Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)
“Bah!” said an officer of the Royal Guard, “grape and canister are just as effectual as ever they were; there is nothing to be apprehended from the mob. Two battalions of infantry and a squadron of hussars will carry the ‘ordinances,’ if the ministry but give the order.”
“I wish they would begin the game,” said Frobisher, querulously, for he took no interest in any topic but that of play.
“Has any one given orders that the doors shall be close-barred and locked?” said another. “The police will be here presently.”
“What should bring the police here, sir?” said Linton, turning suddenly towards the speaker with a look of almost insolent defiance.
“They are making perquisitions everywhere the last few days,” said the youth, abashed by the tone and manner of the question.
“Ah! so they are – very true. I beg your pardon,” cried Linton, affecting a smile. “We are so intent upon our game here, that one actually forgets what is occurring in the greater game that is playing without.”
“If there ‘s to be no more play I ‘m off to bed,” yawned Frobisher, as he stretched himself along the chairs. A group had meanwhile gathered round a table where refreshments and wine were laid out, and were invigorating themselves for the coming campaign.
“I remember the last séance with closed doors I assisted at,” said a handsome middle-aged man, with a gray moustache, and short-cut gray hair, “was in the stable at Fontainebleau. We played for seventeen hours, and when we separated we discovered that the Empire was at an end, and the Emperor departed!”
“We might do something of the same kind now, Blancharde,” said another; “it would be no difficult matter, I fancy, to play an old dynasty out and a new one in at this moment.”
“Hush, Rozlan! Marsac is not one ‘of us,’” whispered the former, cautiously.
“He ‘s going the shortest way to become so, notwithstanding. Nothing enlarges the sphere of political vision like being ruined! One always becomes liberal, in the political sense, when it is impossible to be so in any other!”
The chatting now turned on the events that were then impending, a great diversity of opinion existing as to whether the King would insist upon carrying the “ordinances,” and a still wider divergence as to what result would follow. During this discussion, Frobisher’s impatience went beyond all control, and at last he rose, declaring that he would remain no longer.
“You forget that the doors are locked for twenty-four hours, sir,” said another, “and neither can any one leave or enter the room before that time.”
“We are more sacred than a privy council or a chapter of the knights of St. Louis,” said Rozlan.
“Now then to see who is the next Duc de Marlier!” whispered Linton in Rica’s ear. “Let us begin.”
“One word with you, Linton,” whispered Rica; “don’t bet high, it distracts my attention, – make a mere game of amusement, for this will be a hard struggle, and it must be the last.”
“So I perceive,” rejoined Linton; “events are coming fast; we must be off ere the tide overtake us.”
“The game, the game!” cried Frobisher, striking the table with his rake.
“And Maritaña?” whispered Linton, holding Rica by the arm.
The other grew lividly pale, and his lip quivered as he said, “Is this the time, Linton – ”
“It is the very time,” rejoined the other, determinedly, “and I will have my answer now. You cannot equivocate with me.”
“I do not seek to do so. I have told you always what I tell you still – I cannot coerce her.”
“There will be no need; this dukedom will do the business. I know her well – better than you do. See, they are watching us yonder. Say the word at once – it is agreed.”
“Hear me, Linton – ”
“I ‘ll hear nothing; save the one word ‘agreed.’”
“Let me but explain – ”
“There is nothing to explain. The betrothal you allude to is, as none knows better than yourself, an idle ceremony; and if she loves the fellow, so much the more urgent are the reasons for my request. Be quick, I say.”
“If she consent – ”
“She shall. My Lord Duke, a thousand pardons, I beg, for this delay; but Rica has been tormenting me these ten minutes by the refusal of a petty favor. He is become reasonable at last; and now for the combat!”
The party seated themselves like men about to witness an exciting event; and although each had his venture on the game, the Duke was the great object of interest, and speculation was high as to how the struggle was to end.
It is no part of our object to follow the changing fortunes of that long contest, nor watch the vacillating chances which alternately elevated to hope and lowered to very desperation. Before the day began to dawn, every player, save the Duke, had ceased to bet. Some, worn out and exhausted, had sunk to sleep upon the rich ottomans; others, drinking deep of champagne, seemed anxious to forget everything. Frobisher, utterly ruined, sat in the same place at the table, mechanically marking the game, on which he had no longer a stake, and muttering exclamations of joy or disappointment at imaginary gains and losses, for he still fancied that he was betting large sums, and participating in all the varying emotions of a gambler’s life.
The luck of the bank continued. Play how he would, boldly “back the color,” or try to suit the fitful fortunes of the game, the Duke went on losing.
Were such an ordeal one to evoke admiration, it could scarcely be withheld from him, who, with an unwearied brain and unbroken temper, sat patiently there, fighting foot to foot, contesting every inch of ground, and even in defeat, preserving the calm equanimity of his high breeding.
Behind his chair stood Linton, – a flush of triumph on his cheek as he continued to behold the undeviating course of luck that attended the bank, “Another deal like that,” muttered he, “and I shall quarter the arms of Marlier with Linton.”
The words were scarcely uttered, when a deep sigh broke from the Duke – it was the first that had escaped him – and he buried his head between his hands. Rica looked over at Linton, and a slight, almost imperceptible, motion of his eyebrows signalled that the battle was nigh over.
“Well! how is the game? Am I betting? – what’s the color?” said the Duke, passing his clammy hand across his brow.
“I am waiting for you, my Lord Duke,” said Rica, obsequiously.
“I am ready – quite ready,” cried the other. “Am I the only player? I fancied that some others were betting. Where’s my Lord Charles? – ah! I see him. And Mr. Linton – is he gone?”
“He has just left the room, my Lord Duke. Will you excuse me if I follow him for an instant?” And at the same moment Rica arose, and left the chamber with hasty steps.
It was at the end of a long corridor, tapping gently at a door, Linton stood, as Rica came up.
“What! is’t over already?” said Linton, with a look of angry impatience.
“This is not fair, Linton!” said Rica, endeavoring to get nearest to the door.
“What is not fair?” said the other, imperiously. “You told me awhile ago that she must pronounce, herself, upon her own future. Well, I am willing to leave it to that issue.”
“But she is unfit to do so at present,” said Rica, entreat-ingly. “You know well how unsettled is her mind, and how wandering are her faculties. There are moments when she scarcely knows me– her father.”
“It is enough if she remember me,” said Linton, insolently. “Her intellects will recover – the cloud will pass away; and, if it should not, still – as my wife, it is an object I have set my heart on; and so, let me pass.”
“I cannot – I will not peril her chances of recovery by such a shock,” said Rica, firmly; then changing suddenly, he spoke in accents of deep feeling: “Remember, Linton, how I offered you her whom you acknowledged you preferred. I told you the means of coercion in my power, and pledged myself to use them. It was but two days since I discovered where they were; to-morrow we will go there together. I will claim her as my daughter; the laws of France are imperative in the matter. Mary Leicester shall be yours.”
“I care for her no longer,” said Linton, haughtily. “I doubt, indeed, if I ever cared for her; she is not one to suit my fortunes. Maritaña is, or at least may become so.”
“Be it so, but not now, Linton; the poor child’s reason is clouded.”
“When she hears she is a duchess,” said Linton, half sneeringly, “it will dispel the gloomy vapor.”
“I implore you – I entreat – on my knees I beg of you – ” said the distracted father, and, unable to utter more, he sank powerless at Linton’s feet; meanwhile the other opened the door, and, stepping noiselessly over the prostrate figure, entered the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI. ARREST OF LINTON
Like a bold criminal he stood,Calm in his guiltThe Forger.With firm step and head high, Linton entered a room where the dim half-light of the closed jalousies made each object indistinct. He halted for an instant, to cast a searching glance around, and then advanced to a door at the farthest end of the apartment; at this he tapped twice gently with his knuckles. He waited for an instant, and then repeated his summons. Still no answer, even though he rapped a third time, and louder than before. Linton now turned the handle noiselessly, and opened the door. For a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether to advance or retire; but his resolution was soon made, – he entered and closed the door behind him.
The chamber in which Linton now stood was smaller than the outer one, and equally shaded from the strong sunlight. His eyes were now, however, accustomed to the dusky half-light, and he was able to mark the costly furniture and splendid ornaments of the room. The walls were hung with rose-colored damask, over which a drapery of white lace was suspended, looped up at intervals to admit of small brackets of bronze, on which stood either “statuettes” or vases of rare “Sevres.” At a toilet-table in the middle of the room were laid out the articles of a lady’s dressing-case, but of such costly splendor that they seemed too gorgeous for use. Trinkets and jewellery of great value were scattered carelessly over the table, and an immense diamond cross glittered from the mother-o’-pearl frame of the looking-glass.
The half-open curtains at the end of the room showed a marble bath, into which the water flowed from a little cascade of imitation rustic, its tiny ripple murmuring in the still silence of the room. There was another sound, still softer and more musical than that, there, – the long-drawn breathing of a young girl, who, with her face upon her arm, lay asleep upon a sofa. With stealthy step and noiseless gesture, Linton approached and stood beside her. He was not one to be carried away by any enthusiasm of admiration, and yet he could not look upon the faultless symmetry of that form, the placid beauty of that face, on which a passing dream had left a lingering smile, and not feel deeply moved. In her speaking moments, her dark and flashing eyes often lent a character of haughty severity to her handsome features; now their dark lashes shrouded them, and the expression of the face was angelic in sweetness. The olive-darkness of her skin, too, was tempered by the half-light, while the slight tinge of color on her cheek might have vied with the petal of a rose. Linton drew a chair beside the sofa, and sat down. With folded arms, and head slightly bent forward, he watched her, while his fast-hurrying thoughts travelled miles and miles, – speculating, planning, contriving; meeting difficulties here, grasping advantages there, – playing over a game of life, and thinking if an adversary could find a flaw in it.
“She is worthy to be a duchess,” said he, as he gazed at her. “A duchess! and what more? – that is the question. Ah, these women, these women! if they but knew their power! If they but knew how all the boldest strivings of our intellects are as nothing compared to what their beauty can effect! Well, well; it is better that they should not. They are tyrants, even as it is, – petty tyrants, – to all who care for them; and he who does not is their master. That is the real power, – there the stronghold; and how they fear the man who takes his stand behind it! how they crouch and tremble before him! what fascinating graces do they reserve for him, that they would not bestow upon a lover! Is it that they only love where they fear? How beautiful she looks, and how calmly sweet! – it is the sleeping tigress, notwithstanding. And now to awake her: pity, too; that wearied mind wants repose, and the future gives but little promise of it.”
He bent down over her, till he almost touched the silken masses of her long dark hair, and, in a low, soft voice, said, —
“Maritaña! Maritaña!”
“No, no, no,” said she, in the low, muttering accents of sleep, “not here, – not here!”
“And why not here, dearest?” said he, catching at the words.
A faint shudder passed over her, and she gathered her shawl more closely around her.
“Hace mal tiempo, – the weather looks gloomy,” said she, in a faint voice.
“And if not here, Maritaña, where then?” said he, in a low tone.
“In our own deep forests, beneath the liana and the cedar; where the mimosa blossoms, and the acacia scents the air; where fountains are springing, and the glow-worm shines like a star in the dark grass. Oh, not here! not here!” cried she, plaintively.
“Then in Italy, Maritaña mia, where all that the tropics can boast is blended with whatever is beautiful. In art; where genius goes hand-in-hand with nature; and where life floats calmly on, like some smooth-flowing river, unruffled and unbroken.”
A faint, low sigh escaped her, and her lips parted with a smile of surpassing loveliness.
“Yes, dearest – there, with me, beside the blue waters of the Adriatic, or lost amid the chestnut forests of the Apennines. Think of those glorious cities, too, where the once great still live, enshrined by memory, in their own palace walls. Think of Venice – ”
The word was not well uttered, when, with a shrill scream, she started up and awoke.
“Who spoke to me of my shame? Who spoke of Venice?” cried she, in accents of wild terror.
“Be calm, Maritaña. It was a dream, – nothing but a dream,” said Linton, pressing her gently down again. “Do not think more of it.”
“Where am I?” said she, drawing a long breath.
“In your own dressing-room, dearest,” said he, in an accent of deep devotion.
“And you, sir? Why are you here? and by what right do you address me thus?”
“By no right,” said Linton, with a submissive deference which well became him. “I can plead nothing, save the devotion of a heart long since your own, and the good wishes of your father, Maritaña, who bade me speak to you.”
“I will not believe it, sir,” said she, proudly, as she arose and walked the room with stately step. “I know but too well the influence you wield over him, although I cannot tell how it is acquired. I have seen your counsels sway and your wishes guide him, when my entreaties were unheard and unheeded. Tell me nothing, then, of his permission.”
“Let me speak of that better reason, where my heart may plead, Maritaña. It was to offer you a share in my fortunes that I have come here, – to place at your feet whatever I possess in rank, in station, and in future hope; to place you where your beauty and your fascinations entitle you to shine, – a peeress of the Court of France; a duchess, of a name only second to royalty itself.”
The girl’s dark eyes grew darker, and her flushed cheek grew crimson, as with heaving bosom she listened. “A duchess!” murmured she, between her lips.
“La Duchesse de Marlier,” repeated Linton, slowly, while his keen eyes were riveted on her.
“And this real – not a pageant – not as that thing you made of me before?”
“La Duchesse de Marlier,” said Linton again, “knows of no rank above her own, save in the blood royal. Her château was the present of a king, – her grounds are worthy of such a donor.”
“And the Duke de Marlier,” said she, with a look of ineffable irony, “who is to play him? Is that part reserved for Mr. Linton?”
“Could he not look the character?” said Linton, putting on a smile of seeming good-humor, while his lip trembled with passion.
“Look it, – ay, that could he; and if looks would suffice, he could be all that his ambition aims at.”
“You doubt my sincerity, Maritafia,” said he, sorrowfully; “have I ever given you cause to do so?”
“Never,” cried she, impetuously: “I read you from the first hour I saw you. You never deceived me. My training has not been like that of others of my sex and age, amidst the good, the virtuous, and the pure. It was the corrupt, the base-born, and the abandoned offered their examples to my eyes; the ruined gambler, the beggared adventurer, —their lives were my daily study. How, then, should I not recognize one so worthy of them all?”
“This is less than fair, Maritafia; you bear me a grudge for having counselled that career wherein your triumphs were unbounded; and now you speak to me harshly for offering a station a princess might accept without a derogation.”
“Tell me not of my triumphs,” said she, passionately: “they were my shame! You corrupted me, by trifling with my ignorance of the world. I did not know then, as now I know, what were the prizes of that ambition I cherished! But you knew them; you speculated on them, as now you speculate upon others. Ay, blush for it; let your cheek glow, and sear your cold heart for the infamy! The coroneted duchess would have been a costlier merchandise than the wreathed dancer! Oh, shame upon you! shame upon you! Could you not be satisfied with your gambler’s cruelty, and ruin those who have manhood’s courage to sustain defeat, but that you should make your victim a poor, weak, motherless girl, whose unprotected life might have evoked even your pity?”
“I will supplicate no longer; upon you be it if the alternative be heavy. Hear me, young lady; it is by your father’s consent – nay, more, at his desire – that I make you the proffer of my name and rank. He is in my power, – not his fortune nor his future prospects, but his very life is in my hands. You shudder at having been a dancer; think of what you may be, – the daughter of a forçat, a galley-slave! If these be idle threats, ask himself; he will tell you if I speak truly. It is my ambition that you should share my title and my fortune. I mean to make your position one that the proudest would envy; reject my offer if you will, but never reproach me with what your own blind folly has accomplished.”
Maritaña stood with clasped hands, and eyes wildly staring on vacancy, as Linton, in a voice broken with passion, uttered these words, —
“I will not press you now, Maritaña; you shall have to-night to think over all I have said; to-morrow you will give me your answer.”
“To-morrow?” muttered she, after him.
“Who is there?” said Linton, as a low, faint knock was heard at the door. It was repeated, and Linton approached and opened the door. A slight gesture of the hand was all that he could perceive in the half-light; but he understood it, and passed out, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
“Well?” said Rica, as he grasped the other’s arm; “well?”
“Well?” echoed Linton, peevishly. “She is in her most insolent of moods, and affects to think that all the splendor I have offered her is but the twin of the mock magnificence of the stage. She is a fool, but she’ll think better of it, or she must be taught to do so.”
Rica sighed heavily, but made no answer; at last he said, —
“It is over with the Duke, and he bears it well.”
“Good blood always does,” said Linton. “Your men of birth have a lively sense of how little they have done for their estates, and therefore part with them with a proportionate degree of indifference. Where is he?”
“Writing letters in the boudoir off the drawing-room. You must see him, and ask when the necessary papers can be signed and exchanged.”
Linton walked on, and passing through the play-room, around which in every attitude of slumber the gamblers lay, entered the boudoir, before a table in which the Duke de Marsac was busy writing.
“Fortune has still been obdurate, my Lord Duke, I hear,” said he, entering softly.
The Duke looked up, and his pale features were totally devoid of all emotion as he said, —
“I have lost heavily, sir.”
“I am sincerely grieved to hear it; as an old sufferer in the same field, I can feel for others.” A very slight movement of impatience on the Duke’s part showed that he regarded the sympathy as obtrusive. Linton saw this, and went on: “I would not have invaded your privacy to say as much, my Lord Duke, but I thought it might be satisfactory to you to learn that your ancient dukedom – the château of your proud ancestors – is not destined to fall into plebeian hands, nor suffer the indignity of their profanation. I mean to purchase the property from Rica myself.”
“Indeed!” said the Duke, carelessly, as though the announcement had no interest for him.
“I had fancied, my Lord, this information would have given you pleasure,” said Linton, with evident irritation of manner.
“No, sir,” said the other, languidly, “I am ashamed to say I cannot appreciate the value of these tidings.”
“Can the contract and transfer be speedily made out?” said Linton, abruptly.
“Of course; there shall be no delay in the matter. I will give orders to my ‘notaire’ at once.”
“And where shall you be found to-morrow, my Lord Duke, in case we desire to confer with you?”
The Duke grew lividly pale, and he arose slowly from his chair, and, taking Linton’s arm, drew him towards a window in silence. Linton saw well that some new train of thought had suddenly sprung up, and wondered what could so instantaneously have wrought this change in his manner.
“You ask me, sir,” said the Duke, with a slow emphasis on every word, “where am I to be found to-morrow? Is not Mr. Linton’s knowledge of Paris sufficient to suggest the answer to that question?” There was a fierce boldness in the way these words were uttered Linton could not comprehend, any more than he understood what they might mean.
“I must plead ignorance, my Lord Duke. I really discredit the eulogium you have pronounced upon my information.”
“Then I will tell you, sir,” said the Duke, speaking in a low thick whisper, while his dark eyes glared with the fire of intense excitement. “You will find me in the Seine!”
Linton staggered back as if he had been struck, and a pallor spread over his features, making the very lips bloodless. “How do you mean, sir? Why do you dare to say this to me?” said he, in a voice broken and guttural.
“Since none should better know how to appreciate the news,” was the cold answer.
Linton trembled from head to foot, and, casting a wary look around on every side to see that they were alone, he said, “These words may mean much, or they may mean nothing, – at least nothing that has concern for me. Now, sir, be explicit; in what sense am I to read them?”
The Duke looked astonished at the emotion which all the other’s self-command could not repress; he saw, too, that he had touched a secret spring of conscience, and with a calm reserve he said, “Take what I have said in the sense your own heart now suggests, and I venture to affirm it will be the least pleasing interpretation you can put upon it!”
“You shall give me satisfaction for this, sir,” said Linton, whose passion now boiled over. “I will not endure the tyranny of insinuations from any man. Here, before you quit the house, – if ever you quit it, – I will have full satisfaction for your insolence.”
“Insolence!” cried the Duke.
“Yes, insolence. I repeat the word, and these gentlemen shall hear a still stronger word addressed to you, if that will not suffice to arouse your courage.”
This speech was now directed to the crowd of gamblers, who, suddenly awakened by the loud talking, rushed in a body into the room.
Questions, and demands for explanation, pressed on every hand, their countrymen gathering round the antagonists on either side, both of whom maintained for some minutes a perfect silence. The Duke was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard an expression addressed to me which no Frenchman listens to without inflicting chastisement on the speaker – I do not ask – I do not care in the least – who this person may be – what his rank and position in life; I am ready to admit him to the fullest equality with myself. It only remains that I should satisfy myself of certain doubts, which his own manner has originated. It may be that he cannot call me, or any other gentleman, to account for his words.”
