The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 75

Sanselme had saved several thousand francs. What should he do with Jane?

He had left Lyons, hoping that a change of scene would go far toward restoring cheerfulness to Jane. Vain hope. She never forgot her mother, nor that mother's life. She learned with marvelous rapidity. Study was her best distraction. From this Sanselme hoped much. He taught her himself all that he had formerly learned, and wondered at the progress she made.

The merest accident revealed to him Jane's amazing talent for music. If Art should take hold of her and absorb her entirely, she would forget and enter a new life.

She studied music thoroughly, and Sanselme took care, living as they were, in Germany at that time, that she should constantly hear good music.

Her memory was prodigious, her voice exceptionally true, her taste perfect. Sanselme felt that here was safety for him.

At the end of a few years Jane, now become a great artist, went with her benefactor to Paris.

Their position toward each other was in no degree modified. He was very respectful in his manner, and always kept a certain distance between them. He did not wish her to know anything more about herself than that she was the daughter of the wretched Zelda.

By degrees the recollection of Lyons seemed to fall from the mind of Jane. Never was there the most distant allusion ever made to her mother, and the girl never spoke of her.

This silence astonished Sanselme, and troubled him as well. He had studied Jane so closely that he thoroughly understood her character, her goodness, unselfishness and pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude. He knew that she had not forgotten her mother, and would never do so, and that the reason she never mentioned her was because her pain and shame were quite as acute as ever. Jane's character was a singular mixture of audacity and timidity. It was her own proposition that she should offer her services at the concert, and when Sanselme proposed that she should go to Sabrau's, the artist, she had not hesitated in doing so.

She sought to distract her mind, for she was haunted by a spectre. She had a ghastly fear that she might be tempted to lead the life her mother had led.

The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected, honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged.

Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.

It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at the artist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. If she would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured--but hitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.

That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre of his past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible that Benedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence.

When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered the rage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.

A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak his vengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain he had given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then he hurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte to him? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?

When the fire caught Jane's robe, he had been a witness of the energetic promptness shown by the young man, and then he said to himself that he was glad he gave the warning. And when they returned home that night, Sanselme had never been in better spirits; it seemed to him that a great Future was unfolding before him. To his surprise he found Jane weeping. For the first time she had spoken angrily, but Sanselme would have forgiven her if she had struck him.

He saw that memory still haunted her, that there was no peace or rest for her. He wanted her to travel, but the money, where was he to get money? And it was while tortured by these thoughts that Benedetto appeared to him.

And this was not all. Benedetto knew his secret, and now, as if all this were not enough, Jane herself had vanished. It was more than human energy could support.

While Sanselme stood on the bridge absorbed in these wretched thoughts, he heard a quick, running step. His well-trained ear could not be deceived. It was a woman's step--if it were she? He started forward. It was dark, and he could see nothing, and the steps were dying away. He ran on toward the _Pont de Jena_, and presently he heard the steps again, and before him on the bridge was a dark shadow. Was it Jane?

He called, "Jane, my child!"

Then he saw the shadow spring to the parapet, and something black pa.s.sed between him and the sky--the splash of water, and all was still.

"Too late!" cried Sanselme, "but I will save her." And he in his turn leaped into the water. He was a vigorous swimmer, as will be remembered by our readers.

When he rose to the surface after his plunge, he looked around, and at some distance beheld a dark spot. He swam toward it and seized the woman's arm. She was just sinking. And now this man was so overwhelmed with emotion, that the blood rushed to his brain and his limbs were almost paralyzed. Fortunately the sh.o.r.e was not far away, but the woman clung convulsively to him.

He called for aid, but all was silent and dark. He knew that he was sinking, and that the end was near. Suddenly a voice shouted:

"Courage! we are coming." And two men appeared swimming vigorously.

"I have one, Bob.i.+.c.hel!"

"And I have another, Monsieur Fanfar."

With their burthens our old friends reached the sh.o.r.e.

"G.o.d grant that it is not too late!" said Fanfar, kneeling by the side of the two inanimate forms. "What had we best do?"

"Take them up on our shoulders, sir, and carry them along. Fortunately, the house is not far off."

And Bob.i.+.c.hel threw Sanselme over his shoulder as easily as if he had been a bag of meal, while Fanfar took the woman. They stopped at a small house not far from the Quai; every blind was closed; Fanfar uttered a peculiar cry.

"Is that you?" asked a woman's voice.

"Myself," answered Fanfar.

The door opened, and presently the two bodies were laid on the floor.

Fanfar took a lamp and looked at them.

"I saw this man at the door where we stood to-night," said Bob.i.+.c.hel.

"Yes, I saw him, too," answered Fanfar. "But who can this woman be?"

She was an old woman, with white hair.

"We must all go to work. Madame Fanfar, we want your help; hot linen and flannels, if you please!"

CHAPTER LIV.

CARMEN.

Very stately and magnificent were the offices of the _Banque de Credit Imperial_. The prospectus made one's mouth water. It was a magnificent conception of the Emperor's. To interest small capitalists would naturally result in great popularity.

Napoleon III. always felt a great interest in the money of other people, and also, to use a vulgar expression, liked to have his hand in everybody's pie.

The governor elected was Monsieur de Laisangy, who was looked upon as a marvelous financier. Although an old man, his activity was immense, both of mind and body.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning. In an exquisite room, where each detail was in the best of taste and very rich, Carmen, in a peignoir trimmed with lace, was half lying on a couch. Her beautiful hair was loosely tied, and fell over her shoulders in a golden cascade.

She was a beautiful creature, and yet there was a certain refinement lacking. Her hands, though white, were not delicately made, and her foot, in its rose-colored slipper, was not as slender as those of Parisian women. She seemed to be wrapped in thought. Finally, as if weary of arguing with herself, she extended her hand and rang the bell.

A pretty maid servant entered.

"What o'clock is it?"