. His way was shorter and his pace quicker. To be there before the lady would be only polite; it would also give him a few minutes in which to arrange his thoughts and settle what might be the best way to open to her the new – the very new – things that he had to say. In the preoccupation of these he thought little of his later appointment at seven o'clock – although it was in view of this that he had slipped the revolver into his pocket.
Finally, just about the same time also, Guillaume was rehearsing to Paul de Roustache exactly what they were to do and where their respective parts began and terminated. Paul was listening with deep attention, with a curious smile on his face, and with the inner reflection that things in the end might turn out quite differently from what his astute companion supposed would be the case. Moreover – also just in case of accidents – both of these gentlemen, it may be mentioned, had slipped revolvers into their pockets. Such things may be useful when one carries large sums of money to a rendezvous, equally so in case one hopes to carry them back from it. The former was M. Guillaume's condition, the latter that of Paul de Roustache. On the whole there seemed a possibility of interesting incidents occurring by or in the neighbourhood of the Cross on the hillside above the village.
What recked the Count of Fieramondi of that? He was busy composing his lyric in honour of the return of his forgiven and forgiving Countess. Of what was happening he had no thought.
And not less ignorant of these possible incidents was a lady who this same evening stood in the courtyard of the only inn of the little town of Sasellano, where the railway ended, and whence the traveller to the Count of Fieramondi's Castle must take a carriage and post-horses.
The lady demanded horses, protested, raged; most urgent business called her to pursue her journey, she said. But the landlord hesitated and shook his head.
"It 's good twelve miles and against collar almost all the way," he urged.
"I will pay what you like," she cried.
"But see, the rain falls – it has fallen for two hours. The water will be down from the hills, and the stream will be in flood before you reach the ford. Your Excellency had best sleep here to-night. Indeed your Excellency must."
"I won't," said her Excellency flatly.
And at that point – which may be called the direct issue – the dispute must now be left.
CHAPTER VI
THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW
Geography, in itself a tiresome thing, concerned with such soulless matters as lengths, depths, heights, breadths, and the like, gains interest so soon as it establishes a connection with the history of kingdoms, and the ambitions, passions, or fortunes of mankind; so that men may pore over a map with more eagerness than the greatest of romances can excite, or scan a countryside with a keenness that the beauty of no picture could evoke. To Captain Dieppe, a soldier, even so much apology was not necessary for the careful scrutiny of topographical features which was his first act on reaching the Cross on the hillside. His examination, hindered by increasing darkness and mist, yet yielded him a general impression correct enough.
Standing with his back to the Cross, he had on his right hand the slope down to the village which he had just ascended; on his left the road fell still more precipitately in zigzag curves. He could not see it where it reached the valley and came to the river; had he been able, he would have perceived that it ran down to and crossed the ford to which the landlord of the inn at Sasellano had referred. But immediately facing him he could discern the river in its bottom, and could look down over the steep grassy declivity which descended to it from the point at which he stood; there was no more than room for the road, and on the road hardly room for a vehicle to pass another, or itself to turn. On all three sides the ground fell, and he would have seemed to stand on a watch-tower had it not been that behind him, at the back of the cross, the upward slope of grass showed that the road did not surmount the hill, but hung on to and skirted its side some fifty paces from the top. Yet even where he was he found himself exposed to the full stress of the weather, which had now increased to a storm of wind and rain. The time of his earlier appointment was not quite due; but the lady knew her way. With a shiver the Captain turned and began to scramble up towards the summit. The sooner he found the shepherd's hut the better: if it were open, he would enter; it not, he could at least get some shelter under the lee of it. But he trusted that the Countess would keep her tryst punctually: she must be come and gone before seven o'clock, or she would risk an encounter with her enemy, Paul de Roustache. "However I could probably smuggle her away; and at least he should n't speak to her," he reflected, and was somewhat comforted.
At the top of the hill the formation was rather peculiar. The crown once reached, the ground dipped very suddenly from all sides, forming a round depression in shape like a basin and at the lowest point some twenty feet beneath the top of its enclosing walls. In this circular hollow – not in the centre, but no more than six feet from the base of the slope by which the Captain approached – stood the shepherd's hut. Its door was open, swinging to and fro as the gusts of wind rose and tell. The Captain ran down and entered. There was nothing inside but a rough stool, a big and heavy block, something like those one may see in butcher's shops (probably it had served the shepherds for seat or table, as need arose), and five or six large trusses of dry maize-straw flung down in a corner. The place was small, rude, and comfortless enough, but if the hanging door, past which the rain drove in fiercely, could be closed, the four walls of sawn logs would afford decent shelter from the storm during the brief period of the conference which the Captain awaited.
Dieppe looked at his watch; he could just see the figures – it was ten minutes to six. Mounting again to the summit, he looked round. Yes, there she was, making her way up the hill, painfully struggling with refractory cloak and skirt. A moment later she joined him and gave him her hand, panting out:
"Oh, I 'm so glad you 're here! There 's the most fearful trouble."
There was, of more than one kind; none knew it better than Dieppe.
"One need not, all the same, get any wetter," he remarked. "Come into the hut, madame."
She paid no heed to his words, but stood there looking forlornly round. But the next instant the Captain enforced his invitation by catching hold of her arm and dragging her a pace or two down the hill, while he threw himself on the ground, his head just over the top of the eminence. "Hush," he whispered. His keen ear had caught a footstep on the road, although darkness and mist prevented him from seeing who approached. It was barely six. Was Paul de Roustache an hour too early?
"What is it?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "Is anybody coming? Oh, if it should be Andrea!"
"It's not the Count, but – Come down into the hut, madame. You must n't be seen."
Now she obeyed his request. Dieppe stood in the doorway a moment, listening. Then he pushed the door shut – it opened inwards – and with some effort set the wooden block against it.
"That will keep out the rain," said he, "and – and anything else, you know."
They were in dense darkness. The Captain took a candle and a cardboard box of matches from an inner pocket. Striking a match after one or two efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. Then he lit the wick. The lady watched him admiringly.
"You seem ready for anything," she said. But the Captain shook his head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the block.
"We have no time to lose – " he began.
"No," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something. Finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "I got that this afternoon. Read it," she said. "It's from the man you met last night – Paul de Roustache. The 'Other quarter' means Andrea. And that means ruin."
Captain Dieppe gently waved the letter aside.
"No, you must read it," she urged.
He took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "Just what it would be," he said.
"I can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile half rueful, half amused.
"To me, at least, there 's no need you should." He paused a moment in hesitation or emotion. Then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion between his finger and thumb. In the dim light she did not perceive its nature.
"This," said the Captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love."
"Captain Dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blushing vividly. "Really I – ! At such a time – under the circ – And what is it! I can't see."
"The pledge of love renewed" – the Captain went on in a loyal hastiness, but not without the sharpest pang – "of Andrea's undying love for you."
"Of Andrea's – !" She stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. Her lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even while they questioned. "What in the world is it?" she asked again.
"Your wedding-ring," said the Captain with sad and impressive solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered and guttered in the draught, he turned away. Thus he did not perceive the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face.
"Wedding-ring!" she murmured.
"He sends it back again to you," explained the Captain, still busy with the candle.
A long-drawn "O – oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "Yes, of course," she added very hastily.
"He loves you," said the Captain, facing her – and his task – again. "He can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. He withdraws his demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you know of, without his knowledge, contents him. I am his messenger. Give me your love to – to carry back to him."
"Did he tell you to say all that?" she asked.
"Ah, madame, should I say it otherwise? Should I who – " With a mighty effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "My dear friend the Count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token of your – your reunion with him."
Her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what.
"Pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet she wore, she presented her hand to the Captain. Bowing low, he took it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. But he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was considerably too large for the finger. "It 's very loose," he murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention; in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping off.
"Yes – or – it is rather loose. I – I hate tight rings, don't you?" She smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "I 've grown thinner too, I suppose."
"From grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice.
"Well, anxiety," she amended. "I think I 'd better carry the ring in my pocket. It would be a pity to lose it." She took off the symbol and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a side-pocket of her coat. Then she seated herself on the stool, and looked up at the Captain. Her smile became rather mocking, as she observed to Captain Dieppe:
"Andrea has charged you with this commission since – since last night, I suppose?"
The words acted – whether by the intention of their utterer or not – as a spark to the Captain's ardour. Loyal he would be to his friend and to his embassy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she should not know his love, was more than he could bear.
"Ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night indeed! Last night it was my dream – my mad dream – Ah, don't be angry! Don't draw your hand away."
The lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to assent to both these requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from Dieppe's eager grasp.
"My honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that you are free. Ah, Countess, ah, Emilia – for once let me call you Emilia!"
"For once, if you like. Don't get into the habit of it," she advised.
"No, I 'll only think of you by that name."
"I should n't even do as much as that. It would be a – I mean you might forget and call me it, you know."
"Never was man so unhappy as I am," he cried in a low but intense voice. "But I am wrong. I must remember my trust. And you – you love the Count?"
"I am very fond of Andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. She seemed to suffer sorely from embarrassment, for she added hastily, "Don't – don't press me about that any more." Yet she was smiling.
The Captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully. The mockery passed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a moment was grave and tender:
"Thank you. I shall like to remember that. Because I think you 're a brave man and a true friend, Captain Dieppe."
"I thank God for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and, although his manner was (according to his custom) a little pronounced and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. She pressed her hand on his before she drew it away.
"You 'll be my friend?" he asked.
She paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately:
"I will be all to you that I can and that you ask me to be."
"I have your word, dear friend?"
"You have my word. If you ask me, I will redeem it." She looked at him still as though she had said a great thing – as though a pledge had passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him.
What seemed her feeling found an answer in Dieppe. He pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. But their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. Rain beat and wind howled outside. Dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear – a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. He had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. He was loved, though he might hear no words of love. But he could serve her still – serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding Count Andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. That he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. As for himself, with such a woman as the Countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. Yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for Captain Dieppe. He had been loyal – under the circumstances wonderfully loyal – to the Count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness – aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. He resolved that the Count of Fieramondi should never know of Paul de Roustache's threats against the Countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money.