Scene Fourth. —The marquis's dressing-room
The marquis is discovered reclining in dishabille beside a table where some five or six tapers are burning; he has been very wearied with the excitement of the day. But, on the whole, he is satisfied with himself; he is glad that Oliver is going back to Flourens, and still more glad that he will have entire care of the diamonds. He holds a book idly in his hand, and gazes upward at the ceiling as though through a perspective of pleasant inward thoughts. A knock at the door awakens him sharply from his reveries, and the next moment August enters with Oliver's letter.
"What is it?" said the marquis. "Ah! a letter from Oliver, that dear, simple Oliver. Let me see what he has to say." He laid aside his book, and opening the letter, began reading. As he read, the smile faded from his lips, his jaw dropped, his eyes glared, and a heavy, ashy, leaden pallor fell upon his face. As he ended, the letter dropped from his limp hand and fell fluttering to the floor.
Then the marquis rose to his feet; he placed his out-stretched fingers to his forehead, and stood for a moment or two glaring about him. Then the color came flaming back to his face; it grew red, it grew redder, it became purple. Suddenly he roused himself with a choking, inarticulate cry. He snatched up one of the candles from the table and rushed from the room, flinging aside August, who stood in his way, and sent him tumbling backward over a chair and falling with a tremendous clatter to the floor.
He never stopped for an instant until he had reached his private cabinet, into which he burst tumultuously. He tore open the escritoire, and feeling blindly within it, found the key of the chest. Then he dragged forth the chest, and thrust the key into the lock. He flung back the lid, and, leaning over, gazed stupidly down and in.
Where was the glittering treasure that he had left lying upon those velvet-covered trays? It was gone! Nothing left but a mass of muddy charcoal, here and there whitened as though turned to ashes by the touch of fire, and all wet with a pungent fluid that had stained the purple velvet to a dirty reddish-yellow.
"Jean! Edward! François!" It was the marquis's voice, and it rang terribly through the silence of the Hôtel de Flourens.
The next instant there came a crash and a heavy fall, and when the frightened servants crowded around the open door and into the marquis's cabinet, they beheld their master lying upon his face under the table, with an overturned chair upon him, and one arm, with its clinched hand, under his face. He was snoring with stertorous breathing.
ACT IV
Scene First. —The Seine at midnight
Darkness as of death, and, excepting for the hollow murmur of the river, silence as of the grave, utter and profound.
The sky above is a dim, misty opalescence of moonlit stillness; against it rise great, towering, crazy buildings, sharp-roofed, gabled, as black as ink. Across the narrow stretch of intervening water tower other buildings – crazy, sharp-roofed, gabled, as black as ink – and above all loom the great spires of the church into the pale sky, ponderous, massive, silent. One broken strip of moonlight stretches across parapet and roadway of the bridge, white and still. All around it is gaping blackness. Suddenly there is a little movement in the darkness, the sound of a stumbling step, halting and uneven, and then some one appears in the white patch of moonlight. It is Oliver, pale, hollow-eyed, dishevelled, his hair tangled, his lace cravat torn open at the throat, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his silk stockings stained and spattered with mud. He reels like a drunken man as he struggles against the invisible power that holds him relentless as fate. Step by step that power thrusts him, struggling and shuffling, towards the parapet of the bridge. He mounts it and flings one leg over the edge. Beneath him in the inky blackness he can hear but not see the water rushing onward under the arches.
Suddenly some one touched Oliver lightly upon the shoulder, and instantly he felt the same physical effect that had happened when the master had struck his hands together in the room at the Hôtel de Flourens. It was as though a blow had fallen upon him. Bright sparks danced and flashed before his eyes, his brain spun like a teetotum in a dizzy horizontal whirl, and he clutched the cold stones with his fingers to save himself from falling. Then suddenly the sparks vanished and the whirling ceased, and he awoke sharply as though it were from some horrid nightmare. He gazed stupidly around him, still sitting upon the parapet of the bridge; the figure of a woman stood within ten paces of him, her waxy-white face turned full upon him, her unwinking eyes, sparkling in the moonlight, fixed full upon his.
Oliver's heart leaped within him. It was the woman whom he had seen in the streets of Flourens that night when the pretended American uncle lodged with him and his mother, and her face looked upon him now just as it had looked upon him when he peered down upon her from the garret window. He slipped from the parapet of the bridge, and, crouching in the shadow on the foot-way, ran rapidly and noiselessly away from that dreadful, impassive presence. Then, reaching the end of the bridge, and without slacking his speed, he plunged into and wound in and out through the crooked streets, leading he knew not whither. Why he ran he did not know, but something seemed to impel him onward. Suddenly he passed across another patch of moonlight, and as he ran plunging into the shadow upon the farther side, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. A keen thrill shot through the very marrow of his bones; she was following him – silently, noiselessly, swiftly. He quickened his gait into a run, winding his way in and out through the by-ways. As he passed into and out of the dull red glare of a solitary lantern, he looked over his shoulder again. He could see that dim shape still following him, silent, ghost-like. His heart gave another great leap as it had done at first, and then began to thump against his ribs. The sweat was running down his face in streams, his breath came thick and heavy, and he felt as though he were stifling, but still he ran onward in swift headlong flight, though his feet felt heavy and leaden, as they do in a nightmare dream.
On he dashed through mud and puddles in the crooked streets or on the side-way, for he did not choose his path now through the empty blackness, now across a patch of moonlight, now under the dull glare of a lantern. He had no need to look behind, for his soul knew that she still followed. Suddenly he saw a narrow, crooked passage-way in front of him. Without pausing to think, he doubled like a hare and shot into it. It opened into a stony court surrounded with squalid houses, huge, black, silent. At the farther end was a blind wall, and Oliver's heart crumbled away within him, for an escape was at an end. He darted one look over his shoulder – she was there; he could just see the dim outline of her form flitting through the darkness. The next moment he ran headlong against the wall and there flattened himself, spreading out his palms over the rough surface, hiding his face against his hands, panting and sobbing like a dumb creature.
Five seconds passed, ten, twenty. Oliver looked fearfully over his shoulder, and then hid his face again; she was there, silent, motionless; the faint glimmer of her white face turned full upon him. Again he looked; she neither approached him nor drew away, and by-and-by the impassive harmlessness of her stillness seemed to breathe a breath of softness upon the black rigor of his terror. A faint spark of courage began to glimmer in his heart, and one by one the scattered forces of his will, torn asunder by the tumult of his blind terror, began to gather together and to cohere into some form.
Suddenly there came a quick flash of thought to his mind. It was plain she meant him no harm, and she was in some mysterious way connected with the strange dark life of the master: might she not give him some news of Céleste? He turned suddenly around towards the woman, and instantly as he did so, exactly timing her movements with his, she also turned. Fearing she might escape, he stepped quickly forward; instantly she began to move away; he quickened his pace, she also quickened hers; he began to run, her feet moved quickly, silently; she seemed to make no exertion, but he neither gained nor lost a foot. At last, seeing the uselessness of this crazy race through the silent and deserted streets, he finally stopped; instantly he did so, she also stopped.
"What is it you want of me?" said Oliver. Then, again, receiving no reply, "What is it you want of me?"
Still she made no answer, but stood there motionless, silent.
"Then go your way!" he burst out, desperately, at last. "I know you now. You are like all the rest; you are a devil!"
As he spoke he turned and began to walk away, but he had not gone twenty steps when, looking over his shoulder, he saw that she was following him again, as she had followed him at first. Again he stopped and turned, and again, as though she were his shadow, she also stopped and turned. A long pause of silence followed.
"Madame," said Oliver, at last, "I do not know why you thus choose to dog my footsteps; is there anything that you desire of me?"
No answer.
He waited for a while; the silence weighed upon him like lead. "I have done you no harm," said he, at last; "why do you follow me thus persistently? Are you set as a spy upon me? Surely the master has ruined me enough! Does he desire that I should take my own life? I was about to destroy it when I saw you at the bridge over there."
He waited breathlessly for a reply, but there was no answer.
"Who are you?" he burst out after a while. "You frighten me with your dreadful, mysterious presence! What have I to do with you, or you with me?"
She remained as motionless and as silent as a statue.
"Listen!" said Oliver. "It is less dreadful to follow you than to have you pursue me. Yes, I will follow you. It is but of little consequence whither you take me, for nothing worse can happen to me than that which I have already suffered. Yes, I will follow you." He advanced as he spoke; the woman moved away.
This time Oliver did not hasten his steps as he had done heretofore, but, keeping his eyes upon her, followed her doggedly and stubbornly.
Once more they came out upon the street which they had at first left, and so to the bridge, which they crossed. Now and then, dreading lest he might lose her in the blackness of the night, Oliver hastened his steps, but invariably she quickened hers, so that at last he gave over any fear that she might escape. A hope began to grow and expand in his bosom: whither was she leading him? On and on they went; Oliver took no heed whither. The streets now became broader and better lighted; they had come to a better quarter of the town. But Oliver did not look about him; he kept his eyes fixed upon his mysterious guide; now he did not dare to lose her.
Suddenly she turned at right angles and entered a narrow, closed alley-way. Oliver hurried after, and as he emerged into a little, stony court lit by the dull red glow of a lantern, he saw her whom he followed pause for an instant before a door-way, and the next moment enter.
He leaned against the wall beside which he stood, shuddering and trembling in the rush of a blinding hope. But there was no time for hesitation; he must follow instantly if he would not lose sight of his silent guide. He advanced boldly, and without a moment's hesitation pushed open the door and entered the passage-way within.
Scene Second. —The master's apartments
His guide must have been waiting for him, for, by the light of the lantern without, he saw that silent and mysterious figure moving before him, like a part of the shadowy darkness itself. For some distance he made his way along the gloomy passage, feeling with his hand against the wall. Suddenly he fell, with a noisy rattle and clatter, upon the lower steps of a stair-way that led steeply up into a yawning blackness above.
He did not hesitate a moment, but began ascending the stairs, still feeling his way with one hand against the wall and the other stretched out in the darkness before him. So he came at last to a little landing-place, and advancing slowly, his other hand presently touched the panels of a door. He fumbled for a second or two until he found the latch, then lifting it with a click, he entered.
The bare, plastered passage-way through which he had come must have been the rear entrance to the apartments above, for, passing through the door, he found himself in what appeared to be a small dining-room, as well as he could see from the light that came from the stair-way beyond. It also seemed to be richly and luxuriously furnished, and he saw the multiple glimmering twinkle of the light in the passage-way beyond flickering upon polished silver and glass.
But he had no time for observation, for before him he saw the figure which he followed just passing through the door upon the other side of the apartment, and he hurried forward without stopping.
Beyond the dining-room he came out upon a broad landing-place of a stair-way, which upon the one hand led to the apartments above, and upon the other to the ground-floor beneath. The flitting, shadow-like figure of his mysterious guide crossed this landing-place to a door-way opposite, and as Oliver, without a moment's hesitation, followed, he found himself in a dressing-room. By the ruddy light of the fire that glowed cheerfully in the grate, he saw that the room was empty; the woman had evidently passed through the door-way upon the other side of the apartment, and so into the room beyond. Again Oliver hurried forward, and laid his hand upon the knob of the door. He tried it; the door was locked.
A hat with a black feather lay upon the table; his eyes fell upon it, and then his heart leaped into his throat. It was the first spark of recognition, and then in a flash that recognition was complete: it was to the Count de St. Germaine's apartments that he had been led by this strange, silent guide.
As Oliver stood there looking about him, a faint sound broke through the stillness – a dull, stifled, moaning cry. Again his heart bounded within him. He bent his head and listened at the crack of the door. Could he have been mistaken? He fancied that he heard a faint rustling in the room within, and then – yes, there could be no mistake this time! It was the sound of some one crying. "Céleste!" breathed Oliver through the crack of the door.
No answer; even the faint rustling that he had heard had ceased. Oliver's heart throbbed as though it would stifle him; the blood hummed in his ears.
"Céleste!"
"Who is there?" answered a faint voice from within. That voice was sodden and husky with tears, but Oliver recognized it. For a moment or two, in the revulsion of his feelings, he turned giddy and faint. Then he began to cry.
"Oh, Céleste," he sobbed, "it is I – it is Oliver! I am come to save you. Open the door, Céleste, and let me in!"
"I cannot," said Céleste. "It is locked; there is no key."
"But the woman who has just entered," said Oliver, "has she not the key?"
"The woman?" said Céleste. "Of whom do you speak, Oliver? No one has entered here since that dreadful man who brought me here went away and left me."
Oliver looked around him. Could she – that mysterious woman – have left the room by any other way? No; there were but two doors – the door through which he had followed her and the door at which he now stood. She could have left the room in no other way. It was very strange, but Oliver dismissed the subject from his mind. This was no time to wonder over the many mysteries that involved the dark life of the Count de St. Germaine. He must save Céleste. "Courage, Céleste!" he breathed through the door. "I must go and leave you, but I go to bring help to you. I will save you, Céleste!"
He had no plan for saving her, as he thus promised to do; but in the elation of his feelings upon having thus found her, and in the elasticity of his youthful confidence, he felt sure of his ability to do something.
"But, tell me, Oliver," said Céleste, "where am I? Why have I been brought here? What is to happen to me? Who was the horrible man that drew that awful black hood over my face in the garden?"
"You are in the apartments of the Count de St. Germaine," answered Oliver. "He of whom you speak was that Gaspard, and – and I – do not know what they will do to you, Céleste. But courage, my love. I must go; but do not be afraid; I will save you, I swear it! But I must go. If they find me here they will kill me – What was that?"
It was the sound of the closing of a door below; of footsteps crossing the landing upon which Oliver had followed his silent guide.
"Gaspard!"
It was the voice of the Count de St. Germaine!
Oliver stood as though turned to stone.
He cast his despairing eyes around. Where should he escape? To leave by the door was to face the master, whose footsteps he could hear already climbing the stairs towards the room. The window? That meant horrible death upon the pavement beneath.
The wardrobe! The thought was an inspiration. It stood against the farther wall of the room, a huge, ponderous structure of carved and polished wood, inlaid with arabesque patterns of lighter colors. There was no time to lose; the master was almost at the door.
The wardrobe was divided into two compartments separated by a wooden partition, against which the folding doors closed. Oliver climbed into one of the sides and among the clothes that hung from the hooks above, closing the door behind him. As he did so he heard the footsteps of the Count de St. Germaine enter the room.
Gaspard, with his usual silent, cat-like step, must have accompanied the master, bearing a light, for a bright yellow ray fell through the key-hole and traversed the clothes amid which Oliver stood, as though some one crossed the room with a candle.
Oliver scarcely dared breathe as he stood there with palpitating heart, the sweat trickling down his face in streams. He swallowed and swallowed; his mouth was dry and clammy.
The Count de St. Germaine spoke; his voice sounded loud and resonant upon Oliver's tensity of nervous strain.
"Put the lights upon the table there, Gaspard, and bring me my dressing-gown and slippers from the wardrobe yonder."
The words fell upon Oliver's ears like a death-knell. He braced himself to bear the coming shock. It seemed to him that his brain swelled like a soap-bubble, with a hollow, ringing expansion. He heard Gaspard's soft footfalls approaching the closet; it seemed as though it took minutes for him to cross the room. He heard the clever servant's fingers fumbling at the door, and then the wardrobe was opened – but not the side upon which he stood; the dressing-gown and slippers hung in the other compartment.
Oliver's heart gave a great leap, and then he fell to trembling in every joint. Gaspard closed the door of the wardrobe again, and Oliver could hear his soft footfalls recrossing the floor, and then the silky rustling as the master put on the dressing-gown and slippers.
"That is good," said the count. "Now go and bring my chocolate, and then we will look at the girl in the room yonder. She is very pretty."
Oliver heard the words as clearly as though he had been standing beside the speaker. In an instant his prostrating terror vanished like a flash, and in its place blazed up a consuming flame of rage. He clinched his hands together until his finger-nails cut into his palms. He was upon the point of flinging open the door of the wardrobe and bursting out into the room – of clutching that smooth, complacent devil by the throat. Luckily for him, his reason still had some governance over his action. What could he, Oliver Munier, do against the powers of hell that the master had at his command? No; he must wait, he must suffer to the last.
"Yes, monsieur," said Gaspard, and Oliver could almost see the wretch leer.
Then he heard Gaspard close the door. A little time of silence followed. Then the Count de St. Germaine began walking restlessly up and down the room, and after a while he fell to muttering to himself, and as he passed and repassed close by the wardrobe, Oliver could catch snatches of what he was saying.
"What is it that lies upon me to-night? Yes; I feel an influence in this room. – Bah! I am a fool! Why should I fear? I have crushed and annihilated the only one who the stars say could harm me. – Those stars lied. What harm could a heavy, loutish peasant lad do to me? – Yes; he must be drifting down the waters of the Seine by now, rolled over and over, perhaps, in the mud at the bottom. – Peste! To think of his having the wit to destroy that mirror of mine! If I could only consult it now I could make sure that he is out of my way. – Those fools are sometimes possessed with certain cunning of their own." So he continued muttering to himself, passing and repassing the wardrobe.
Presently he stopped in his walk and his soliloquy, and Oliver heard a tinkling chink of china. It was Gaspard bringing in the chocolate. Then he heard the sound of a chair drawn back, and then the faint gurgle of the liquor poured into the cup, the rattle of the sugar in the bowl, and the click of the spoon. There was a pause, and he could distinctly hear the master take a sip. He replaced the cup.
"Now, then, Gaspard, the girl," said he; "bring her – " He stopped abruptly, and a long pause of silence followed. "What!" at length exclaimed the Count de St. Germaine. "Is it you again? What, then, do you desire? This makes the third time this week. Listen! I have warned you, I have besought you, but it seems that I can influence you neither by the one nor the other. I am weary of this importunity. I will reason no more. Gaspard!"
Oliver heard a quick step, a rustling, and then the sound of a fierce, silent struggle. Heretofore he had been afraid to move in the wardrobe; now he could resist no longer. He stooped, and peered through the hole. Just across the room from him was Gaspard, grinning horribly as he struggled silently with some one. Yes; it was with the woman whom Oliver had followed there.
But that struggle lasted only for a moment. The next, Gaspard had drawn his black bag over her head, as Oliver had seen him do once before. Then the struggle instantly ceased, and she stood silent, immovable. Gaspard picked her up, flung her over his shoulder, turned, and the next moment had vanished out of the narrow range of Oliver's outlook, who, however, still remained with his eye glued to the key-hole.
Suddenly an object intervened; it was the back of the master's dressing-gown. Oliver could see nothing but just that little circle of cashmere cloth; the master was not four feet away from him. The cashmere cloth was innocent enough, but the sight of it filled Oliver again with that blind, ungovernable rage. He straightened himself from his observations at the key-hole. But as he did so his elbow struck against the partition alongside of him. He heard a rustle, and knew as well as though he had seen it that his master had turned quickly.
"What is that?" said the Count de St. Germaine's voice, sharply.
Oliver knew that he was discovered, and thereupon his blind rage broke through all restraints of reason and caution. "It is I!" he roared; and flinging wide the door of the wardrobe, he sprang like a cat at the throat of the other. As he sprang he clutched, and as he clutched he felt his fingers instinctively close not only around the soft folds of the cravat, but also around the links of a chain beneath.
The master went staggering back at the unexpected attack, and as he did so his slipper heel caught in the edge of the rug behind him, and he fell. But as he fell he shouted aloud, "Gaspard! Help!"
It was all over in an instant. The master lay prostrate on the floor, and as Oliver staggered back from the recoil of the attack, he found in his clutched hand a lace cravat and the chain, which had parted from the Count de St. Germaine's neck with a sharp snap. Something hung by the chain. It was a little silver case, thicker than, but about half as long, as a snuffbox.
There was a momentary pause as Oliver stood glaring at the master, still unconsciously clutching the cravat and the chain in his hand. The other had raised himself, and was now staring back at Oliver with wild, dilated eyes, and a face haggard and white as death. The next instant he sprang to his feet.
"My talisman!" he shrieked. "Give it to me!" and he raised his quivering fist in the air as though he would strike Oliver with it.
At the same instant a shrill, exultant voice sounded at the door: "Keep it, Monsieur Oliver, keep it! Do not give it to him! It is his life!"
It was Gaspard who spoke. And as Oliver turned his dazed eyes, he saw the clever servant standing in the door-way, hopping up and down, grinning, wagging his head, and waving his bony, sinewy hands madly hither and thither.
Oliver was stupefied with the tempest of passions that raged in and about him. The master might have taken what he chose, and he could not have moved to resist him. But this the master did not do. He gave a shrill, piping, despairing cry, and the next moment made a rush for the door, his cashmere dressing-gown flying behind him like brilliant wings. He flung Gaspard aside, and the next instant Oliver heard his pattering feet flying up the stairs.
"What does it all mean?" said Oliver, stupidly.
"What does it mean?" cried Gaspard. "Are you a fool? Open the box! open the box!"
Oliver mechanically obeyed him.
Within was a little roll of soft linen, yellow with age. He unrolled it, and within that again found a little crystal ball about the size of a dove's egg. He could see that it contained what appeared to be a dull, phosphorescent mass that, as he held it in his hand, seemed to pulse and throb in the light of the candle; now glowing with a bluish light, now fading away to a dull, milky opalescence.
Again, for the third time, Gaspard's snarling voice broke on his ear. "Oh, thou fool! See him stand like a lump! Pig! Do you not know that the master is busy with his books? A moment more and all is lost! Crush that ball, or you are a dead man!"
His words spurred Oliver to sudden action. He raised the globe high in the air, and flung it upon the floor with all his force. It burst with a flash of light and a report like a pistol, and instantly the air was filled with a pungent, reddish vapor.
The next instant, as the thunder follows the flash of lightning, there came a dull, heavy rumbling, as from the cellar, and the floor swayed beneath Oliver's feet, as though the house were toppling. He looked around; the door-way at which Gaspard had stood was empty; the clever servant was gone.
Then suddenly a confusion of sounds broke upon the stillness of the house: struggles and scuffles, snarling of voices, and squeaking as though of rats, the rattle and crash of furniture pushed about, thumping and banging as of people wrestling and falling against the doors. The next instant there was a sound of a heavy fall, a shrill, long-drawn, quavering scream, and then the lull of dead silence.
Oliver stood like a statue, listening, as though he had been turned to stone. He heard a door open, and then the sound of footsteps, and a strange clacking and clattering upon the stairs without; a heavy panting and breathing. Oliver ran to the door and looked up the stairs. Gaspard was coming down out of the black gloom above. Over his shoulders he carried something limp, like an empty skin or a bundle of clothes tied together. Part of what he carried he dragged clattering down the steps behind him; another part, a round lump the size of a man's head, hung down over his shoulder, wagging from side to side. The next moment the clever servant had come into the square of light from the open door-way of the room. That light fell full upon the round lump that hung wagging from his shoulder, and in the one instant of passing, Oliver saw a dreadful, a hideous face, ashy-white, and with eyes rolled, one upward and one downward, so that only a rim of the pupils showed. The jaws gaped and clapped as the head wagged from side to side. It was the face of the Count de St. Germaine.
Oliver stood spellbound, horrified, watching Gaspard as he descended the steep flight of steps, bearing that ghastly burden. As the clever servant passed under the dull light of the lamp below he turned his head and looked up. His mouth gaped wide with impish, noiseless laughter; he thrust his tongue into his cheek, and with an ugly leer and wink of one of his black, bead-like eyes, he passed by and down the steps beyond, the feet of the figure clicking from step to step behind him.
Oliver watched him until he reached the bottom of the steps and passed out from the house into the night beyond; there was the bang of a closing door, and then dead silence.
The next moment Oliver was at the door of the room wherein Céleste was confined. "Céleste!" he screamed, "for God's sake, come! Leave this awful place!"
"What is it?" answered Céleste from within. "Am I then saved?"
"Yes," cried Oliver, in the same shrill voice, "you are saved! But come! come!"
"But the door," said Céleste. "It is locked, Oliver."
"Ah, peste! I had forgotten. Stand away from it." As he spoke, he rushed against the door, flinging himself bodily upon it. It shook, but did not open. Again he dashed himself against it, and this time with better success. The lock snapped, and as it flew open inward Oliver plunged headlong into the room beyond.
Céleste stood, white and terrified, in the middle of the floor. "But am I indeed saved?" said she. "Where, then, is Monsieur de St. Germaine?"
"Do not ask me, Céleste," cried Oliver, hoarsely. "Come!"
As they passed through the room beyond, Céleste looked up into his face.