Les Quarante-cinq. English

by Alexandre Dumas

  CHAPTER LIX.

  WHAT WAS PASSING IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.

  While the hotel of the "Brave Chevalier," the abode, apparently, of themost perfect concord, with closed doors and open cellars, showed throughthe openings of the shutters the light of its candles and the mirth ofits guests, an unaccustomed movement took place in that mysterious houseof which our readers have as yet only seen the outside.

  The servant was going from one room to another, carrying packages whichhe placed in a trunk. These preparations over, he loaded a pistol,examined his poniard, then suspended it, by the aid of a ring, to thechain which served him for a belt, to which he attached besides a bunchof keys and a book of prayers bound in black leather.

  While he was thus occupied, a step, light as that of a shadow, came upthe staircase, and a woman, pale and phantom-like under the folds of herwhite veil, appeared at the door, and a voice, sad and sweet as the songof a bird in the wood, said: "Remy, are you ready?"

  "Yes, madame, I only wait for your box."

  "Do you think these boxes will go easily on our horses?"

  "Oh! yes, madame, but if you have any fear, I can leave mine; I haveall I want there."

  "No, no, Remy, take all that you want for the journey. Oh! Remy! I longto be with my father; I have sad presentiments, and it seems an agesince I saw him."

  "And yet, madame, it is but three months; not a longer interval thanusual."

  "Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told me, the lasttime we quitted him, that he had not long to live."

  "Yes, doubtless; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. Sometimesdeath seems to forget old men, and they live on as though by the habitof living; and often, besides, an old man is like a child, ill to-dayand well to-morrow."

  "Alas! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and deadto-morrow."

  Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to say, andsilence succeeded for some minutes.

  "At what hour have you ordered the horses?" said the lady, at last.

  "At two o'clock."

  "And one has just struck."

  "Yes, madame."

  "No one is watching outside?"

  "No one."

  "Not even that unhappy young man?"

  "Not even he."

  And Remy sighed.

  "You say that in a strange manner, Remy."

  "Because he also has made a resolution."

  "What is it?"

  "To see us no more; at least, not to try to see us any more."

  "And where is he going?"

  "Where we are all going--to rest.".

  "God give it him eternally," said the lady, in a cold voice, "and yet--"

  "Yet what, madame?"

  "Had he nothing to do here?"

  "He had to love if he had been loved."

  "A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future."

  "You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, andyou do not look forward to a future."

  "Yes, Remy, I do," cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; "butlisten! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Can it be ours?"

  "It is possible; but it is an hour too soon."

  "It stops at the door, Remy."

  Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on thedoor.

  "Who is there?" said he.

  "I!" replied a trembling voice, "I, Grandchamp, the baron's valet."

  "Ah! mon Dieu! Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low! Whence do you come?"

  "From Meridor. Alas, dear M. Remy!"

  "Well," cried the lady from the top of the stairs, "are they our horses,Remy?"

  "No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp?"

  "You do not guess?"

  "Alas! I do; what will she do, poor lady."

  "Remy," cried she again, "you are talking to some one?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "I thought I knew the voice."

  "Indeed, madame."

  She now descended, saying:

  "Who is there? Grandchamp?"

  "Yes, madame, it is I," replied the old man sadly, uncovering his whitehead.

  "Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my fatheris dead?"

  "Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master."

  Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her andtook her hand softly.

  "How did he die; tell me, my friend?" said she.

  "Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was strucka week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He muttered your name for the lasttime, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more."

  Diana went up again without another word. Her room was on the firststory, and looked only into a courtyard. The furniture was somber, butrich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of ourSaviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twistedcolumns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of theroom. Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained aportrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes,but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribablelove. It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked ona bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right handhung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes wereclosed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave tohis face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only atthe moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the portrait, in lettersred as blood, was written, "Aut Caesar aut nihil." The lady extended herarm, and spoke as though it could hear her.

  "I had begged thee to wait, although thy soul must have thirsted forvengeance; and as the dead see all, thou hast seen, my love, that Ilived only not to kill my father, else I would have died after you; andthen, you know, on your bleeding corpse I uttered a vow to give deathfor death, blood for blood, but I would not do it while the old mancalled me his innocent child. Thou hast waited, beloved, and now I amfree: the last tie which bound me to earth is broken. I am all yours,and now I am free to come to you."

  She rose on one knee, kissed the hand, and then went on: "I can weep nomore--my tears have dried up in weeping over your tomb. In a few monthsI shall rejoin you, and you then will reply to me, dear shade, to whom Ihave spoken so often without reply." Diana then rose, and seatingherself in her chair, muttered, "Poor father!" and then fell into aprofound reverie. At last she called Remy.

  The faithful servant soon appeared.

  "Here I am, madame."

  "My worthy friend, my brother--you, the last person who knows me on thisearth--say adieu to me."

  "Why so, madame?"

  "Because the time has come for us to separate."

  "Separate!" cried the young man. "What do you mean, madame?"

  "Yes, Remy. My project of vengeance seemed to me noble and pure whilethere remained an obstacle between me and it, and I only contemplated itfrom afar off; but now that I approach the execution of it--now that theobstacle has disappeared--I do not draw back, but I do not wish to dragwith me into crime a generous and pure soul like yours; therefore youmust quit me, my friend."

  Remy listened to the words of Diana with a somber look.

  "Madame," replied he, "do you think you are speaking to a trembling oldman? Madame, I am but twenty-six; and snatched as I was from the tomb,if I still live, it is for the accomplishment of some terribleaction--to play an active part in the work of Providence. Never, then,separate your thoughts from mine, since we both have the same thoughts,sinister as they may be. Where you go, I will go; what you do I will aidin; or if, in spite of my prayers, you persist in dismissing me--"

  "Oh!" murmured she, "dismiss you! What a word, Remy!"

  "If you persist in that resolution," continued the young man, "I knowwhat I have to do, and all for me will end with two blows from aponiard--one in the heart of him wh
om you know, and the other in yourown."

  "Remy! Remy!" cried Diana, "do not say that. The life of him youthreaten does not belong to you--it is mine--I have paid for it dearlyenough. I swear to you, Remy, that on the day on which I knelt besidethe dead body of him"--and she pointed to the portrait--"on that day Iapproached my lips to that open wound, and the trembling lips seemed tosay to me, 'Avenge me, Diana!--avenge me!'"

  "Madame--"

  "Therefore, I repeat, vengeance is for me, and not for you; besides, forwhom and through whom did he die? By me and through me."

  "I must obey you, madame, for I also was left for dead. Who carried meaway from the middle of the corpses with which that room wasfilled?--You. Who cured me of my wounds?--You. Who concealed me?--Youalways. Order, then, and I will obey, provided that you do not order meto leave you."

  "So be it, Remy; you are right; nothing ought to separate us more."

  Remy pointed to the portrait.

  "Now, madame," said he, "he was killed by treason--it is by treason thathe must be revenged. Ah! you do not know one thing--the hand of God iswith us, for to-night I have found the secret of the 'Aqua tofana,' thatpoison of the Medicis and of Rene the Florentine."

  "Really?"

  "Come and see, madame."

  "But where is Grandchamp?"

  "The poor old man has come sixty leagues on horseback; he is tired out,and has fallen asleep on my bed."

  "Come, then," said Diana; and she followed Remy.