The Mystery of the Lost Dauphin Part 22

"Speak the truth," demanded Amelie imperiously. "I am no weakling."

And her face was so gloriously brave that the Knight of Liberty spoke with more than his accustomed frankness.

"Your father did not go immediately to Paris, for we are watched and caution is necessary. Our original plan has been abandoned, namely, that your father intercede with his sister and the Marquis reunite the families attached to the cause. Were that program in progress, your presence in Paris would be of inestimable value. The father and daughter together would present a picture calculated to quiet all lingering doubt. The impression you both produced upon Giacinto and me in the Red Fish would be repeated upon all beholders. But as matters stand today, your very faces would be your condemnation."

Amelie fixed her brave eyes on the knight's dark face.

"You mean," she said, "that Volpetti has been saved."

"He has, that is to say some of the sailors reached the sh.o.r.e. How they survived fire, explosion, cannon, bullets and shipwreck I cannot say--"

Amelie buried her face in her hands, but the springs of her wonderful iron will soon recovered their tension.

"And how has this been discovered?" she asked. "I mean that some have been saved?"

"You know, that on reaching French soil, we arranged to travel separately and by circuitous routes until we should reach some neighboring port, from which each on a different day should take the diligence. At Dinan, we spent our first night.

"Yes," said Amelie.

"At Dinan, Giacinto visited inns and taverns, conversed with sailors and fishermen and from them learned the story he too well knew, the tragedy in which he had played so prominent a part. He was told that two or three sailors had floated ash.o.r.e at Pleneuf, been given shelter by fishermen and were now recovering."

"If that be all," said the girl, with a look of relief, "why conjecture the worst? Volpetti was not in the best condition for swimming."

"G.o.d grant your wish."

"When Rene left me after our landing, he a.s.sured me that an inviolable asylum awaited me here and a faithful guardian in Jean Vilon. 'From father to son have the Vilons served the de Brazes,' he said. The present steward's father was executed for his adhesion to the throne and altar. The castle contains places of concealment known only to Jean and myself. If the attempt were made to seize you, 'twould be impossible while breath remains in Jean's body. He thinks that you are an unhappy girl, distantly related to me whom I have rescued from enforced entry into a convent."

"Louis Pierre, I know that you and Giacinto stand for ideas widely at variance with those of which my father is a symbol; nevertheless, my faith in you is absolute. You are now my guardian angel," and she extended her hand to him.

He did not dare touch, much less to kiss it. His face was transfigured, beautified, as he solemnly said:

"The daughter of France may trust the sons of the Revolution. She may place faith in the enemy of the inst.i.tutions which the Bourbon symbolizes. No man more than I hates the dynasty which, in committing treason against the country, became the cause of that country's woes, the woes of a foreign invasion. Mortal, eternal, inextinguishable hatred has Louis Pierre sworn against the House. This hate has guided his feet and been the spring of his actions until a few days since. Now I give the Bourbons a chance to prove that they have profited by adversity, that they are capable of being animated by an impulse of justice, that they repent them of their iniquities. I give the usurper a chance to voluntarily abdicate the throne and acknowledge the union of royalty with the strong, pure blood of the people. If this miracle be performed, if the sister open her arms to the brother, Louis Pierre will retract his malediction and forgive the House of Bourbon."

These extravagant words caused Amelie's expression to become graver and loftier.

"Who doubts, Louis Pierre," she said in almost affectionate effusion, as from a queen to a subject, "that my father will accomplish his mission?

The recital of his unparalleled suffering, his atrocious martyrdom, the refuge he sought and obtained among the people, his children born of a daughter of those people; all this will speak for him eloquently.

Humanity has suffered too greatly to remain unmoved before such woes. To my father is reserved the sublime office of reconciling the people and royalty."

Her eyes and cheeks glowed and the Carbonaro e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed:

"Blessed be the day when that light shines in France."

"It will shine!" she cried. "Victory is almost ours. My father is secure beneath Rene's protection. He possesses proofs which, were it necessary to appeal to a tribunal, would win the cause instantly. O even tho Volpetti be risen from h.e.l.l, what harm could he do?"

"What could he do?" repeated the Carbonaro. "He can do everything to accomplish our ruin. Do not deceive yourself, Mademoiselle. If that man lives, we are lost. He holds the strings of our enterprise, he knows the entire history of the mechanic Naundorff. 'Tis he enveloped him in that name as in a winding sheet. If Volpetti be living, woe to your father, woe to you, woe to us all and to Soliviac, who has been of so great service. 'Tis a question of life and death, and we are not sleeping upon the danger, Mademoiselle," he concluded sombrely.

"What do you mean?" she demanded almost sternly.

"I mean that Giacinto is with Soliviac, and that they are exploring every shoal, creek and cape, interviewing every fisherman. Their destination is Pleneuf. Their project may have a startling effect," and Louis Pierre's voice rang out almost stridently.

Chapter III

GIACINTO'S RETURN

Amelie was forced to resign herself patiently to await the news. Life tends to normalize itself, whatever the given conditions, and she wisely accommodated herself to the inevitable. During the mornings she roamed over the great castle, in company with Vilon and Baby d.i.c.k. They would ascend towers and descend into subterranean pa.s.sages, rearranging the salons and adorning the altars. The only inmates of the lofty feudal edifice, besides Vilon, Amelie, Louis Pierre and the child were two maid-servants, one of whom was in charge of the kitchen. At dawn both maids went into the fields for fruit and vegetables or to take the cows to pasture, so that Amelie, free from importunate eyes, walked about freely. They were curious to see the Marquis's relative, she who slept in the Marquise's boudoir, but they made no impertinent inquiries through fear of Jean Vilon, who alone waited upon the guest. During the afternoon, Louis Pierre would come up from his room and play dominoes or discuss the future with her. The Carbonaro had read many books. His brain had received certain ideas as though they had been graven thereon with a corrosive. He was visionary, mystical and a dreamer, and pertained to the sect known as Theophilanthropists; he believed himself destined by Providence to accomplish some high mission requiring great valor and abnegation. His chief characteristic was a contempt for life, and this secured him Amelie's esteem.

With Jean Vilon, Amelie conversed less than with Louis Pierre and her treatment always displayed an air of affectionate patronage. She was a woman, very much of a woman, and fully conscious of her effect upon men.

She used no coquetry toward the fine peasant for in no particular did her feminine artifices approach familiarity. The homage she loved to receive was that of the soul, the adoration of chivalry; she longed for the devotion which ill.u.s.trious unhappy queens had inspired, such as Mary Stuart, or Marie Antoinette. The attachment of Jean Vilon, each day more apparent, was such as a youth of medieval ages paid the holy relics. He divined and filled her every wish. On warm nights he escorted her through the woods that she might breathe the fresh, pure air. They took long walks which brought the roses back to her cheeks and the litheness to her limbs. These clandestine rambles, which seemed at first so risky, soon became a custom.

But her chief delight was the child, the unfortunate waif, torn from the arms of his drowning mother and cast into hers. When asked his name, he would answer "Baby, baby!"

"Only Baby?" Amelie would ask.

One day the little fellow fixed his blue eyes, full of candor, on her face, and added:

"Baby d.i.c.k."

"His name is Richard, then," said Amelie. "This is some information gained," and with that much she had to content herself. The child had either forgotten or did not know his family name. Of his father he remembered nothing; of his mother he knew that she lived in a cottage near the beach, amid many flowers and with a large dog, as large as Silvano. Amelie began to think that he was a child born out of wedlock and she felt for him a greater attachment than ever. From the first moment of being with her, he had called her "Mamma." Her eyes would fill with tears as she placed him at night in his little bed and clasped his tiny hands in prayer. "He has no mother but me," she would say with trembling lips.

One afternoon Louis Pierre read aloud to her from Rousseau's Emile while she held Baby d.i.c.k on her knees. Suddenly Jean Vilon appeared.

"A man has just arrived," he said "bringing my master's watch-word. He came by the road of Saint Brieuc. Shall I open to him?"

Louis exchanged a lightning glance with Amelie.

"Is he dark, handsome, with curly black hair and in sailor's clothes?"

she asked.

"Yes, and he seems very tired."

"Bring him through the subterranean pa.s.sage, no matter how great is his fatigue. The servants must not see a stranger enter."

Jean Vilon withdrew, and it was night when, almost fainting with exhaustion, and covered with dust, Giacinto appeared before them. Amelie ordered Vilon to retire. There was no need to ask questions. The Italian's face, with terrible eloquence, revealed the truth.

Nevertheless Louis Pierre inquired:

"Bad news?"

"The worst."

"Volpetti is saved?"

"Saved and on the road to Paris."

Louis Pierre's voice uttered an inarticulate growl, but the girl recovered sufficient courage to say: