The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 46

"The man lies!" yelled the woman.

Fanfar was nearly stunned. He now had not the smallest clue to Francine.

"Bob.i.+.c.hel," he said, sadly. "Fate is against us. Come with me."

"But what am I to do with him?" asked Bob.i.+.c.hel, pointing to Robeccal, "Ah! I have it."

He seized a rope and bound Robeccal firmly, and then bundled him into a closet, which he locked and put the key into his pocket. They drove La Roulante out of the house, and locked that door also, and then hurried back to the city.

La Roulante when she was thus left hesitated a moment.

"No," she said, "if I let him out I shall have to divide the money."

And without more thought of Robeccal she too went away.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

FACE TO FACE.

The hotel of the Marquis de Fongereues was ablaze with lights. Magdalena having determined that her son's triumph should be dazzling, invitations had been sent to every one of distinction. For a long time rumors had been in circulation adverse to the Fongereues family, and the gay crowd, always ready to desert a falling house, had shown great coolness to them all. But as soon as the favors shown by the king became known at the clubs, the family were quickly reinstated in public opinion.

About nine o'clock carriages began to roll through the streets near the hotel, the doors of which were thrown wide open to welcome the coming guests, who bore the oldest and n.o.blest names of France.

Fongereues, under an air of great dignity, concealed the joy and pride that swelled his heart. Magdalena was superb in her matronly beauty and her diamonds. Talizac was excessively pale, his worn face telling the story of his excesses and the excitement of the previous night.

Francine's flight, which he believed to have been arranged by the man and woman whom he had employed as his tools, had driven him nearly mad with rage, from which he had not yet recovered.

Suddenly a murmur of admiration ran around the room. Mademoiselle de Salves had just come in. Her mother had with difficulty risen from her sick bed to witness the triumph of her child.

Irene was certainly very beautiful, and her toilette was characterized by exquisite simplicity. But her face was sad, and the brilliancy of her eyes was due to fever. Why had she come? Why had she not resisted the wishes of her mother? A great change had come over the girl. All her former energy and innumerable caprices had given way to a charming timidity. She was all the time conscious that she concealed a secret in her heart, and that since a certain memorable day she thought of but one person. Her vanity, her patrician pride, all revolted against this truth. The name she repeated over and over again, was that of Fanfar.

Whenever she closed her eyes she saw him, haughty and courageous, risking his life to save that of his adopted father. She heard his rich voice and the words he uttered:

"Make yourself beloved."

She struggled with all her power against this infatuation, and had come to Paris. There she saw him again, no longer in his theatrical costume, but dressed like the young men she met in society. He had saved her from being killed by the heavy timber. He had held her a minute in his arms, and she had felt his heart beat against her own. A hundred times since then she had seen him ride past the house, and over and over again she knew that he had thrown flowers over the wall. With trembling joy she had carried these flowers to the privacy of her own rooms. She questioned them, but they were mute and kept the secret that Fanfar had undoubtedly confided to them.

Who was this Fanfar? Irene's imagination ran riot. She heard him called a conspirator whom the police watched. He belonged to the party who aimed at the overthrowal of the royal power. How did one so lowly venture to menace one so high? Irene meditated and studied; her youthful mind awoke to great truths, and she realized that men like Fanfar were working for a great cause, and her soul was filled with n.o.ble wrath against those persons who were ruining and dishonoring France. How solitary she felt herself! How ignorant! How she longed to interrogate Fanfar on these great subjects. But she well knew that this was an impossible dream. He was far away from her, and love had made her timid.

She ceased to struggle, but all the time asked herself why he did not come to save her from the fate hourly drawing nearer. She knew that her mother had promised her hand to the Vicomte de Talizac, and she knew that if she made any resistance it would break her mother's heart; but as the hour drew near when her sacrifice was to be consummated, Irene felt herself very weak.

She entered the Fongereues salon in a state of suppressed excitement, very pale but very beautiful. The Marquis met her and drew her arm through his. This marriage was his salvation. He, too, thought of Fanfar with a certain pity, for he knew that this mountebank, as he scornfully called him, was the only man who had the right to call himself the Marquis de Fongereues.

Irene's arrival was the signal for the opening of the ball. The orchestra began to play a waltz. Then came a sudden silence. A magnificent person entered, an officer of the Royal Guard, in his white and gold uniform. He was received by the Marquis de Fongereues.

"Marquis," he said, "I come in the name of the king."

Every one listened with bated breath. Fongereues was radiant.

"Desirous of recompensing services rendered to the holy cause of monarchy, His Majesty has condescended to lend a favorable ear to certain applications, and, Monsieur, I am the bearer of the commission which confers on your son the rank of lieutenant in the King's Guards."

Magdalena laid her hand on Frederic's shoulder.

"Talizac," she said, "remember that your life and the lives of the Fongereues belong to the king."

Talizac bowed low, and as he turned he gave Irene a look of triumph.

She, poor girl, knew that her fate was sealed.

"How happy you will be!" whispered her mother, tenderly.

"Happy!" repeated Irene, drearily.

But this was not all. The Royal Envoy had not completed his mission. La Vicomte de Talizac was made a Chevalier de Saint-Louis.

"_Vive le Roi!_" cried the women, gayly.

Monsieur de Montferrand turned to his son Arthur. "You see, sir," he said, in a severe tone, "how our King, a worthy son of Henri IV., rewards those whom he finds worthy of his protection."

Arthur de Montferrand had, in obedience to his father's wishes, accompanied him to this entertainment. The two young men exchanged a few words of feigned cordiality, but Arthur felt the most profound contempt for the Vicomte; while the image of Francine in the power of those scoundrels haunted him perpetually.

Fernando did not make his appearance, and Arthur dared not talk to any one else of this miserable affair in which he had been engaged. He listened with a shudder to the congratulations and compliments showered upon the Vicomte, who finally had the audacity to go up to Arthur and demand his felicitations.

Arthur started, and said low in his ear, "I will congratulate you, sir, when the mark upon your cheek, which I imprinted there, is no longer to be seen."

Talizac uttered an exclamation, but Monsieur de Montferrand, suspecting what was going on, stepped forward.

"Arthur," he said sternly, "apologize to the Vicomte for your rash words, or leave this house!"

Arthur looked reproachfully at his father, and moved toward the door. At the same moment a great tumult was heard in the hall.

"What can it be?" said De Fongereues, nervously.

A door was flung open, servants were thrust aside, and a man bearing the inanimate form of a young girl, entered the ball-room.

"Fanfar!" cried Arthur de Montferrand. It was, indeed, Fanfar.

Standing in the centre of the ball-room, for no man ventured to oppose his progress, he addressed himself to the crowd.

"Gentlemen," he said, "behold the body of the unhappy girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac has murdered!"

There was a moment of silence, then the women screamed and fled, while the men turned pale and looked at each other.

Talizac caught at the mantel for support. Fongereues had heard Arthur utter the name of Fanfar, and shuddered at the ill-omen.

From Francine's drenched garments water was dripping upon the floor, and the pale face rested on Fanfar's shoulder.

The Marquis hastened forward. "Who is this man? What is he doing here?"