The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 72

"Yes, sir, on one condition."

"A condition? And what may that be?"

"It is that, like your father, you will call me Mamma Caraman--not Madame!"

CHAPTER LIII.

JANE ZELD'S SECRET.

Sanselme rushed from the Maison Vollard. He seemed half wild with grief and rage. Where was he going? He knew not. Jane had gone without a word of farewell, and this man, whom we have seen unmoved amid all the horrors of Toulon, now wept as he ran. Whom should he ask? Two policemen pa.s.sed, and, great as was Sanselme's terror of the police, he went up to them at once. Having by this time recovered his composure, he questioned them calmly. He was waiting for a lady, he was her intendant. As she was a foreigner, he was afraid she had gone astray.

One of the men replied, in a surly tone:

"If the lady has servants, how is it that she is out alone and on foot?"

To this natural remark Sanselme had no reply ready. He had been guilty of a great folly. He realized this now, and felt sure that he would be watched. Jane had no acquaintances in Paris. She had been out but twice, once to the charitable fete, when she sang and met with such success, and the second time was that same night.

Sanselme asked if Jane's mind could be affected. Could insanity come on thus suddenly? There was a secret in Jane's life, and he himself had seen her only a few hours before overcome with grief.

Sanselme went up and down the Champs Elysees for an hour. Suddenly he remembered that the Seine was not far off. Why had he not thought of this before? He hastened to the river side, but saw nothing to confirm his suspicions.

We will now disclose the secret tie between this man and Jane Zeld.

Fifteen years before, the convict Sanselme had witnessed a terrible scene in a cottage at Beausset, a village between Toulon and Ma.r.s.eilles.

A son had killed his mother, and then departed, carrying with him a large sum of money. Bad as was Sanselme, he shuddered at this terrible crime. He had aided in Benedetto's escape with the hope of receiving part of the money, but he repulsed the blood-stained hand that offered it.

"Be off with you or I will kill you!" he cried, and Benedetto fled. Our readers will remember how he was finally thrown up by the sea on the island of Monte-Cristo.

Sanselme remained alone with the corpse. The sun rose, and finally a ray crept over the face of the dead woman. Sanselme started. Perhaps she is not dead after all. He stooped and lifted her from the floor. Should he call for a.s.sistance? To do so was to deliver himself up as an escaped convict. And this was not all. He would be suspected of the murder. He would be led not to the galleys but to the scaffold.

"It would be useless for me to make any denial."

Still his humanity was large enough to induce him to run the risk, and he would probably have called for a.s.sistance had he not at that moment heard the sound of wheels. It was the priest returning home. Sanselme breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would have the aid he required. He would wait until the priest came up. The outer door stood wide open. It was through this door that Benedetto had fled. Sanselme heard the priest utter an exclamation of surprise, and then he went to his servant's door, and knowing her deafness knocked and called loudly to her to awake. This was Sanselme's salvation. He leaned from the window and caught a branch from the tree by which Benedetto had clambered to the upper room. This done, it was easy for Sanselme then to drop to the ground. He ran around the house instantly. He was saved. He hastily decided that Benedetto had taken the shortest road to the sea, and that he himself would try to get out of France by the eastern frontier.

We will not dwell on all he endured. But a month later, Sanselme, completely changed in appearance, entered Switzerland, going thence to Germany. Intelligent and active, he had no difficulty in obtaining employment. And Benedetto's crime seemed to have had a marvelous effect upon him. He seemed resolved upon repentance. For ten years, utilizing his acquaintance with foreign languages, Maslenes--he had taken this name--lived quietly in Munich. Not the smallest indiscretion on his part attracted the attention of the police. He was almost happy with these children about him, his pupils; but he was alone in his so-called home, and all at once a great longing came over him to see France once more.

He was well aware that it would be a great imprudence on his part to return to his native land; he might be recognized, or some chance might reveal his past.

Nevertheless, he went. Ten years had elapsed since he crossed the frontier. He went first to Lyons, not daring to attempt Paris, although he chose a large city, believing that there he would incur less risk of being recognized. He had saved some money, and thought he could teach again. He had not been six months in Lyons before he was known as the good Monsieur Maslenes, and was liked by every one. He led the most regular life that could be imagined, and no one would have suspected that this stout, placid-looking person could be an escaped convict. He fully intended to live and die thus in obscurity, and really enjoyed the torpor of this existence. In the evening he took long walks, and from motives of prudence went out but little by daylight. Alone in the darkness, he often felt intense remorse, and remorse is not a pleasing companion.

One winter's night--the snow had been falling all day--Sanselme stayed out later than usual. The cold was sharp and there was no moon. Suddenly he heard an angry discussion across the street. Coa.r.s.e voices and then a woman's tone of appeal. Sanselme did not linger, he had made it a rule never to interfere in quarrels. He feared any complication which should compromise him. But as he hurried on, he heard a wild cry for help.

"Oh! leave my child!" the woman cried. "Help! Help!"

Sanselme forgot all his prudence and ran in the direction of the cries.

He found a woman struggling with three drunken men, trying to tear from them a young girl about thirteen, simply dressed. The girl was struggling, but oddly enough she did not utter a sound.

"Don't put on these airs, Zelda," said one of the ruffians, "let the little girl have a fling too. You have had yours."

In her struggle the girl dropped a box she carried. Tulles and laces were scattered over the ground. She saw Sanselme, and then for the first time she screamed for help. Then with one blow Sanselme felled the man who held the girl. He fell stunned to the ground. The child was free, and the two remaining scoundrels turned their attention to the defender.

They were stout, strong fellows, with well-developed muscles, but they were no match for Sanselme. He hurled one against the wall and the other into the middle of the street.

"Be off with you!" said Sanselme.

"Oh! thank you, sir. But my mother, my poor mother!"

The woman had sunk upon the snow exhausted. The girl endeavored to lift her.

"Let me," said Sanselme. "Do you live far from here?"

This question, though so simple, seemed to agitate the girl. Sanselme now held her mother in his arms.

"Well! Where am I to go?"

She answered slowly:

"Two steps from there. The Rue Travehefoin."

"I don't think I know the street."

"Very possibly," stammered the girl. "I will show you the way."

She had returned the laces to the box, and then with a determined step led the way. A few feet from the Quai, where this scene had taken place, there was at this time a network of narrow, dark and wretched streets.

It was in fact regarded as the worst part of the town. Sanselme did not care for this. He was happy that he had done some good at last. The girl turned into a lane that was very dark, in spite of the street lamp burning at the further end. The girl finally stopped before a tall house, from which came shouts of laughter and singing. The door was not close shut and the girl pushed it open. A stout woman stood just within.

"Upon my word!" she cried. "Did Zelda need two hours to--"

"My mother is dying," said the child, as she held the door wide open.

Sanselme appeared, carrying the inanimate form.

"Drunk again!" cried the stout woman.

"This woman is ill," answered Sanselme, roughly, who now understood the kind of a place he was in. "Get out of my way!" he added.

"Ill! Oh! what stuff. Come on, though. I will see to this to-morrow!"

And she took down a lantern from the wall and led the way up the creaking stairs. Two or three men came out of the lower room at the same moment.

"Is that Zelda?" they shouted. "Send her here to sing for us."

But the stout woman opened a door and Sanselme laid his burden on the bed. It was a sordid room in which he found himself. On the dirty walls hung some colored prints of doubtful propriety. On one was a dark stain, as if a gla.s.s of wine had been thrown upon it.

"Let me take off the quilt," said the woman, extending her hand to remove the ragged covering on the bed.

Sanselme, filled with disgust at her cupidity, answered: