Sons and Fathers

by Harry Stillwell Edwards

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE.

  Paris!

  With emotions difficult to appreciate Edward found himself at home, forof all places Paris meant that to him. He went at once to his oldquarters; a suite of rooms in a quiet but accessible street, where wascombined something of both city and suburban life. The concierge almostoverwhelmed him with his welcome.

  In obedience to his letters, everything had been placed in order, booksand furniture dusted, the linen renewed, the curtains laundered andstiffened anew, and on the little center table was a vase of crimsonroses--a contribution for madame and mademoiselle.

  His own, the larger room, was surrendered to the ladies; the smaller heretained. There was the little parlor between, for common use. Outsidewas the shady vista of the street and in the distance the murmur of thecity.

  Mrs. Montjoy was delighted with the arrangement and the scene. Maryabsorbed all the surroundings of the owner's past life; every picture,every book and bit of bric-a-brac, all were parts of him and full ofinterest. The very room seemed imbued with his presence. Here was hisshaded student's lamp, there the small upright piano, with its stack ofmusic and, in place ready for the player, an open sheet. It might havebeen yesterday that he arose from its stool, walked out and closed thedoor.

  It was a little home, and when coming into the parlor from his dressingroom, Edward saw her slender figure, he paused, and then the olddepression returned.

  She found him watching her, and noted the troubled look upon his face.

  "It is all so cozy and beautiful," she said. "I am so glad that youbrought us here rather than to a hotel."

  "And I, too, if you are pleased."

  "Pleased! It is simply perfect!"

  A note lay upon the center table. He noticed that it was addressed tohim, and, excusing himself, opened it and read:

  "M. Morgan. Benoni, the maestro, is ill and desires monsieur. It will be well if monsieur comes quickly.

  "Annette."

  He rang the bell hurriedly and the concierge appeared.

  "This note," said Edward, speaking rapidly in French; "has it been longhere?"

  "Since yesterday. I sent it back, and they returned it. Monsieur is notdisappointed, I trust." Edward shook his head and was seeking his hatand gloves.

  "You recall my old friend, the maestro, who gave me the violin," hesaid, remembering Mary. "The note says he is very ill. It was sentyesterday. Make my excuses to your mother; I will not stay long. If I donot see you here, I will seek you over yonder in the park, where theband may be playing shortly; and then we will find a supper."

  Walking rapidly to a cab stand he selected one with a promising horse,and gave directions. He was carried at a rapid rate into the region ofthe Quartier Latin and in a few moments found the maestro's home.

  One or two persons were by him when he entered the room, and they turnedand looked curiously. "Edward!" exclaimed the old man, lifting hissightless eyes toward the door; "there is but one who steps like that!"

  Edward approached and took his hand. The sick man was sitting in hisarm-chair, wrapped in his faded dressing-gown. "My friends," hecontinued, lifting his hand with a slight gesture of dismissal, "youhave been kind to Benoni; God will reward you; farewell!"

  The friends, one a woman of the neighborhood, the other the wife of theconcierge, came and touched his hand, and, bowing to Edward, withdrew,lifting their white aprons to their faces as they passed from the room.

  "You are very ill," said Edward, placing his hand upon the old man'sarm; "I have just returned to Paris and came at once."

  "Very ill, indeed." He leaned back his head wearily. "It will soon beover."

  "Have you no friends who should know of this, good Benoni; no relatives?You have been silent upon this subject, and I have never questioned you.I will bring them if you will let me." Benoni shook his head.

  "Never. I am to them already dead." A fit of coughing seized him, and hebecame greatly exhausted. Upon the table was a small bottle containingwine, left by one of the women. Edward poured out a draught and placedit to the bloodless lips.

  "One is my wife," said the dying man, with sudden energy, "my own wife."

  "I will answer that she comes; she cannot refuse."

  "Refuse? No, indeed! She has been searching for me for a lifetime. Manytimes she has looked upon me without recognition. She would come; shehas been here--she has been here!"

  "And did not know you? It is possible?"

  "She did not know."

  "You told her, though?"

  "No."

  "You never told her--" There was a pause. The sick man said, gasping:

  "I am a convict!" A cry of horror broke from the lips of the young man.The old violinist resented his sudden start and exclamation. "But aconvict innocent. I swear it before my Maker!" Edward was deeplytouched.

  "None can doubt that who knows you, Benoni."

  "He threatened my life; he struck at me with his knife; I turned it onhim, and he fell dead. I did what I could; I was stanching the woundwhen they seized me. His ring jewel had cut my face; but for that Iwould have been executed. I had no friends, even my name was not my own.I went to prison and labor for twenty years."

  He named the length of his sentence in a whisper. It was a horror hecould never understand. He stretched out his hand. "Wine." Again Edwardrestored something of the fleeting strength.

  "She came," he said, "searching for me. I was blind then; they had beencareless with their blasting--my eyes were gone, my hair white, my facescarred. She did not know me. Her voice was divine! Her name has been inthe mouths of all men. She came and sang at Christmas, to the prisoners,the glorious hymns of her church, and she sang to me. It was a song thatnone there knew but me--my song! Had she watched my face, then, shewould have known; but how could she suspect me, the blind, the scarred,the gray? She passed out forever. And I, harmless, helpless, soonfollowed--pardoned. I knew her name; I made my way to Paris to be nearthat voice; and the years passed; I was poor and blind. It cost money tohear her."

  Trembling with emotion, Edward whispered: "Her name?" Benoni shook hishead and slowly extended his withered arms. The woolen wristlets hadbeen removed, there were the white scars, the marks of the convict'slong-worn irons.

  "I have forgiven her; I will not bring her disgrace."

  "Cambia?" said Edward, unconsciously. There was a loud cry; the old manhalf-rose and sank back, baffled by his weakness.

  "Hush! Hush!" he gasped; "it is my secret; swear to me you will keep it;swear to me, swear!"

  "I swear it, Benoni, I swear it." The old man seemed to have fallenasleep; it was a stupor.

  "She came," he said, "years ago and offered me gold. It was to be thelast effort of her life. She could not believe but that her husband wasin Paris and might be found. She believed the song would find him. I hadbeen suggested to her because my music and figure were known to all theboulevards. I was blind and could never know her. But I knew her voice.

  "She went, veiled to avoid recognition; she stood by me at a certainplace on the boulevard where people gather in the evening and sang. Whata song. The streets were blocked, and men, I am told, uncovered beforethe sacred purity of that voice, and when all were there who could hearshe sang our song; while I, weeping, played the accompaniment, ay, as noman living or dead could have played it. Always in the lines--

  "Oceans may roll between Thy home and thee."

  --her voice gave way. They called it art.

  "Well, I thought, one day I will tell; it was always the next day, but Iknew, as she sang, in her mind must have arisen the picture of thathusband standing by her side--ah, my God, I could not, I could not;blind, scarred, a felon, I could not; I was dead! It was bitter!

  "And then she came to me and said: 'Good Benoni, your heart is true andtender; I thank you; I have wealth and plenty; here is gold, take it inmemory of a broken heart you have soothed.' I said:

  "'The voice of that woman, her song
, are better than gold. I have them.'I went and stood in the door as she, weeping, passed out. She lifted herveil and touched the forehead of the old musician with her lips, andthen--I hardly knew! I was lying on the floor when Annette came to bringmy tea."

  For a long time he sat without motion after this recital. Edwardloosened the faded cords of his gown. The old man spoke again in awhisper:

  "Come closer; there is another secret. I knew then that I had neverbefore loved her. My marriage had been an outrage of heart-faith. Imistook admiration, sympathy, memory, for love. I was swept from my feetby her devotion, but it is true--as God is my judge, I never loved heruntil then--until her sad, ruined life spoke to me in that song on thestreets of Paris." Edward still held his hand.

  "Benoni," he said, simply, "there is no guilt upon your soul to havedeserved the convict's irons. Believe me, it is better to send for herand let her come to you. Think of the long years she has searched; ofthe long years of uncertainty that must follow. You cannot, you cannotpass away without paying the debt; it was your fault in thebeginning----"

  The old man had gradually lifted his head; now he bowed it. "Then youowe her the admission. Oh, believe me, you are wrong if you think thescars of misfortune can shame away love. You do not know a true woman'sheart. You have not much time, I fear; let me send for her." There wasno reply. He knelt and took one withered hand in his. "Benoni, I pleadfor you as for her. There will come a last moment--you will relent; andthen it will be too late."

  "Send!" It was a whisper. The lips moved again; it was an address. Upona card Edward wrote hurriedly:

  "The blind musician who once played for you is dying. He has the secret of your life. If you would see your husband alive lose no minute.

  "A Friend."

  He dashed from the room and ran rapidly to a cab stand.

  "Take this," he said, "bring an answer in thirty minutes, and get 100francs. If the police interfere, say a dying man waits for his friend."

  The driver lashed his horses, and was lashing them as he faded into thedistance.

  Edward returned; he called for hot water and bathed the dying man'sfeet; he rubbed his limbs and poured brandy down his throat. He laid hiswatch upon the little table; five, ten, fifteen, twenty, five--would shenever come?

  Death had already entered; he was hovering over the doomed man.

  The door opened; a tall woman of sad but noble countenance stepped in,thrusting back her veil. Edward was kneeling by Benoni's side. Cambia'seyes were fastened upon the face of the dying man.

  Edward passed out, leaving them alone. A name escaped her.

  "Gaspard."

  Slowly, leaning upon the arm of his chair, the old man arose andlistened.

  "It was a voice from the past," he said, clearly. "Who calls GaspardLevigne?"

  "Oh, God in heaven!" she moaned, dropping to her knees. "Is it true?What do you know of Gaspard Levigne?"

  "Nothing that is good; but I am he, Marie!" The woman rushed to hisside; she touched his face and smoothed the disordered hair. She heldhis hand after he had sunk into his chair.

  "Tell me, in God's name," she said. "Tell me where are the proofs of ourmarriage? Oh, Gaspard, for my sake, for the sake of your posterity! Youare dying; do not deny me!"

  "Ah," he said, in a whisper. "I did not know--there--was--another--I didnot know. The woman--she wrote that it died!" He rose again to his feet,animated by a thought that gave him new strength. Turning his facetoward her in horror, he said:

  "It is for you that you search, then--not for me!"

  "Speak, Gaspard, my husband, for my sake, for the sake of your Marie,who loved and loves you, speak!" His lips moved. She placed her ear tothem:

  "Dear heaven," she cried in despair. "I cannot hear him! I cannot hearhim! Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard! Ah----" The appeal ended in a shriek.She was staring into his glazing eyes. Then over the man's face came achange. Peace settled there. The eyes closed and he whispered: "Freda!"

  Hearing her frantic grief, Edward rushed in and now stood looking downin deep distress upon the scene.

  "He is dead, madame," he said, simply. "Let me see you to your home."She arose, white and calm, by a mighty effort.

  "What was he to you? Who are you?" she asked.

  "He was my friend and master." He laid his hands lovingly on the eyes,closing them. "I am Edward Morgan!" Her eyes never left him. There wasno motion of her tall figure; only her hand upon the veil closed tightlyand her features twitched. They stood in silence but a moment; it wasbroken by Cambia. She had regained something of the bearing of thedramatic soprano. With a simple dignity she said:

  "Sir, you have witnessed a painful scene. On the honor of a gentlemangive me your pledge to secrecy. There are tragedies in all lives; chancehas laid bare to you the youth of Cambia." He pointed downward to wherethe still form lay between them.

  "Above the body of your husband--my friend--I swear to you that yoursecret is safe."

  "I thank you."

  She looked a moment upon the form of the sleeper, and then her eyessearched the face of the young man. "Will you leave me alone with him afew moments?" He bowed and again withdrew into the little hall.

  When he was gone she knelt above the figure a long time in prayer, andthen, looking for the last time upon the dead face, sadly withdrew. Theyoung man took her to the carriage. A policeman was guarding it.

  "The driver broke the regulation by my orders," Edward said; "he wasbringing this lady to the bedside of a dying friend. Here is enough topay his fine." He gave a few napoleons to the cabman and his card onwhich he placed his address.

  "Adieu, madame. I will arrange everything, and if you will attend thefuneral I will notify you."

  "I will attend," said Cambia; "I thank you. Adieu."