Barr Robert
Revenge!
"Thanks," said Dupré, lightly; "but unless the rebels take this city by storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again. To tell the truth, I have no heart for anything but the heroine's knife. I am sick and tired of the situation here."
As Dupré spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly towards the theatre. The man in charge evidently recognised them, for, saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors. The sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said—
"It is my duty to arrest you, sir."
"In Heaven's name, why?" asked Lemoine.
The man did not answer, but a soldier stepped to either side of Lemoine.
"Am I under arrest also?" asked Dupré.
"No."
"By what authority do you arrest my friend?" inquired Dupré.
"By the President's order."
"But where is your authority? Where are your papers? Why is this arrest made?"
The sergeant shook his head and said—
"We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us.
Stand back, please!"
The next instant Dupré found himself alone, with the squad and their prisoner disappearing down a back street. For a moment he stood there as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could, back to the theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way. Arriving at the theatre, he found the lights out, and the manager on the point of leaving.
"Lemoine has been arrested," he cried; "arrested by a squad of soldiers whom we met, and they said they acted by order of the President."
The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed helplessly at Dupré.
"What is the charge?" he said at last.
"That I do not know," answered the actor. "They simply said they were acting under the President's orders."
"This is bad; as bad as can be," said the manager, looking over his shoulder, and speaking as if in fear. "Lemoine has been talking recklessly. I never could get him to realise that he was in Chili, and that he must not be so free in his speech. He always insisted that this was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as if the nineteenth century had anything to do with a South American Republic."
"You don't imagine," said Dupré, with a touch of pallor coming into his cheeks, "that this is anything serious. It will mean nothing more than a day or two in prison at the worst?"
The manager shook his head and said—
"We had better get a carriage and see the President as soon as possible. I'll undertake to send Lemoine back to Paris, or to put him on board one of the French ironclads. But there is no time to be lost. We can probably get a carriage in the square."
They found a carriage and drove as quickly as they could to the residence of the President. At first they were refused admittance, but finally they were allowed to wait in a small room while their message was taken to Balmeceda. An hour passed, but still no invitation came to them from the President. The manager sat silent in a corner, while Dupré paced up and down the small room, torn with anxiety about his friend. At last an officer entered, and presented them with the compliments of the President, who regretted that it was impossible for him to see them that night. The officer added, for their information, by order of the President, that Lemoine was to be shot at daybreak. He had been tried by court-martial and condemned to death for sedition. The President regretted having kept them waiting so long, but the court-martial had been sitting when they arrived, and the President thought that perhaps they would be interested in knowing the verdict. With that the officer escorted the two dumb-founded men to the door, where they got into their carriage without a word. The moment they were out of earshot the manager said to the coachman—
"Drive as quickly as you can to the residence of the French Minister."
Every one at the French Legation had retired when these two panic- stricken men reached there, but after a time the secretary consented to see them, and, on learning the seriousness of the case, he undertook to arouse his Excellency, and learn if anything could be done.
The Minister entered the room shortly after, and listened with interest to what they had to say.
"You have your carriage at the door?" he asked, when they had finished their recital.
"Yes."
"Then I will take it and see the President at once. Perhaps you will wait here until I return."
Another hour dragged its slow length along, and they were well into the second hour before the rattle of wheels was heard in the silent street. The Minister came in, and the two anxious men saw by his face that he had failed in his mission.
"I am sorry to say," said his Excellency, "that I have been unable even to get the execution postponed. I did not understand, when I undertook the mission, that M. Lemoine was a citizen of Chili. You see that fact puts the matter entirely out of my hands. I am powerless. I could only advise the President not to carry out his intentions; but he is to- night in a most unreasonable and excited mood, and I fear nothing can be done to save your friend. If he had been a citizen of France, of course this execution would not have been permitted to take place; but, as it is, it is not our affair. M. Lemoine seems to have been talking with some indiscretion. He does not deny it himself, nor does he deny his citizenship. If he had taken a conciliatory attitude at the court- martial, the result might not have been so disastrous; but it seems that he insulted the President to his face, and predicted that he would, within two weeks, meet him in Hades. The utmost I could do, was to get the President to sign a permit for you to see your friend, if you present it at the prison before the execution takes place. I fear you have no time to lose. Here is the paper."
Dupré took the document, and thanked his Excellency for his exertions on their behalf. He realised that Lemoine had sealed his own fate by his independence and lack of tact.
The two dejected men drove from the Legation and through the deserted streets to the prison. They were shown through several stone-paved rooms to a stone-paved courtyard, and there they waited for some time until the prisoner was brought in between two soldiers. Lemoine had thrown off his coat, and appeared in his shirt sleeves. He was not manacled or bound in any way, there being too many prisoners for each one to be allowed the luxury of fetters.
"Ah," cried Lemoine when he saw them, "I knew you would come if that old scoundrel of a President would allow you in, of which I had my doubts. How did you manage it?"
"The French Minister got us a permit," said Dupré.
"Oh, you went to him, did you? Of course he could do nothing, for, as I told you, I have the misfortune to be a citizen of this country. How comically life is made up of trivialities. I remember once, in Paris, going with a friend to take the oath of allegiance to the French Republic."
"And did you take it?" cried Dupré eagerly.
"Alas, no! We met two other friends, and we all adjourned to a café and had something to drink. I little thought that bottle of champagne was going to cost me my life, for, of course, if I had taken the oath of allegiance, my friend, the French Minister, would have bombarded the city before he would have allowed the execution to go on."
"Then you know to what you are condemned," said the manager, with tears in his eyes.
"Oh, I know that Balmeceda thinks he is going to have me shot; but then he always was a fool, and never knew what he was talking about. I told him if he would allow you two in at the execution, and instead of having a whole squad to fire at me, order one expert marksman, if he had such a thing in his whole army, to shoot me through the heart, that I would show you, Dupré, how a man dies under such circumstances, but the villain refused. The usurper has no soul for art, or anything else, for that matter. I hope you won't mind my death. I assure you I don't mind it myself. I would much rather be shot than live in this confounded country any longer. But I have made up my mind to cheat old Balmeceda if I can, and I want you, Dupré, to pay particular attention, and not to interfere."
As Lemoine said this he quickly snatched from the sheath at the soldier's side the bayonet which hung at his hip. The soldiers were standing one to the right, and one to the left of him, with their hands interlaced over the muzzles of their guns, whose butts rested on the stone floor. They apparently paid no attention to the conversation that was going on, if they understood it, which was unlikely. Lemoine had the bayonet in his hands before either of the four men present knew what he was doing.
Grasping both hands over the butt of the bayonet, with the point towards his breast, he thrust the blade with desperate energy nearly through his body. The whole action was done so quickly that no one realised what had happened until Lemoine threw his hands up and they saw the bayonet sticking in his breast. A look of agony came in the wounded man's eyes, and his lips whitened. He staggered against the soldier at his right, who gave way with the impact, and then he tottered against the whitewashed stone wall, his right arm sweeping automatically up and down the wall as if he were brushing something from the stones. A groan escaped him, and he dropped on one knee. His eyes turned helplessly towards Dupré, and he gasped out the words—
"My God! You were right—after all."
Then he fell forward on his face and the tragedy ended.
TWO FLORENTINE BALCONIES
Prince Padema sat desolately on his lofty balcony at Florence, and cursed things generally. Fate had indeed dealt hardly with the young man.
The Prince had been misled by the apparent reasonableness of the adage, that if you want a thing well done you should do it yourself. In committing a murder it is always advisable to have some one else to do it for you, but the Prince's plans had been several times interfered with by the cowardice or inefficiency of his emissaries, so on one unfortunate occasion he had determined to remove an objectionable man with his own hand, and realised then how easily mistakes may occur.
He had met the man face to face under a corner lamp in Venice. The recognition was mutual, and the man, fearing his noble enemy, had fled. The Prince pursued, and the man apparently tried to double upon him, and, with his cloak over his face, endeavoured to sneak past along the dark wall. When the Prince deftly ran the dagger into his vitals, he was surprised that the man made no resistance or outcry, made no effort to ward off the blow, but sunk lifeless at the Prince's feet with a groan.
Alarmed at this, the Prince bade his servant drag the body to a spot where a votive lamp set in the wall threw dim yellow rays to the pavement. Then his Highness was appalled to see that he had assassinated a scion of one of the noblest families of Venice, which was a very different thing from murdering a man of low degree whose life the law took little note of.
So the Prince had to flee from Venice, and he took up his residence in a narrow street in an obscure part of Florence.
Seldom had fate played a man so scurvy a trick, and the Prince was fully justified in his cursing, for the unfortunate episode had interrupted a most absorbing amour which, at that moment, was rapidly approaching an interesting climax.
Prince Padema had been several weeks in Florence, and those weeks had been deadly dull. "The women of Florence," he said to himself bitterly, "are not to be compared with those of Venice." But even if they had been, the necessity of keeping quiet, for a time at least, would have prevented the Prince from taking advantage of his enforced sojourn in the fair city.
On this particular evening, the Prince's sombre meditations were interrupted by a song. The song apparently came from the same building in which his suite of rooms were situated, and from an open window some distance below him. What caught his attention was the fact that the song was Venetian, and the voice that sang it was the rich mellow voice of Venice.
There were other exiles, then, beside himself. He peered over the edge of the balcony perched like an eagle's nest high above the narrow stone street, and endeavoured to locate the open window from which the song came, or, better still, to catch a glimpse of the singer.
For a time he was unsuccessful, but at last his patience was rewarded. On a balcony to the right, and some distance below his own, there appeared the most beautiful girl even he had ever seen. The dark, oval face was so distinctly Venetian that he almost persuaded himself he had met her in his native town.
She stood with her hands on the top rail of the balcony, her dark hair tumbled in rich confusion over her shapely shoulders. The golden light in the evening sky touched her face with glory, as she looked towards it, of that part of it that could be seen at the end of the narrow street.
The Prince's heart beat high as he gazed upon the face that was unconscious of his scrutiny. Instantly the thought flashed over him that exile in Florence might, after all, have its compensations.
"Pietro," he whispered softly through his own open windows to the servant who was moving silently about the room, "come here for a moment, quietly."
The servant came stealthily to the edge of the window.
"You see that girl on the lower balcony," said the Prince in a whisper.
Pietro nodded.
"Find out for me who she is—why she is here—whether she has any friends. Do it silently, so as to arouse no suspicion."
Again his faithful servant nodded, and disappeared into the gloom of the room.
Next day Pietro brought to his eager master what information he had been able to glean. He had succeeded in forming the acquaintance of the Signorina's maid.
For some reason, which the maid either did not know or would not disclose, the Signorina was exiled for a time from Venice. She belonged to a good family there, but the name of the family the maid also refused to divulge. She dared not tell it, she said. They had been in Florence for several weeks, but had only taken the rooms below within the last two days. The Signorina received absolutely no one, and the maid had been cautioned to say nothing whatever about her to any person; but she had apparently succumbed in a measure to the blandishments of gallant Pietro.
The rooms had been taken because of their quiet and obscure position.
That evening the Prince was again upon his balcony, but his thoughts were not so bitter as they had been the day before. He had a bouquet of beautiful flowers beside him. He listened for the Venetian song, but was disappointed at not hearing it; and he hoped that Pietro had not been so injudicious as to arouse the suspicions of the maid, who might communicate them to her mistress. He held his breath eagerly as he heard the windows below open. The maid came out on the balcony and placed an easy-chair in the corner of it. She deftly arranged the cushions and the drapery of it, and presently the Signorina herself appeared, and with languid grace seated herself.
The Prince had now a full view of her lovely face, as the girl rested her elbow on the railing of the balcony, and her cheek upon her hand.
"You may go now, Pepita," said the girl.
The maid threw a lace shawl over the shoulders of her mistress, and departed.
The Prince leaned over the balcony and whispered, "Signorina."
The startled girl looked up and down the street, and then at the balcony which stood out against the opalescent sky, the tracery of ironwork showing like delicate etching on the luminous background.
She flushed and dropped her eyes, making no reply.
"Signorina," repeated the Prince, "I, too, am an exile. Pardon me. It is in remembrance of our lovely city;" and with that he lightly flung the bouquet, which fell at her feet on the floor of the balcony.
For a few moments the girl did not move nor raise her eyes; then she cast a quick glance through the open window into her room. After some slight hesitation she stooped gracefully and picked up the bouquet.
"Ah, beautiful Venice!" she murmured with a sigh, still not looking upwards.
The Prince was delighted with the success of his first advance, which is always the difficult step.
Evening after evening they sat there later and later. The acquaintance ripened to its inevitable conclusion—the conclusion the Prince had counted on from the first.
One evening she stood in the darkness with her cheek pressed against the wall at the corner of her balcony nearest to him; he looked over and downward at her.
"It cannot be. It cannot be," she said, with a frightened quaver in her voice, but a quaver which the Prince recognised, with his large experience, as the tone of yielding.
"It must be," he whispered down to her. "It was ordained from the first. It has to be."
The girl was weeping silently.
"It is impossible," she said at last. "My servant sleeps outside my door. Even if she did not know, your servant would, and there would be gossip—and scandal. It is impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," cried the Prince eagerly, "where true love exists. I shall lock my door, and Pietro shall know nothing about it. He never comes unless I call him. I will get a rope and throw it to your balcony. Lock you your door as I do mine. In the darkness nothing is seen."
"No, no," she murmured. "That would not do. You could not climb back again, and all would be lost."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried the young man eagerly. "It is nothing to climb back." He was about to add that he had done it frequently before, but he checked himself in time.
For a moment she was silent. Then she said: "I cannot risk your not getting back. It must be certain. If you get a rope—a strong rope—and put a loop in it for your foot, and pass the other end of the rope to me around the staunchest railing of your balcony, I will let you down to the level of my own. Then you can easily swing yourself within reach. If you find you cannot climb back, I can help you, by pulling on the rope and you will ascend as you came down."
The Prince laughed lightly.
"Do you think," he said, "that your frail hands are stronger than mine?"
"Four hands," she replied, "are stronger than two. Besides, I am not so weak as, perhaps, you think."
"Very well," he replied, not in a mood to cavil about trivialities.
"When shall it be—to-night?"
"No; to-morrow night. You must get your rope to-morrow."
Again the Prince laughed quietly.
"I have the rope in my room now," he answered.
"You were very sure," she said softly.
"No, not sure. I was strong in hope. Is your door locked?"
"Yes," she replied in an agitated whisper. "But it is still early. Wait an hour or two."
"Ah!" cried the Prince, "it will never be darker than at this moment, and think, my darling, how long I have waited!"
There was no reply.
"Stand inside the window," whispered the Prince. As she did so a coil of rope fell on the balcony.
"Have you got it?" he asked.
"Yes," was the scarcely audible reply.
"Then don't trust to your own strength. Give it a turn around the balcony rail."
"I have done so," she whispered.
Although he could not see her because of the darkness, she saw him silhouetted against the night sky.
He tested the loop, putting his foot in it and pulling at the rope with both hands. Then he put the rope round the corner support of the balcony.
"Are you sure the rope is strong enough?" she asked. "Who bought it?"
"Pietro got it for me. It is strong enough to hold ten men."
His foot was in the loop, and he slung himself from his balcony, holding the rope with both hands.
"Let it go very gently," he said. "I will tell you when you have lowered enough."
Holding the end of the rope firmly, the girl let it out inch by inch.
"That is enough," the Prince said at last; and she held him where he was, leaning over the balcony towards him.
"Prince Padema," she said to him.
"Ah!" cried the man with a start. "How did you learn my name?"
"I have long known it. It is a name of sorrow to our family.
"Prince," she continued, "have you never seen anything in my face that brought recollection to you? Or is your memory so short that the grief you bring to others leaves no trace on your own mind?"
"God!" cried the Prince in alarm, seizing the rope above him as if to climb back. "What do you mean?"
The girl loosened the rope for an inch or two, and the Prince was lowered with a sickening feeling in his heart as he realised his position a hundred feet above the stone street.
"I can see you plainly," said the girl in hard and husky tones. "If you make an attempt to climb to your balcony, I will at once loosen the rope. Is it possible you have not suspected who I am, and why I am here?"
The Prince was dizzy. He had whirled gently around in one direction for some time, but now the motion ceased, and he began to revolve with equal gentleness in the other direction, like the body of a man who is hanged.
A sharp memory pierced his brain.
"Meela is dead," he cried, with a gasp in his breath. "She was drowned.
You are flesh and blood. Tell me you are not her spirit?"
"I cannot tell you that," answered the girl. "My own spirit seemed to leave me when the body of my sister was brought from the canal at the foot of our garden. You know the place well; you know the gate and the steps. I think her spirit then took the place of my own. Ever since that day I have lived only for revenge, and now, Prince Padema, the hour I have waited for is come."
An agonising cry for help rang through the silent street, but there was no answer to the call.
"It is useless," said the girl calmly. "It will be accounted an accident. Your servant bought the rope that will be found with you. Any one who knows you will have an explanation ready for what has happened. No one will suspect me, and I want you to know that your death will be unavenged, prince though you are."
"You are a demon," he cried.
She watched him silently as he stealthily climbed up the rope. He did not appear sufficiently to realise how visible his body was against the still luminous sky. When he was within a foot of his balcony she loosened the rope, and again he sunk to where he had been before, and hung there exhausted by his futile effort.
"I will marry you," he said, "if you will let me reach my balcony again. I will, upon my honour. You shall be a princess."
She laughed lightly.
"We Venetians never forget nor forgive. Prince Padema, good-bye!"
She sunk fainting in her chair as she let go the rope, and clapped her hands to her ears, so that no sound came up from the stone street below. When she staggered into her room, all was silence.
