Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 15

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Malletort, leaving his cousin’s house by its principal egress, did not enter his coach at once, but whispering certain directions to the servants, proceeded leisurely down a narrow lane or alley, leading, after a variety of windings, into one of the great thoroughfares of Paris. The street was well adapted for such an interview, either of love or business, as it was desirable to keep secret, consisting, on one side, only of the backs of the houses, in which the windows were built up, and on the other, of the high dead wall that bounded the extensive premises of the Hôtel Montmirail. Casting a hasty glance before and behind, to make sure he was not watched, the Abbé, when he reached the narrowest part of the narrow passage—for it was hardly more—halted, smiled, and observed to himself: “A man’s character must be either very spotless or very good for nothing if he can thus afford to set the decencies of life at defiance. A churchman with an assignation! and at noon in this quarter of Paris! My friend, it is rather a strong measure, no doubt! And suppose, nevertheless, she should fail to appear? It would be the worse for her, that’s all! Ah! the sweet sultana! There she is!”

While he spoke, a woman, wrapped in a large shawl, with another folded round her head, came swiftly down the alley, and stopped within two paces of him. It was the Quadroon, agitated, hurried, a good deal out of breath, and, perhaps, also a little out of temper.

“It’s no use, Monsieur l’Abbé!” were the first words she gasped. “I cannot, and I dare not, and I will not. Besides, I have no time, I must be back directly. There’s Mademoiselle, most likely, wanting me this minute. The idea of such a thing! It’s out of the question altogether!”

Malletort laughed good-humouredly. He could afford to be good-humoured, for the woman was in his power.

“And the alternative?” said he. “Not that I want to drive you, my Queen of Sheba, but still, a bargain is a bargain. Do you think Mademoiselle would engross your time much longer if the Marquise knew all I know, and, indeed, all that it is my duty to tell her?”

Célandine clasped her hands imploringly, and dropped at once into complete submission.

“I will go with you, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said she, humbly. “But you will not forget your promise. If you were to betray me I should die.”

“And I, too,” thought Malletort, who knew the nature with which he had to deal, and treated it as a keeper treats the tigress in her cage. “It is no question of betrayal,” he said, aloud. “Follow me. When we reach the carriage, step in. My people know where to drive.”

He walked on very fast, and she followed him; her black eyes glancing fierce misgivings, like those of a wild animal that suspects a snare.

Two or three more windings with which he seemed thoroughly familiar, a glance around that showed not a passenger visible, nor indeed a living soul, save a poor old rag-picker raking a heap of refuse with her hook, and the Quadroon suddenly emerged in mid-stream, so to speak, surrounded by the life and bustle of one of the main streets in Paris. At a few paces distant stood a plain, well-appointed coach, and the Abbé, pointing to its door, which a servant was holding open, Célandine found herself, ere she could look round, rumbling, she knew not where, over the noisy pavement, completely in that man’s power, for whom, perhaps, of all men in the world, she entertained the strongest feelings of terror, stronger even than her aversion.

She did not take long, however, to recover herself. The strain of savage blood to which she owed those fierce black eyes and jetty locks gave her also, with considerable physical courage, the insensibility of rude natures to what we may term moral fear. She might shudder at a drawn knife if she were herself unarmed, or cower before a whip if her hands were tied and her back bared; but to future evil, to danger, neither visible nor tangible, she was callous as a child.

They had not travelled half a mile ere she showed her delight in every feature of her expressive face at the rapid motion and the gay scenes through which she was driven. In a few minutes she smiled pleasantly, and asked their destination as gaily as if they had been going to a ball.

Malletort thought it a good opportunity for a few impressive words.

“Célandine,” said he, gravely, “every one of us has a treasure somewhere hidden up in the heart. What is it that you love better than everything else in the world?”

The dark face, tanned by many a year of sun, yet comely still, saddened and softened while he spoke, the black eyes grew deeper and deeper as they seemed to look dreamily into the past. After a pause she drew a sorrowful sigh, and answered, “Mademoiselle!”

“Good,” replied the Abbé. “You are bound on an errand now for which Mademoiselle will be grateful to you till her dying day.”

She looked curiously in his face. “Cerise is dear to me as my own,” said she. “How can I do more for her to-day than yesterday, and to-morrow, and every day of my life?”

He answered by another question.

“Would you like to see your darling a Princess of France?”

The Quadroon’s eyes glistened and filled with tears.

“I would lay down my life for the child,” was all she said in reply.

But he had got her malleable now, and he knew it. Those tear-drops showed him she was at the exact temperature for fusion. A little less, she would have remained too cold and hard. A little more, and over-excitement would have produced irritation, anger, defiance: then the whole process must have been begun again. It was a good time to secure her confederacy, and let her see a vague shadowy outline of his plans.

In a few short sentences, but glowing and eloquent, because of the tropical nature to which they were addressed, Malletort sketched out the noble destiny he had in view for her mistress, and the consequent elevation of Cerise to the rank of royalty. He impressed on his listener the necessity of implicit, unquestioning obedience to his commands. Above all, of unbroken silence and unvaried caution till their point was gained.

“As in your own beautiful island,” said the Abbé, soaring for the occasion to the metaphorical; “if you would pass by night through its luxuriant jungles, you must keep the star that guides you steadily in view, nor lose sight of it for an instant; so in the path I shall indicate, never forget, however distant and impracticable it may seem, the object to which our efforts are directed. In either case, if your attention wanders for a moment, in that moment your feet stray from the path; you stumble amongst the tangled creepers—you pierce yourself with the cruel cactus—you tread on some venomous reptile that turns and stings you to the bone; nay, you may topple headlong down a precipice into the deep, dark, silent waters of the lagoon. Once there, I tell you fairly, you might wait for a long while before the Marquise, or Mademoiselle, or myself would wet a finger to pull you out!”

Thus urging on his listener the importance of her task, now in plain direct terms, now in the figurative language of parables, their drive seemed to have lasted but a few minutes, when it was brought to an abrupt termination by the stoppage of the coach before Signor Bartoletti’s residence.

It appeared that the visitors were expected, for a couple of his heavily-decorated footmen waited on the stairs, and Célandine, following the Abbé with wondering eyes and faltering steps, found herself received with as much pomp and ceremony as if she had been a Princess of the Blood.

They were ushered into the room that communicated with his laboratory. It was empty, but wine and fruit stood on the table. Malletort pressed the Quadroon to taste the former in vain. Then he passed without ceremony into the adjoining apartment, assuring her of his speedy return.

Left to herself, Célandine drank greedily from the water-jug ere she crossed the floor on tiptoe, stealthy as a wild cat, and pressing her ear to the door, applied all her faculties intently to the one act of listening.

She heard the Abbé’s greeting distinctly enough, and the sentence immediately following, spoken laughingly, as usual.

“The parts are cast,” said he, “and the stage prepared. It remains but to dress the principal actress and make her perfect in her cue.”

“Have you brought her?” answered an eager voice, hurried, agitated, and scarcely above a whisper.

Indistinct as were the syllables, their effect on the Quadroon was like magic. She started, she passed her hand wildly across her face; her very lips turned white, and she trembled in every limb. Her attitude was no longer the simple act of listening. In concentrated eagerness it resembled the crouch of a leopard before its spring.

The door opened, and she sprang in good earnest. As Bartoletti crossed the threshold she flew at him, and with one pounce had him fast by the throat.

“Where is he?” she screamed, with foaming lips and flashing eyes. “Where is he? What have you done with him? I will kill you if you do not tell me. Man! Beast! Monster! Where have you hid my child?”

It took all the Abbé’s strength, combined with the Italian’s own efforts, to untwine those nervous fingers. At last he shook himself free, to stand gasping, panting, wiping his face, exhausted, terror-stricken, and unmanned.

When her physical powers yielded, her nervous system gave way as well. Sinking into a chair, she sobbed and wept hysterically, rocking herself to and fro, murmuring—

“My baby! My fair-faced baby! My own! My only child!”

Bartoletti had by this time found his voice, though still husky and unstrung.

“Célandine!” he exclaimed, and the tone denoted fear, anxiety, surprise, even disgust, yet a something of tenderness and interest ran through it all.

Malletort lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and had recourse to his snuff-box. A few words had settled his business with the Adept, and his fine perceptions told him that in a scene like the present, however it originated, the interference of a third person would do more harm than good. Had he permitted himself such weaknesses, he felt he could have been astonished; but the Abbé had long established as an axiom, that, “he might be disgusted, but could never be surprised.” He had skill to distinguish, moreover, the nice point at which a delicate piece of workmanship may be quite spoiled by one additional touch, and knew the exact moment when it is advisable to leave both well and ill alone; so he pocketed his snuff-box, and made a bow to the agitated pair.

“An unexpected recognition,” said he, politely, “and agitating, I perceive, to both. My introduction is then unnecessary. Pardon! You will permit me to wish you good-day, and leave you to arrange matters between yourselves!”

Insensibly Bartoletti opened the door for his guest. Insensibly he returned the parting salutation, and insensibly, like a sleep-walker, he sat down opposite and gazed blankly in the Quadroon’s face.

She at least was awake, and on the alert. The storm of her emotion had subsided. She summoned all her energies for the object she had in view.

“Stefano!” she said, in a kindly conciliating tone, “forgive my violence. You and I have been friends for years. You know my quick temper of old. I can trust you. You can never be indifferent to my welfare.”

He was sufficiently reassured by this time to fill a large goblet of wine, which he half emptied at a gulp. His cheek regained its swarthy bloom, and his little black eye glistened fondly, while he answered—

“Never indifferent, Célandine! Never false! Never changed in all these years!”

She was, as we know, one-fourth a negress, and past middle age—of an exterior so wild and weird, that the courtiers called her, as we also know, “The Mother of Satan.” He was turned fifty, self-indulgent, dishonest, with oily skin and beady eyes; short, swarthy, thick-set, and altogether not unlike a mole! Yet was there a spark of true love for his visitor lurking somewhere not entirely smothered amongst all the mass of impurities with which the man’s heart was filled.

She was too much a woman to be quite unconscious of her power. She spoke in soft and coaxing accents now, while she replied—

“I know it, Stefano. I believe it. I have also a good memory, and am not likely to forget. And, Stefano, you have a kind heart—you will not keep me longer in suspense about the child. He is here? In this house? In the next room? Oh! let me see him! Let me only see him, and I will do anything you ask!”

She had slid from her chair, and knelt before him, holding the Adept’s scarred, burned fingers to her lips.

His face betrayed the pain he suffered in inflicting pain on her. “What can I tell you?” he answered. “It is cruel to deceive you. It is cruel to speak the truth. I have never seen the boy since he left me. Do you think I would have kept him from you? How can I find him? How can I bring him back? You talk as if I was King of France!”

A horrible fear came across her. She rose to her feet, and shook both fists in his face.

“Man!” she exclaimed, “do not tell me he is dead! You shall answer for it, if heaven or hell have any power on earth!”

There were tears in his little beady eyes, unaccustomed tears, that vouched for his truth, even to her, while he replied—

“You are unjust, Célandine; and you would see your injustice if you did but think for a moment. What had I to gain by taking care of the boy? What had I to gain by ridding myself of him? Had I been to blame, do you suppose I should have sent you the earliest information of his flight? Have I not felt your sorrows keenly as if they were my own? Do I not feel for you now? Listen. I am the same Stefano Bartoletti who told you the secret of his life, the desire of his heart, by the side of that sweet serene lagoon, in the beautiful island which probably neither of us may ever see again. I have learned many strange lessons—I have witnessed many strange scenes since then. Many years have passed over my head, and wisdom has not despised me as the least apt among her pupils. Statesmen, nobles, princes themselves have been glad to visit me in person, and reap the fruit of my studies and my experience. But I tell you, Célandine,” and here the little man smote his breast, and for the moment looked every inch a champion, “I am the same Stefano Bartoletti. I swear to you that if you will but join me heart and hand in this, the last and greatest of my schemes, I will never rest till I have found the boy, and brought him back into his mother’s arms!”

She gave a wild, fierce cry of joy, and was hugging the brown hand to her bosom once more.

“Money,” observed the Signor, walking thoughtfully up and down the room as soon as she had sufficiently composed herself to listen, “money, you perceive, is the one thing we require. Money alone can overcome this, like all other difficulties on earth. Money in sufficient quantity would make me independent, contented, perhaps happy.” Here he stole a tender look in the Quadroon’s face. “Money would enable me to quit these cold, dull regions; this constrained, confined, unnatural life. Money would restore me my liberty, and you your child. Célandine, will you help me to get it?”

He had touched the right chord. There was eager hope and wild unscrupulous energy in her face while she answered—

“I will! I swear it! Heart and hand I go in with you for this object, and neither fire nor water, nor steel nor poison shall turn me now. You know me, Stefano. I will shrink from nothing. But it is—it is not a question of blood?”

“No, no!” he replied, laughing. “You, too, are unchanged, Célandine. Always in extremes. Make yourself easy on that score. It is but a trick of your former trade. None but yourself can do it half so well. I will explain it all in five minutes when I have finished this cup of wine. But, Célandine,” and here her old admirer drew closer and whispered in her ear.

“I cannot tell,” she laughed. “It is impossible to give an answer yet.”

“And the price?” continued he, earnestly. “Surely it must have fallen now, though the Marquise is hard to deal with on such matters.”

The Quadroon shook her head archly, indeed, coquettishly for her years and replied—

“Certainly not less than a couple of thousand francs?”

“But suppose she knew everything!” urged the lover.

“Then I think she would be so angry, she would have me flogged and give me away for nothing!”

He shook his head, pondering deeply. The flogging was indeed a serious consideration. But then, what a reduction it would make in the price!

There was grave matter, he thought, for reflection in the whole business, and his manner was more sedate than usual, while he instructed Célandine in a certain part that the Abbé and he had agreed she should perform.