Avarice - Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

The young woman had never been the object of her husband's anger before in her life, so it is impossible to convey any idea of the horror she experienced on seeing him ready to rush upon her. Terrified by his ferocious, bloodthirsty look, in which there seemed to be not even the slightest gleam of recognition, she remained for a moment trembling and motionless, feeling as if she were about to swoon. Suddenly the little girl, who had been awakened several minutes before by the loud talking, parted the curtains of her crib and looked out. Not recognising her father, and mistaking him for a stranger, as she had never before seen him in such a costume, she uttered a shrill cry of terror, and exclaimed:

"Oh, mamma, the black man! the black man!"

"The key! give me the key!" repeated Cloarek, in thunder tones, taking another step toward his wife, who, slipping the key in her bosom, ran to the crib and caught her child in her arms, while the little girl, more and more terrified, hid her face on her mother's breast, sobbing:

"Oh, that black man, that black man, he means to kill mamma!"

"To take this key from me, you will have to tear my child from my arms," said the frail but courageous woman.

"You don't know that I am capable of anything when I am angry," exclaimed the unfortunate man, aroused to such a pitch of fury as to be blind and deaf to the most sacred sentiments. As he spoke, he rushed toward his wife in such a frenzied, menacing manner that the unfortunate woman, believing herself lost, strained her little daughter to her breast, and, bowing her head, cried:

"Spare, oh, spare my child!"

This cry of agony and of maternal despair penetrated to the innermost depths of Yvon's soul. He stopped short, then quicker than thought he turned, and, with a strength that his fury rendered irresistible, dashed himself against the door with such impetuosity that it gave way.

On hearing the sound, Madame Cloarek raised her head in even greater terror, for her child was in convulsions, caused by fright, and seemed likely to die in her arms.

"Help!" faltered Jenny, faintly. "Help, Yvon, our child is dying!"

A despairing cry answered these panting words uttered by Jenny, who felt that she, too, was dying, for in this delicate woman's critical condition such a shock was almost certain to prove fatal.

"Yvon, our child is dying!"

Cloarek, who was still only a few yards off, heard these lamentable words. The horror of the thought that his child was dying dispelled his anger as if by magic, and, rushing wildly back into his wife's room, he saw her still standing by the crib, but already as livid as a spectre.

With a supreme effort Jenny extended her arms to place her child in her husband's hands, faltering:

"Take her, I am dying," and without another word fell heavily at the feet of Cloarek, who, with his child strained to his breast, stood as if dazed, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.

CHAPTER V.

DEADLY ENMITY

Twelve years after the events we have just related, late in the month of March, 1812, about two o'clock in the afternoon a traveller walked into the inn known as the Imperial Eagle, the only tavern in the town of Sorville, which was then the second station on the post-road between Dieppe and Paris.

This traveller, who was a man in the prime of life, wore a tarpaulin hat and a thick blue reefer jacket, and looked like a petty officer or a sailing master in the merchant service. His hair and whiskers were red, his complexion light, his expression stern and impassible, and he spoke French without the slightest accent though he was an Englishman.

Walking straight up to the landlord, he said: "Can you tell me if a dark-complexioned man dressed about as I am, but very dark-complexioned and with a strong Italian accent, did not come here this morning? His name is Pietri."

"I have seen no one answering either to that name or description, monsieur."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly sure."

"Is there any other inn in the town?"

"No, thank Heaven! monsieur, so parties travelling either by diligence or post patronise me, as the post-station is only a few yards from my door."

"So there is a relay station near here."

"On the other side of the street, almost directly opposite."

"Can you give me a room and have a breakfast prepared for two persons? I am expecting some one who will call and inquire for Master Dupont, for that is my name."

"Very well, monsieur."

"As soon as this person comes, you will serve breakfast in my room."

"Very well, and monsieur's baggage, shall I send for that?"

"I have no baggage. Have many post-carriages passed to-day?"

"Not a single one, monsieur."

"Neither from Paris nor Dieppe?"

"No, monsieur, neither from Paris nor Dieppe. But, by the way, as you came from the last named place, you must have seen those wonderful men everybody is talking about."

"What wonderful men?"

"Why, that famous corsair who is death to the English, the brave Captain l'Endurci (a good name for a privateer, isn't it?). With his brig The Hell-hound (another appropriate name by the way), that goes through the water like a fish, not a single English ship seems to escape him. He gobbles them all up, his last haul being a number of vessels loaded with wheat, that he captured after a terrible fight. A wonderful piece of good luck, for wheat is so scarce now! They say the people of Dieppe have gone wild over him! He must have been born under a lucky star, for though it is said that he fights like a tiger, he has never been wounded. Is that true? Do you know him? What kind of a looking man is he? He must be terribly ferocious-looking, and people say he dresses very strangely. You, being a sailor, have probably seen him."

"Never," dryly replied the stranger, who did not appear to share the innkeeper's admiration for the privateer.

Then he added:

"Show me to my room, and when the person who inquires for Master Dupont comes, bring him to me at once. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, monsieur."

"And as soon as the person comes you are to serve breakfast."

"Very well, monsieur. I will show you to your room now."

"Is it a front room?"

"Yes, monsieur, with two large windows."

"I want some of your best wine, remember."

"Give yourself no uneasiness; you will be perfectly satisfied, I think," replied the innkeeper.

About a quarter of an hour afterward a second guest entered the inn. This man also wore a heavy pea-jacket, and his swarthy skin, jet-black hair, and hard, almost repulsive features gave him a decidedly sinister appearance. After casting a quick glance around, the newcomer said, in bad French, and with an Italian accent, for he was a native of the island of Malta:

"Is there a man named Dupont here?"

"Yes, monsieur, and I will take you to his room at once if you will follow me."