by Howard Pyle
“I do not care to see them,” said Oliver; “I will take your word for it. If there is nothing further that you care to speak to me about, I would like to be excused; there are many things that I have to prepare for my journey.”
“Ah!” said the marquis, “I see these dull affairs of business, they are of no interest to you. Youth is so impetuous! It is better,” said he, as he locked the chest and replaced the keys in the secret compartment of his escritoire— “it is better to possess youth and love than all the wealth and gems of the Indies. Go, my dear Oliver, and trust in me. I will manage your affairs, my child, as though they were my own.”
Oliver did not wait for a second bidding; he flew from the place and the tiresome talk of diamonds and business. As he was about to enter the room which he had left only a little while before, he hesitated for a moment, he knew not why. A sudden pang shot through him, and he pressed his hand to his bosom. That instant a clock rang out sharply in the silence. He counted the twelve strokes, and then opened the door.
Some one stood looking out of the window, his face close to the glass. He wore a long black cloak, beneath which he carried a large oval frame of some sort. Oliver walked mechanically up the room, and as he advanced that other turned slowly towards him. Oliver’s heart gave a great bound, and then stood quite still within him. The next instant every grain of strength seemed to slip away from him; his knees grew suddenly weak and smote together; his hands dropped with a leaden heaviness to his sides, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. It was the master!
A moment or two of dead silence followed, and in the heavy, breathless stillness the sharp ticking of a clock sounded with piercing distinctness upon Oliver’s tensely-drawn nerves. The master said not a word, but he looked upon him with a cool, contained smile of ineffable complacency.
At last, somehow, Oliver found his voice. “You!” he said, hoarsely; and then again, with a gulp: “You! How came you here?”
The Count de St. Germaine laughed. “How came I here? I walked here. That does not satisfy you? Well, no matter. I have, as you may know, many, very many, ways of coming and going as I choose. Just now it is sufficient that I am here.”
“And for what have you come?” said Oliver, in that same slow, hoarse voice.
For a while the master leaned against the deep window-casing, and looked at him from under his brows, his eyes burning like green sparks.
“For what did I come, Oliver?” said he at last. “I will tell you. You must know that I have a silly habit of keeping my promises. Did I not make you the richest man in France? Did I not teach you the secret of the water of wealth? Did I not teach you all that you know, and make you all that you are? Very good. By so doing I fulfilled one part of a promise I some time made you. Now I have come to fulfil the other part. I promised you then that should you ever return to Paris I would ruin you; I am going to ruin you. I promised that I would crush you; I am about to crush you. I promised to make your life a hell; I will make it a hell. I will make you wish a thousand times that you had never been born. When I first met you in Madame de Pompadour’s salon, I read in your face your fear that I would betray you. Ah, no! that would have been childish; it would have been petulant; it would have been impatient and premature. No, Oliver; I have waited until now, and what do you think I have waited for?”
Oliver’s lips moved, but he could not answer. He stood leaning with his hand upon the side of the table, stunned and dizzied. He felt as though every word that the master spoke struck a leaden blow upon his heart. But the other did not wait for a reply. He flung back his cloak, and brought forth that which he carried beneath it. It was the magic mirror, upon the face of which was drawn the sign that, as Oliver knew, stood between his master and his supernatural power.
The master stood it upon the table beside Oliver, and then, brushing the dust from his hands, turned a smiling face upon his victim.
“You cannot guess?” said he, returning to the question he had asked. “Ah, well, it does not matter. I will tell you. I intend to pierce your heart through that young wife of yours, Oliver.”
The words struck upon Oliver’s ears like a blow, and like a blow shattered into fragments the dull, heavy, icy despair that rested upon him.
“My wife!” he cried. “My wife! Oh God! You devil! You at least shall die!” His dress-sword hung at his side, and as he spoke he flashed it out.
But the Count de St. Germaine only laughed. “Come,” said he, “we are silly; we are childish. Do you think, then, that I am afraid of your sword? Ha!”
As he uttered the exclamation he struck his hands sharply together, and it seemed to Oliver as though the blow had fallen upon him physically. Sparks of fire danced before his eyes; for a few seconds his head spun like a teetotum, and the objects in the room flew around him in a dizzy horizontal whirl. Suddenly the whirling stopped, and as his brain recovered from its confusion, he saw before him again the pale, smiling face of the master. He still held his sword in his hand, but he was powerless. It was as though a leaden weight hung upon his will. He could move neither hand nor foot.
“Put up your sword, my child,” said the Count de St. Germaine.
Oliver strove to resist the command, but it was as though his body was not his own — as though the master controlled it. His arm appeared to rise of itself, stiffly, and the sword slid back again into the scabbard.
“Now, then,” said the master, “look into the mirror and see what you shall see; it is spoiled forever to my sight, but for you its power is as great as ever. Look!”
Oliver fixed his gaze upon the smooth, brilliant surface of the glass as he was bidden to do. His own face stood there for a moment, then blurred, faded, dissolved. Then on this brilliant surface he saw Céleste.
She stood in her own room as he stood here before the glass — stiffened in every limb — fixed, immovable, as though the same leaden power that overmastered him overmastered her.
“OLIVER FIXED HIS GAZE UPON THE SMOOTH, BRILLIANT SURFACE OF THE GLASS.”
The master stood with his eyes fixed upon Oliver’s face, and perhaps he saw in that face all that Oliver saw in the mirror.
“Ha!” said he, “it is as I had hoped, my dear Oliver. I congratulate you; your wife is yours in heart and soul. That is the secret of my power over her. I reduce you to my will by my occult power, and at the same time I reduce her also. Observe now what comes of it.”
He made a rapid pass in the air, and in an instant Oliver saw Céleste’s stiff and rigid form become soft and relaxed. Her face was still white and stony, her eyes were still set intently as ever, but she began moving. Reaching her hand out before her, as though feeling her way in darkness, she passed out of the door of the room.
The master had ceased smiling now, and he stood motionlessly with his gaze fixed upon Oliver’s face. His brows were drawn together; his eyes sparkled and glanced like those of a snake; his very head seemed to flatten and broaden like a serpent’s when it fixes its victim. He made a quick gesture with his hands, and Oliver saw Céleste stop, take up a cloak from a chair and wind it around her face and body until she was completely disguised. Then she moved again, and presently Oliver saw that she had passed out into the dark court-yard. As she drew near the great gate-way, he saw that it stood open, although, no doubt, the porter had long since closed it. Then, in a moment, Céleste stopped short, and Oliver saw that a coach, with unlighted lamps, stood near at the open gate-way. Suddenly the door of the coach opened, and some one leaped out from within; swiftly, silently, like a hideous distorted shadow. The lanterns at the gate were unlighted, but Oliver knew that distorted, shadow-like figure at once, and as clearly as though he saw it with the eyes of his soul — it was Gaspard. Gaspard thrust his hand into his bosom and drew forth something long and dark. As he approached her Céleste began struggling, as though with the inflexible though invisible power that held her. In her struggles the cloak fell away from her face, and Oliver had one dreadful glimpse of it. The next instant it wa
s hidden. Gaspard, with one sudden movement, and in spite of her blind struggles, had drawn the black bag over her head and shoulders. At that sight Oliver gave a shrill, piping, inarticulate cry. The next instant he saw Gaspard pick her up bodily, and, running forward, fling her limp, death-like form into the coach, leap in himself, close the door with a crash that Oliver almost heard, and the next moment rumble away into the darkness.
“Oh God!” whispered Oliver. “Oh God! Poor Céleste! poor Céleste!”
“That will do,” said the master; “you need look no more;” and in answer to his words Oliver turned towards him. A shadow of a dusky pallor lay upon the master’s face, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
“It is very difficult,” he observed, “to psychologize two people at once in this way, and they so far distant from one another. I am glad that Gaspard has taken charge of the case, and removed the strain from me.”
Oliver heard the words with a certain dumb consciousness through the agony that hummed in his ears. He felt his face twitching and writhing, and drops of sweat trickled down his forehead. The master replaced his handkerchief and took a pinch of snuff, looking keenly at his victim. “You see,” said he, “it is uncomfortable, this being ruined; but then we should have thought of that before we came back to Paris. But I am not yet done with you, Oliver. You have lost your wife; now your wealth must follow. Do you see this?” and he drew something from his pocket and put it upon the table beside him. It was the phial with the black label, marked with this symbol — . that phial which Oliver had brought from the mysterious chambers. “When you and I parted company, Oliver, and I asked you whether you were satisfied with the result of our twelve months of labor, and you said ‘Yes,’ you did not think of or care for this other bottle; you were contented with the diamonds alone. It would have been wiser, Oliver, if you had insisted upon knowing the properties of this phial of liquor. What they are I will presently show you. In destroying that mirror with your accursed signs you did me irreparable harm. Nevertheless, I know that your diamonds are in this house, for I have, through certain Amsterdam merchants, who are agents of mine, taken care that they should be brought here at this time. Through your present psychological condition, I can also read in your mind that you know where they are. Take this phial, Oliver, and lead the way to them. I will follow, and direct you what further to do.”
Once more Oliver strove to resist, but he was powerless. It was as though his will was held in bonds of steel. He took the phial as the master directed, and with the same leaden, heavy steps led the way to the marquis’s cabinet, the master following behind him. With the same stiff obedience to the master’s will, he went to the escritoire, opened it, brought out the keys, unlocked the chest, and flung back the lid. The master took the bottle from his resistless hand, and uncorked it with his gleaming teeth.
What followed, Oliver only partly saw. He heard a bubbling, hissing sound; he saw a dull, heavy, yellow smoke arise to the ceiling, where it spread out to slowly widening rings. Then it was done, and the master closed the lid.
“And now, Oliver,” said he, “since you have been so kind as to do with your diamonds as I desired, I will ask you to do one thing more before we leave this cabinet. Sit down at yonder table, and write a letter. I will dictate it for you.”
Again Oliver did as he was bidden; he drew a sheet of paper before him, and dipped the pen into the ink.
“Monseigneur,” said the Count de St. Germaine, and Oliver began writing— “I thank you for all of your kindness to me. Those diamonds were false, and more worthless than paste. What they are, you may see for yourself by looking into the chest. I am a charlatan, monseigneur, and have by a trick imposed these artificial diamonds upon you. They have now resolved themselves back into their original form, and I, in the mean time, have escaped from your impending wrath with your daughter, whom I love. It will be useless, monseigneur, for you to seek to discover our hiding-place. Where we have gone you can never follow. Let me say here that my name is not Oliver de Monnière-Croix, but that it is Oliver Munier, and that I am the son of Jean Munier, a poor tailor of Flourens, as you yourself might have discovered had you taken the trouble.
“Adieu, monseigneur, and may better luck attend you at cards than in the choice of your son-in-law.
“Oliver.”
“There, Oliver,” said the Count de St. Germaine, “this letter will, I flatter myself, put the finishing-touch to your ruin. Seal it and address it, and then let us return to the other room. And you shall call the servant and send the letter to papa-in-law.”
Once more mechanically obeying, Oliver led the way to the apartment they had quitted. The master pointed to the bell, and in answer Oliver struck it. After some delay the servant appeared, looking with sleepy wonder from Oliver to the visitor, and back again.
Oliver turned to the man, and then he heard his own voice speaking as though it belonged to some one else. “Take this letter directly to your master,” said he. “It is of the greatest importance, and bid him from me go instantly to his cabinet. Tell him something has happened to his diamonds, and that he will see it all for himself. Go, I say!”
There was something in his tone, something in his look, that sent the man off like a flash.
The master laughed as the fellow shut the door. “That man,” said he, “has never been so surprised in his life before. You should have observed his face when you spoke to him; it was a study. But now I must leave you, Oliver. I have some little matters to attend to, and then I must go and see whether Gaspard has taken your wife to my apartments as I bade him. I am obliged to you for having done everything that I asked you in such an accommodating manner. In return I will give you a piece of advice: go to the river, Oliver, and throw yourself into the water; it is the easiest way to end your troubles. Your wife you shall never see again as long as you live. Your fortune” — he drew his fingers together, and then spread them quickly open with a puff— “it is gone; and papa, the marquis — should you happen to fall into his hands it might be very unpleasant. Yes, take my advice and throw yourself into the water; the disagreeableness will be only for a moment, and then your troubles will be over and done with. Adieu, my child. Now go; it is my order that you drown yourself.”
Scene Fourth. — The marquis’s dressing-room.
The marquis is discovered reclining in dishabille beside a table where some five or six tapers are burning; he has been very wearied with the excitement of the day. But, on the whole, he is satisfied with himself; he is glad that Oliver is going back to Flourens, and still more glad that he will have entire care of the diamonds. He holds a book idly in his hand, and gazes upward at the ceiling as though through a perspective of pleasant inward thoughts. A knock at the door awakens him sharply from his reveries, and the next moment August enters with Oliver’s letter.
“What is it?” said the marquis. “Ah! a letter from Oliver, that dear, simple Oliver. Let me see what he has to say.” He laid aside his book, and opening the letter, began reading. As he read, the smile faded from his lips, his jaw dropped, his eyes glared, and a heavy, ashy, leaden pallor fell upon his face. As he ended, the letter dropped from his limp hand and fell fluttering to the floor.
Then the marquis rose to his feet; he placed his out-stretched fingers to his forehead, and stood for a moment or two glaring about him. Then the color came flaming back to his face; it grew red, it grew redder, it became purple. Suddenly he roused himself with a choking, inarticulate cry. He snatched up one of the candles from the table and rushed from the room, flinging aside August, who stood in his way, and sent him tumbling backward over a chair and falling with a tremendous clatter to the floor.
He never stopped for an instant until he had reached his private cabinet, into which he burst tumultuously. He tore open the escritoire, and feeling blindly within it, found the key of the chest. Then he dragged forth the chest, and thrust the key into the lock. He flung back the lid, and, leaning over, gazed stupidly down and in.
; Where was the glittering treasure that he had left lying upon those velvet-covered trays? It was gone! Nothing left but a mass of muddy charcoal, here and there whitened as though turned to ashes by the touch of fire, and all wet with a pungent fluid that had stained the purple velvet to a dirty reddish-yellow.
“Jean! Edward! François!” It was the marquis’s voice, and it rang terribly through the silence of the Hôtel de Flourens.
The next instant there came a crash and a heavy fall, and when the frightened servants crowded around the open door and into the marquis’s cabinet, they beheld their master lying upon his face under the table, with an overturned chair upon him, and one arm, with its clinched hand, under his face. He was snoring with stertorous breathing.
“THEY BEHELD THEIR MASTER LYING UPON HIS FACE UNDER THE TABLE.”
ACT IV.
Scene First. — The Seine at midnight.
DARKNESS AS OF death, and, excepting for the hollow murmur of the river, silence as of the grave, utter and profound.
The sky above is a dim, misty opalescence of moonlit stillness; against it rise great, towering, crazy buildings, sharp-roofed, gabled, as black as ink. Across the narrow stretch of intervening water tower other buildings — crazy, sharp-roofed, gabled, as black as ink — and above all loom the great spires of the church into the pale sky, ponderous, massive, silent. One broken strip of moonlight stretches across parapet and roadway of the bridge, white and still. All around it is gaping blackness. Suddenly there is a little movement in the darkness, the sound of a stumbling step, halting and uneven, and then some one appears in the white patch of moonlight. It is Oliver, pale, hollow-eyed, dishevelled, his hair tangled, his lace cravat torn open at the throat, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his silk stockings stained and spattered with mud. He reels like a drunken man as he struggles against the invisible power that holds him relentless as fate. Step by step that power thrusts him, struggling and shuffling, towards the parapet of the bridge. He mounts it and flings one leg over the edge. Beneath him in the inky blackness he can hear but not see the water rushing onward under the arches.
