CHAPTER XXXVI
MELOSAN'S SECRET
We left Melosan as he ran into the street in despair, hoping to find themissing girl. Had Jane run away? Had she been abducted?
Two policemen were patrolling the Champs-Elysees, and Anselmo went up tothem and politely asked them whether they had not seen his mistress, ayoung lady?
The officials looked suspiciously at him, and remarked that the younglady would have something else to do than wander in the streets at thistime of night. Anselmo sorrowfully bowed his head, and, after thankingthem, continued on his way.
He had reached the polygon and listened attentively. He heard steps, butnot the right ones. Suppose Jane had committed suicide?
She had been so painfully excited this evening, and Anselmo, who knewher past, shuddered when he thought that the Seine was not far away.
Without a pause he ran to the edge of the water; the dawning day was rawand chilly, and Anselmo shuddered as he looked in the dark waves. Werethey taking his dearest treasure on earth along in their course?
What mysterious tie bound him to Jane Zild? the former galley-slave tothe beautiful, talented creature?
* * * * *
Twenty-one years had passed since Anselmo had witnessed the killing ofMadame Danglars by her son Benedetto and the latter's flight with thetreasure. Anselmo was, of course, a scoundrel, too; but his whole beingrose up in anger at such inhuman cruelty, and, grasping the knife, hehad threatened to kill the parricide if he did not depart at once.
Benedetto was thrown into the sea, and was rescued upon the island ofMonte-Cristo.
Anselmo had remained behind, half dazed, and only little by little didhe recover his senses sufficiently to think over his own situation. Itwas a desperate one; yet he would not have exchanged with Benedetto forany price.
Suddenly, a faint glimmer of daylight shone through the open window, andAnselmo trembled when his gaze fell on the pale face of the murderedwoman. Suppose she was not dead? Anselmo bent over her and listened; notthe slightest sign of breathing was visible, and yet the convict thoughthe felt an almost imperceptible beating of the heart.
Should he call for help? That would be equivalent to delivering himselfover to the hangman. If he hesitated, the woman would die, under allcircumstances. Who would believe him, if he said that the woman's ownson was the murderer? Appearances were against him, and, if the murderedwoman really recovered consciousness again, and she should be asked whoraised the knife against her, she would much sooner accuse him than theson whom she madly loved.
While Anselmo was still debating the question in his mind, he heard anoise in front of the house, and, hurrying to the window, he perceivedthe priest, who had just returned home from his journey. The convictuttered a cry of relief. He could now leave without having a murder uponhis soul; for the clergyman would, no doubt, immediately discover whathad happened, and take care of the victim. He waited until he had heardthe priest's steps on the stairs, and then swung himself through thewindow on to the tree which had helped Benedetto to enter the room, anddisappeared at the very moment that the horrified clergyman entered theroom. Anselmo determined to leave France in an easterly direction. Aftergreat trials and difficulties he reached Switzerland, and from there hejourneyed to Germany. Intelligent and active, he soon found a means ofearning an honest living; he settled in Munich, and, under the name ofMelosan, gave lessons in French.
Fifteen years passed in this way. Anselmo worked hard, and was satisfiedwith the reward of his activity. His scholars esteemed him. During thistime an entire change had taken place in the former convict. But then ayearning to see France once more seized him, and he resolved to returnto the fatherland.
He first went to Lyons, where he gave lessons in German and Italian. Helived in a modest apartment in the Faubourg St. Antoine. One eveningAnselmo was walking along the quay when he heard quarrelling voices. Awoman's voice cried aloud:
"Let me go! I want to go for my daughter. I have nothing to do with you.Help, help!"
Anselmo stood still. A woman was no doubt struggling with some men, andwhen her cries redoubled, he forgot his prudence and hurried toward thegroup.
As he suspected, he found three drunken workmen trying to force asixteen-year-old girl from the grasp of an elderly woman.
The woman cried loudly for help and struck angrily around her. The younggirl, however, silently defended herself.
"Don't be so prudish, Zilda," said one of the men. "You make as muchnoise as if we were going to hang the little one."
The speaker, as he said this, threw his arms around the slim waist ofthe young girl and tried to draw her to him. At this moment Anselmoappeared, and with a terrible blow he struck the fellow to the ground.
The young girl sobbed, and taking the hand of her rescuer she pressed akiss upon it. Then turning to the old lady, who was leaning against thewall moaning, she cried, beside herself:
"Oh, mother, mother! What is the matter with you? My God, she is dying!"
This really seemed to be the case; the poor woman had become deathlypale, and sank to the ground.
"Let me help you," said Anselmo to the young girl. He bent down and tookthe unconscious woman in his arms. "Where do you live?"
As simple as the question was, the girl appeared to be embarrassed byit.
"Won't you tell me where you live?" said Anselmo, as the girl remainedsilent.
"We do not live far from here, in the Rue Franchefoin."
"I do not know that street."
"Ah, I believe you," stammered the poor child, shuddering; "I shallproceed in advance."
"Do so," said Anselmo.
The ex-priest followed her, bearing the unconscious woman in hismuscular arms, and only gradually did he perceive that his companion wasleading him into one of the most disreputable streets in the city.
The young girl stopped in front of a small house. A robust woman stoodin the doorway, and when she saw the young girl she venomously said:
"Zilda has taken time. She stayed away a good two hours to get herdaughter."
"My mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying," said the young girl in asharp voice.
"It won't be so serious," replied the woman, with a coarse laugh.
"Have you not heard that the woman is dangerously ill?" said theex-priest.
"Is she sick?" asked the woman, coldly. "Well, if she dies, it won't bea great misfortune. I--"
"Madame, for God's sake!" implored the young girl.
"Show me to a room where I can lay the invalid down," said Anselmoroughly.
"Yes, yes, directly. Follow me if you are in such a hurry," growled thewoman.
Just then two men who were intoxicated staggered into the hallway.
"Ah, there is Zilda," cried one of them; "quick, old woman; come in andsing us a song."
The woman opened a door and winked to the ex-priest to enter. The roomwas small and dirty. In the corner stood a slovenly bed upon whichAnselmo deposited the invalid.
"Is there a physician in the neighborhood?" he asked.
"A physician? That is hardly worth the trouble," mocked the virago, "sheis only drunk."
The ex-priest took a five-franc piece from his pocket and said:
"Get a physician, I insist upon it."
The next minute the virago was on the way.
Anselmo remained alone with the two women. The young girl sobbedsilently, and the invalid remained motionless.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "I think you might loosen your mother's dress;the fainting fit lasts rather long."
The young girl looked at him, seeming not to understand.
"She is your mother, is she not?"
The young girl nodded, and, rising, pressed her lips upon the woman'sforehead. Thereupon she loosened her mother's dress and held a glass ofwater to her lips. The invalid mechanically drank a few drops, but soonwaved it back and whispered:
"No more, no water, leave me!"
"Mother," said the young gi
rl, "mother, it is I; do you not know me?"
"No, I do not know who you are!" cried the invalid. "Away, I cannot singto-day--my breast pains me. Oh--"
"Oh, mother," sobbed the poor child.
"Yes--I am cold--why do you put ice on my feet?" complained the invalid,and with a quick movement she raised herself up in bed.
Suddenly the delirious woman caught sight of Anselmo, and with aterrible cry she sprung at him with clinched fists.
"There you are, you wretch," she hissed; "where have you put your blackcoat?"
Just then the virago returned with the doctor.
The latter looked contemptuously at her, and in a gruff voice said:
"Lie down!"
He then beat her bosom, counted her pulse, and shook his head.
"Nothing can be done," he dryly declared; "her strength has beenimpaired by a fast and dissipated life, and--"
"But, doctor," interrupted Anselmo, "have some compunction for the poorwoman. You see she is conscious and understands every word."
"Ah, you are probably a relative of hers, or has your warm interest inher some other ground?"
"Doctor, I only speak as a human being," replied Anselmo, sternly, "andif you do not do your duty as a physician I will notify the properauthorities."
This threat had the desired effect. The doctor drew his note-book fromhis pocket, rapidly wrote a prescription, and went away.
Anselmo took the prescription and hurried to the nearest drug-store. Ashe walked along the snow-covered streets, he muttered to himself:
"Merciful God, do not punish me so hard!"
When he returned he found the virago awaiting him at the door.
"Monsieur," she said, "it seems that Zilda interests you."
"Yes, like any other unhappy creature."
"Well, I have her papers. Her name is Zild--Jane Zild."
"Give them to me," said Anselmo, firmly; "I will take care of her."
"May God reward you; the sooner you get her out of my house the happierI shall be."
The woman hurried into the house, and Anselmo handed the invalid'sdaughter the medicine he had bought and waited for the return of thevirago. In less than five minutes she returned and handed the ex-priesta package of papers.
"Where can I look through them?" he asked, uneasily.
"Oh, come into the kitchen."
Anselmo accepted her invitation, and by the flickering light of a tallowcandle he unfolded the yellow and withered papers.
One of the papers contained a passport for the work-man, Jean Zild, andhis daughter Jane, made out by the commune of Sitzheim in Alsace. WhenAnselmo read this he grew pale and nearly fell to the floor in a faint.
"The reading seems to overtax your strength," said the woman giggling."Zilda has travelled a great deal, and maybe you have met her before."
"I hardly think so," stammered Anselmo.
In company with the virago, Anselmo re-entered the sick-room, and,laying his hand on the young girl's shoulder, he said:
"My dear child, your mother is much better now, and if you follow myadvice you will go to bed and take a rest. I shall stay with theinvalid. The housekeeper here has kindly consented to give you a room."
"Not for any price," cried the little one in terror. "I cannot stay inthis house overnight."
Little by little he managed to calm the poor child and make herunderstand his aim. She hesitatingly consented to stay overnight in thehouse, and the housekeeper conducted her to a little room. With inwardterror the little one gazed at the unclean walls, and only her love forher mother induced her to stay and not return even now.
"Good-night, mother," she said, sobbing.
The woman looked vacantly at her and gave no sign of recognition of herdaughter.
"Do not wake your mother up," said Anselmo, hastily. "Sleep is necessaryto her and I will call you if she asks for you."
"Then you really intend to stay here?"
"Yes."
"Do you know us?"
"No," stammered Anselmo; "but go to bed now, it is late."
"You will surely call me?" asked the little one.
"Certainly; go now and rely on me."
She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid--the dying woman, as heshudderingly said to himself.
From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her sleep and utter alow moan.
Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of formerbeauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early and so sadly?
Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at theex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded hands.
"How did you get here?" she asked, timidly.
"You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn everything,"replied Anselmo.
"I am sick! Ha! ha! ha! I am cursed--cursed!" she cried.
"Keep still; go to sleep," begged Anselmo, frightened. "No one hascursed you."
"But he--my father--oh, I have brought shame and sorrow upon him; but itwas not my fault--no, not my fault! Oh, I was so young and innocent.Father said, pray earnestly and often, and so I prayed. Oh, how nice itwas in Sitzheim; the church lay upon a hill, hid in ivy, from which aview of the peaceful village could be had. A well was also in thevillage. Evenings we young girls used to go there to get water, andthen--then he went past. How he frowned. He wore a black coat, and thebald spot on his shaved head shone like ivory. When he came near, wemade the sign of the cross. We must honor the embassadors of God!"
The dying woman with trembling hands made the sign of the cross, andAnselmo groaned and moaned.
"I had not yet gone to confession," continued the delirious woman; "myfather used to laugh at me and say: 'Stay at home, little Jane, youhaven't any sins to confess yet.' I stayed. I was only sixteen. But oneday as I was sitting in front of our door the man addressed me.
"'Why do you not come to confession?' he asked sternly.
"'Because my father said I was too young, and have no sins to confess.'
"'We are all sinners in God,' he earnestly replied. 'Do not forget thatyou will be eternally damned if you do not confess.'
"I got frightened; no, I did not wish to be damned, and so I wentsecretly to confession. He always gave me absolution and I was happy. Hesometimes met me when I went walking, and was always very friendly tome."
Anselmo leaned his head against the hard bed-post and sobbed--they werethe bitterest tears he had ever wept.
"He told me I was so pretty," continued the woman. "He promised medresses, books and sweetmeats--my father must not know that I saw hisreverence almost every day, and then--then he suddenly disappeared fromthe village--his superiors had transferred him, and I--I wept until myeyes were red. And then--then came a terrible time. The girls at thewell pointed their fingers in scorn at me--my father threw me out of thehouse! I ran as far as my feet would carry me--I suffered from hungerand thirst--I froze, for it was a bitter cold winter; and when I couldno longer sustain my misery, I sprang into the water.
"I was rescued," she laughingly continued, "and then my child, my littleJane, was born, and to nurse her I had to keep on living. Yes, I lived,but how? The fault was not mine, but that of the hypocrite and scoundrelin clergyman's dress!"
"Mercy," implored Anselmo. "Mercy, Jane!"
"Ha! who--is it that--calls me?" stammered the dying woman, faintly. "Ishould know--that--voice!"
"Oh, Jane, it is I--the wretched priest!" whispered Anselmo; "forgive mefor my crimes against you and tell me if that girl there is," he pointedto the other room--"my--our daughter?"
But the invalid could not speak any more; she only nodded, and thenclosed her eyes forever.
When day dawned a broken-down man rose from the bedside of the deceased.He had spent the night in torture, and now went to wake the daughter ofthe dead woman--wake his daughter! He must take care of her withoutletting her know that he was her father.
When he told the girl her mother was dead, she threw herself upon thecorpse, covered
the pale face with tears and kisses, and yet--curiousphase of this girl's soul--when she thought she was not observed, shewhispered faintly:
"God be thanked that your troubles are over, poor mother--now I can loveyou without blushing for you."
Anselmo ordered a respectable funeral, and when he returned from thecemetery with the young girl he said with deep emotion:
"Jane, I knew your mother--I promised her that I would look out for you.Will you stay with me?"
Jane Zild sorrowfully said "Yes." Anselmo left Lyons in company with thelonely child. He worked hard to place Jane above want, and tenderlyloved her. Gradually he tried to win the young girl's confidence; hecomprehended that Jane was on the brink of despair, and to distract herhe began to educate her.
The result was well worth the work. Jane learned with the greatestfacility, and took pleasure in study. Yet she remained pale andmelancholy, and Anselmo knew what troubled her--the memory of thehorrible past. It seemed as if she were branded--as if every one couldread on her forehead whose daughter she was.
An accident revealed to Anselmo that Jane possessed eminent musicaltalents, and a magnificent contralto voice. He worked, saved andeconomized to be able to give Jane the best teachers. He removed withthe young girl to a German city which possessed a celebratedconservatory; there Jane studied music and singing.
Three years father and daughter remained in Leipsic, and then Jane felthomesick--homesick for France. Anselmo selected Paris as their place ofresidence, and hoped that she would succeed in conquering a position atthe Opera.
But Jane refused all offers from the managers, and when Anselmoreproached her she said, in bitter tones:
"If I were not my mother's daughter the matter would be different. Shamewould kill me if some one were to discover in me the daughter of JaneZild. No, I must remain in seclusion until God sees fit to end mymiserable existence!"
It therefore surprised him when the young girl told him she thought ofvisiting the young painter's soiree and singing there. Was she in lovewith the painter, or did she expect to meet some one in his parlor?
Anselmo declared that he would not go to any party in Paris, and wouldonly bring her to the Rue Montaigne and then call for her again. He was,however, not prepared for the surprise which awaited him in GontramSabran's parlor. He recognized in Count Vellini's secretary the demonBenedetto, and his heart ceased beating when he saw the wretch. He hopedBenedetto would not recognize him, but he was destined to be deceived,as we have seen.
When Anselmo heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, herecollected the oath which the convict Benedetto had sworn against theCount of Monte-Cristo.
Hidden by the drapery, he had given Spero the mysterious warning. Afterthe soiree was over he was surprised at the excited condition of Jane.He attributed it to a recurrence of her thoughts to her horrible past.
And while he was promising to assist the former galley-slave in carryingout some deviltry to save himself from being unmasked, Jane disappeared.Anselmo regarded it as a new evidence of the wrath of God.
How long he lay crouched in a corner of the quay, buried in thought, heknew not; all he knew was that the sound of hurried footsteps, whichwere coming toward him, had aroused him.
Suppose it was Jane who wished to seek oblivion in the waters of theSeine? Anselmo listened. The footsteps drew near now--the spectralapparition of a woman went past him and swung itself on the bridgerailing.
"Jane--my child!" cried the despairing father; but when he reached thespot where he had seen the apparition it was empty.
He bent over the railing. Something dark swam about. Anselmo thought herecognized Jane's black dress, and only filled with a desire to rescuehis child, he plunged into the turbulent waters.
With a few powerful strokes he had reached the place where he had lastseen the figure. Thank God! it was in front of him. He stretched out hisarm--clutched the hand of the drowning person, and tried to swim back toshore with his dear burden.
But the shore was still far away, the body lay heavy as lead on his leftarm, and much as he tried to cleave the ice-cold water with his righthe could not succeed in doing it. He felt his strength grow feeble--washe going to be overcome at the last moment?
"Help! help! we are sinking!" he cried aloud, and as he felt himselfseized at that moment by a huge wave, whose power he could notresist--the water entered his mouth--he cried again:
"Help! help!"
"Patience! Keep up a moment longer! I am coming!" came back in a loudvoice.
The water was parted with powerful strokes, four arms were stretchedtoward the drowning persons, and Anselmo and his burden were brought tothe shore by two men.
"Confound the cold," said one of the men, shaking himself as if he werea poodle. "I should like to know what reason induced these two people totake a cold bath so early in the morning?"
"Bring them to my house, Bobichel," said the other, a strong, handsomeman, "and everything will be explained there."
"Yes, if they are still alive," replied Bobichel. "I think, Fanfaro,that we came just at the right moment. What will Madame Irene say whenwe arrive home?"
"She will at once prepare for everything," said Fanfaro, laughing.
After they had both walked along with their burdens in their arms forabout a quarter of an hour, they stopped in front of a small house whichlay back of a pretty garden.
Five minutes later both the unfortunates lay in a comfortably warmedroom, and Fanfaro, his wife, and Bobichel busily attended to them.
"Who can they be?" asked Irene, gently, of her husband.
"God knows," replied Fanfaro; "anyhow, I am glad that they both stilllive."
But the woman Anselmo had rescued at the risk of his life was not Jane,but a gray-haired old lady.
The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II Page 37