Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

which I shall carefully look after) she is likely to remain.

  "I have made a memorandum of the date at which her promissory note falls

  due--viz., the 31st December in the present year. The note being made

  payable at Wurzburg, you must take care (in the event of its not being

  honored) to have the document protested in that town, and to communicate

  with me by the same day's post. I will myself see that the law takes its

  regular course.

  "Permit me most gratefully to thank you for the advance on my regular

  fees which you have so graciously transmitted, and believe me your

  obedient humble servant to command."

  II

  I next submit a copy of a letter addressed by the late

  Chemistry-Professor Fontaine to an honored friend and colleague. This

  gentleman is still living; and he makes it a condition of supplying the

  copy that his name shall not appear:--

  "Illustrious Friend and Colleague,--You will be surprised at so soon

  hearing from me again. The truth is, that I have some interesting news

  for you. An alarming accident has enabled me to test the value of one of

  my preparations on a living human subject--that subject being a man.

  "My last letter informed you that I had resolved on making no further use

  of the Formula for recomposing some of the Borgia Poisons (erroneously

  supposed to be destroyed) left to me on the death of my lamented

  Hungarian friend--my master in chemical science.

  "The motives which have led me to this decision are, I hope, beyond the

  reach of blame.

  "You will remember agreeing with me, that the two specimens of these

  resuscitated poisons which I have succeeded in producing are

  capable--like the poisons already known to modern medical practice--of

  rendering the utmost benefit in certain cases of disease, if they are

  administered in carefully regulated doses. Should I live to devote them

  to this good purpose, there will still be the danger (common to all

  poisonous preparations employed in medicine) of their doing fatal

  mischief, when misused by ignorance or crime.

  "Bearing this in mind, I conceive it to be my duty to provide against

  dangerous results, by devoting myself to the discovery of efficient

  antidotes, before I adapt the preparations themselves to the capacities

  of the healing art. I have had some previous experience in this branch of

  what I call preservative chemistry, and I have already in some degree

  succeeded in attaining my object.

  "The Formula in cipher which I now send to you, on the slip of paper

  enclosed, is an antidote to that one of the two poisons known to you and

  to me by the fanciful name which you suggested for it--'Alexander's

  Wine.'

  "With regard to the second of the poisons, which (if you remember) I have

  entitled--in anticipation of its employment as medicine--'The

  Looking-Glass Drops,' I regret to say that I have not yet succeeded in

  discovering the antidote in this case.

  "Having now sufficiently explained my present position, I may tell you of

  the extraordinary accident to which I have alluded at the beginning of my

  letter.

  "About a fortnight since, I was sent for, just as I had finished my

  lecture to the students, to see one of my servants. He had been suffering

  from illness for one or two days. I had of course offered him my medical

  services. He refused, however, to trouble me; sending word that he only

  wanted rest. Fortunately one of my assistants happened to see him, and at

  once felt the necessity of calling in my help.

  "The man was a poor half-witted friendless creature, whom I had employed

  out of pure pity to keep my laboratory clean, and to wash and dry my

  bottles. He had sense enough to perform such small services as these, and

  no more. Judge of my horror when I went to his bedside, and instantly

  recognized the symptoms of poisoning by "Alexander's Wine!"

  "I ran back to my laboratory, and unlocked the medicine-chest which held

  the antidote. In the next compartment, the poison itself was always

  placed. Looking into the compartment now, I found it empty.

  "I at once instituted a search, and discovered the bottle left out on a

  shelf. For the first time in my life, I had been guilty of inexcusable

  carelessness. I had not looked round me to see that I had left everything

  safe before quitting the room. The poor imbecile wretch had been

  attracted by the color of "Alexander's Wine," and had tasted it (in his

  own phrase) "to see if it was nice." My inquiries informed me that this

  had happened at least thirty--six hours since! I had but one hope of

  saving him--derived from experiments on animals, which had shown me the

  very gradual progress of the deadly action of the poison.

  "What I felt when I returned to the suffering man, I shall not attempt to

  describe. You will understand how completely I was overwhelmed, when I

  tell you that I meanly concealed my own disgraceful thoughtlessness from

  my brethren in the University. I was afraid that my experiments might be

  prohibited as dangerous, and my want of common prudence be made the

  subject of public reprimand by the authorities. The medical professors

  were permitted by me to conclude that it was a case of illness entirely

  new in their experience.

  "In administering the antidote, I had no previous experiments to guide

  me, except my experiments with rabbits and dogs. Whether I miscalculated

  or whether I was deluded by my anxiety to save the man's life, I cannot

  say. This at least is certain, I gave the doses too copiously and at too

  short intervals.

  "The patient recovered--but it was after sustaining some incomprehensibly

  deteriorating change in the blood, which destroyed his complexion, and

  turned his hair gray. I have since modified the doses; and in dread of

  losing the memorandum, I have attached a piece of notched paper to the

  bottle, so as to render any future error of judgment impossible. At the

  same time, I have facilitated the future administration of the antidote

  by adding a label to the bottle, stating the exact quantity of the poison

  taken by my servant, as calculated by myself.

  "I ought, by the way, to have mentioned in the cipher that experience has

  shown me the necessity, if the antidote is to be preserved for any length

  of time, of protecting it in blue glass from the influence of light.

  "Let me also tell you that I found a vegetable diet of use in perfecting

  the effect of the treatment. That mean dread of discovery, which I have

  already acknowledged, induced me to avail myself of my wife's help in

  nursing the man. When he began to talk of what had happened to him, I

  could trust Madame Fontaine to keep the secret. When he was well enough

  to get up, the poor harmless creature disappeared. He was probably

  terrified at the prospect of entering the laboratory again. In any case,

  I have never seen him or heard of him since.

  "If you have had patience to read as far as this, you will understand

  that I am not sure enough yet of my own discoveries to risk communicating

  them to any other person than yourself. Favor me with any chemical

  sugge
stions which may strike you--and then, in case of accidents, destroy

  the cipher. For the present farewell."

  _Note to Doctor Fontaine's Letter_

  "Alexander's Wine" refers to the infamous Roderic Borgia, historically

  celebrated as Pope Alexander the Sixth. He was accidentally, and most

  deservedly, killed by drinking one of the Borgia poisons, in a bowl of

  wine which he had prepared for another person.

  The formula for "The Looking-Glass Drops" is supposed to have been found

  hidden on removing the wooden lining at the back of a looking-glass,

  which had been used by Lucrezia Borgia. Hence the name.

  III

  The third and last letter which I present is written by me, and was

  addressed to Mrs. Wagner during her stay at Frankfort:--

  "I exaggerate nothing, my dear aunt, when I say that I write in great

  distress. Let me beg you to prepare yourself for very sad news.

  "It was late yesterday evening before I arrived at Bingen. A servant was

  waiting to take my portmanteau, when I got out of the coach. After first

  asking my name, he communicated to me the melancholy tidings of dear Mr.

  Engelman's death. He had sunk under a fit of apoplexy, at an early hour

  that morning.

  "Medical help was close at hand, and was (so far as I can hear) carefully

  and intelligently exercised. But he never rallied in the least. The fit

  appears to have killed him, as a bullet might have killed him.

  "He had been very dull and heavy on the previous day. In the few words

  that he spoke before retiring to rest, my name was on his lips. He said,

  "If I get better I should like to have David here, and to go on with him

  to our house of business in London." He was very much flushed, and

  complained of feeling giddy; but he would not allow the doctor to be sent

  for. His brother assisted him to ascend the stairs to his room, and asked

  him some questions about his affairs. He replied impatiently, 'Keller

  knows all about it--leave it to Keller.'

  "When I think of the good old man's benevolent and happy life, and when I

  remember that it was accidentally through me that he first met Madame

  Fontaine, I feel a bitterness of spirit which makes my sense of the loss

  of him more painful than I can describe. I call to mind a hundred little

  instances of his kindness to me--and (don't be offended) I wish you had

  sent some other person than myself to represent you at Frankfort.

  "He is to be buried here, in two days' time. I hope you will not consider

  me negligent of your interest in accepting his brother's invitation to

  follow him to the grave. I think it will put me in a better frame of

  mind, if I can pay the last tribute of affection and respect to my old

  friend. When all is over, I will continue the journey to London, without

  stopping on the road night or day.

  "Write to me at London, dear aunt; and give my love to Minna and

  Fritz--and ask them to write to me also. I beg my best respects to Mr.

  Keller. Please assure him of my true sympathy; I know, poor man, how

  deeply he will be grieved."

  PART II

  MR. DAVID GLENNEY COLLECTS HIS MATERIALS AND CONTINUES THE STORY

  HISTORICALLY

  CHAPTER I

  In the preceding portion of this narrative I spoke as an eye-witness. In

  the present part of it, my absence from Frankfort leaves me dependent on

  the documentary evidence of other persons. This evidence consists (first)

  of letters addressed to myself; (secondly) of statements personally made

  to me; (thirdly) of extracts from a diary discovered after the lifetime

  of the writer. In all three cases the materials thus placed at my

  disposal bear proof of truthfulness on the face of them.

  Early in the month of December, Mr. Keller sent a message to Madame

  Fontaine, requesting to see her on a matter of importance to both of

  them.

  "I hope you feel better to-day, madam," he said, rising to receive the

  widow when she entered the room.

  "You are very good, sir," she answered, in tones barely audible--with her

  eyes on the ground. "I can't say that I feel much better."

  "I have news for you, which ought to act as the best of all

  restoratives," Mr. Keller proceeded. "At last I have heard from my sister

  on the subject of the marriage."

  He stopped, and, suddenly stepping forward, caught the widow by the arm.

  At his last words she had started to her feet. Her face suddenly turned

  from pale to red--and then changed again to a ghastly whiteness. She

  would have fallen if Mr. Keller had not held her up. He placed her at

  once in his own easy chair. "You must really have medical advice," he

  said gravely; "your nerves are seriously out of order. Can I get you

  anything?"

  "A glass of water, sir, if you will be so kind as to ring for it."

  "There is no need to ring for it; I have water in the next room."

  She laid her hand on his arm, and stopped him as he was about to leave

  her.

  "One word first, sir. You will forgive a woman's curiosity on such an

  interesting subject as the marriage of her child. Does your sister

  propose a day for the wedding?"

  "My sister suggests," Mr. Keller answered, "the thirtieth of this month."

  He left her and opened the door of the next room.

  As he disappeared, she rapidly followed out a series of calculations on

  her fingers. Her eyes brightened, her energies rallied. "No matter what

  happens so long as my girl is married first," she whispered to herself.

  "The wedding on the thirtieth, and the money due on the thirty-first.

  Saved by a day! Saved by a day!"

  Mr. Keller returned with a glass of water. He started as he looked at

  her.

  "You seem to have recovered already--you look quite a different woman!"

  he exclaimed.

  She drank the water nevertheless. "My unlucky nerves play me strange

  tricks, sir," she answered, as she set the empty glass down on a table at

  her side.

  Mr. Keller took a chair and referred to his letter from Munich.

  "My sister hopes to be with us some days before the end of the year," he

  resumed. "But in her uncertain state of health, she suggests the

  thirtieth so as to leave a margin in case of unexpected delays. I presume

  this will afford plenty of time (I speak ignorantly of such things) for

  providing the bride's outfit?"

  Madame Fontaine smiled sadly. "Far more time than we want, sir. My poor

  little purse will leave my girl to rely on her natural attractions--with

  small help from the jeweler and the milliner, on her wedding day."

  Mr. Keller referred to his letter again, and looked up from it with a

  grim smile.

  "My sister will in one respect at least anticipate the assistance of the

  jeweler," he said. "She proposes to bring with her, as a present to the

  bride, an heirloom on the female side of our family. It is a pearl

  necklace (of very great value, I am told) presented to my mother by the

  Empress Maria Theresa--in recognition of services rendered to that

  illustrious person early in life. As an expression of my sister's

  interest in the marriage, I thought an announcement of the proposed gift

&nbs
p; might prove gratifying to you."

  Madame Fontaine clasped her hands, with a fervor of feeling which was in

  this case, at least, perfectly sincere. A pearl necklace, the gift of an

  Empress, would represent in money value a little fortune in itself. "I

  can find no words to express my sense of gratitude," she said; "my

  daughter must speak for herself and for me."

  "And your daughter must hear the good news as soon as possible," Mr.

  Keller added kindly. "I won't detain you. I know you must be anxious to

  see Minna. One word before you go. You will, of course, invite any

  relatives and friends whom you would like to see at the wedding."

  Madame Fontaine lifted her sleepy eyes by slow gradations to the ceiling,

  and devoutly resigned herself to mention her family circumstances.

  "My parents cast me off, sir, when I married," she said; "my other

  relatives here and in Brussels refused to assist me when I stood in need

  of help. As for friends--you, dear Mr. Keller, are our only friend. Thank

  you again and again."

  She lowered her eyes softly to the floor, and glided out of the room. The

  back view of her figure was its best view. Even Mr.

  Keller--constitutionally inaccessible to exhibitions of female

  grace--followed her with his eyes, and perceived that his housekeeper was

  beautifully made.

  On the stairs she met with the housemaid.

  "Where is Miss Minna?" she asked impatiently. "In her room?"

  "In your room, madam. I saw Miss Minna go in as I passed the door."

  Madame Fontaine hurried up the next flight of stairs, and ran along the

  corridor as lightly as a young girl. The door of her room was ajar; she

  saw her daughter through the opening sitting on the sofa, with some work

  lying idle on her lap. Minna started up when her mother appeared.

  "Am I in the way, mamma? I am so stupid, I can't get on with this

  embroidery----"

  Madame Fontaine tossed the embroidery to the other end of the room, threw

  her arms round Minna, and lifted her joyously from the floor as if she

  had been a little child.

  "The day is fixed, my angel!" she cried; "You are to be married on the

  thirtieth!"

  She shifted one hand to her daughter's head, and clasped it with a fierce

  fondness to her bosom. "Oh, my darling, you had lovely hair even when you

  were a baby! We won't have it dressed at your wedding. It shall flow down

  naturally in all its beauty--and no hand shall brush it but mine." She

  pressed her lips on Minna's head, and devoured it with kisses; then,

  driven by some irresistible impulse, pushed the girl away from her, and

  threw herself on the sofa with a cry of pain.

  "Why did you start up, as if you were afraid of me, when I came in?" she

  said wildly. "Why did you ask if you were in the way? Oh, Minna! Minna!

  can't you forget the day when I locked you out of my room? My child! I

  was beside myself--I was mad with my troubles. Do you think I would

  behave harshly to you? Oh, my own love! when I came to tell you of your

  marriage, why did you ask me if you were in the way? My God! am I never

  to know a moment's pleasure again without something to embitter it?

  People say you take after your father, Minna. Are you as cold-blooded as

  he was? There! there! I don't mean it; I am a little hysterical, I

  think--don't notice me. Come and be a child again. Sit on my knee, and

  let us talk of your marriage."

  Minna put her arm round her mother's neck a little nervously. "Dear,

  sweet mamma, how can you think me so hard-hearted and so ungrateful? I

  can't tell you how I love you! Let this tell you."

  With a tender and charming grace, she kissed her mother--then drew back a

  little and looked at Madame Fontaine. The subsiding conflict of emotions