Chapter Fourteen.
At the Chateau Paoli.
“To-day is Wednesday,” commenced the count. “On Sunday evening last, just as it was growing dusk, I was informed that Bell’ Demonio requested an audience on a matter of great import. I accordingly descended to the library, into which this extraordinary woman had been shown, and on inquiring the nature of her business she informed me that on the previous Wednesday—a week ago to-day, in fact—a detachment of her band had attacked and destroyed a party of French troops, who had with them as prisoner a young Englishman—yourself of course. She stated that in the attack you had unfortunately been wounded, and your wound having been left unattended to for some hours, fever had set in. She nursed you as well as she could up to Sunday, when finding that no improvement in your condition took place, she grew alarmed, and having learned from your disjointed ravings that you had some business with me, determined to come on to the chateau and request that I would take you under my care. I of course assented at once, and in a couple of hours more you were brought here, strapped to a stretcher—that being the only way in which you could be kept sufficiently quiescent to prevent irreparable injury to your wounded arm.
“Circumstances did not permit of my sending into Ajaccio for a physician, but most fortunately my daughter’s old nurse Maria is well skilled in matters relating to medicine and surgery, and her services were at once called into requisition. She soon discovered that the unskilful treatment of your wound was the chief cause of your illness, and with infinite difficulty, for you were very violent, we succeeded in getting the limb reset, and the wound properly attended to. This done, the fever soon yielded to the influence of the medicines which the good soul administered with rigorous punctuality. In the meantime, however, you spoke several times about certain papers concerning which you seemed to be singularly anxious, and at length by patiently listening to your rambling utterances we were enabled to make a shrewd guess as to their whereabouts. I set out in search of them, and discovered your bag, with the papers intact, safely concealed beneath a pile of brushwood in the corner of the old hut on the moor.”
“Then I have been ill a whole week?” I exclaimed in considerable dismay.
“Exactly so,” replied the count. “How long did you imagine your illness had lasted?”
“About two days,” I replied.
“Well, it is just a week,” remarked the count. “I hope you are not in any very serious hurry to leave us. In the first place I doubt whether Maria will consent to your rising from your bed for at least another week, and after that you will be some time regaining a sufficiency of strength to enable you to travel, and in the next place I am anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of one who has done so great a service to us Corsicans.”
“You are extremely kind, count,” said I, “and under other circumstances there is nothing I should like better than to remain your guest as long as I could find a decent excuse for so doing; but my ship, the ‘Juno,’ has gone to the north end of the island, where we all expect there will be some very smart work shortly, and I would not miss being with her for anything I could name.”
“Ha, ha! not very complimentary to us, eh, Francesca?” laughed my host. “This young fire-eating English sailor-officer would rather be where his brains would be ever in jeopardy than enjoying the dolce far niente up here among the hills. What very pugnacious animals you Englishmen are, to be sure!
“But do not fear, my dear boy, nothing will be done there yet for a little while, and, if you lake great care of yourself, it is quite possible you may yet be able to rejoin the ‘Juno’ in time to get your full share of the hard knocks to be had there, and which will doubtless be plentiful enough to suit even the most impetuous of your countrymen.”
“Which do you think will be my quickest way to rejoin my ship, when I am able to do so—by land, or by water?” I inquired.
“By water, I should say, certainly,” replied the count. “The entire island is in a perfect ferment, and you would find travelling by land a slow and wearisome as well as a highly dangerous process. We are perfectly quiet here, it is true, our situation being an isolated one, and in the very heart of the hills; but in and about all the towns the French troops literally swarm, while the woods and more secluded villages are haunted either by bands of Corsican insurgents or banditti, both of which would be likely to regard a stranger with as much suspicion as the French; and although you might be able to travel for a few miles to the northward from here in comparative safety, you would find your difficulties increase with every additional mile of your advance. And it is only fair to mention that I cannot assure you of absolute safety even here. I have reason to believe that I am very strongly suspected by the French of being favourable to the insurrectionary movement now in progress—as indeed I may admit to you that I am, my brother being in command of the insurgents—and I feel sure that, could a particle of direct evidence be secured against me, my arrest would instantly be attempted. This I should stoutly resist in the present condition of affairs, as my life would not be worth a moment’s purchase were I to fall into the hands of the enemy; but it is very doubtful whether the chateau could hold out beyond an hour or two against a determined attack, every man I could possibly spare being away with my brother.”
“Would not your own countrymen help you in such a case?” I inquired.
“There is no help available, except that of the banditti,” replied the count, “and, with the single exception of Bell’ Demonio’s band, I would almost as soon throw open my gates to the French as to them. If Bell’ were at hand at such a time, we should be perfectly safe, but one can never tell where she is to be found; her movements are as uncertain as those of the wind, and it is quite probable that she is now at the north end of the island, co-operating with my brother.”
“Who is this Bell’ Demonio?” I inquired. “Is it possible she can be the beautiful woman I saw in the camp to which I was taken after being wounded, and where I fell ill?”
“The same,” answered the count. “She is the leader of the band into whose hands you fell. Poor soul! her story is a very extraordinary as well as a very terrible one; the mere mention of her name is sufficient to excite a Corsican to frenzy at the remembrance of her wrongs.
“Six months ago Isabel di Solzi was one of the happiest girls in all Corsica. Her father, Count Robert di Solzi, a descendant of the most ancient and most distinguished family of all the Corsican nobility, idolised her, and gratified her every whim, no matter how extravagant it might be, and she ruled the chateau as its absolute queen.
“Her lover, as handsome and gallant a young fellow as maiden could wish, doted upon her, as a matter of course, and she returned his love with all the passion of her fiery and enthusiastic nature, and the prospect before her seemed to be one of almost perfect human happiness.
“Her father, fond as he was of her, and reluctant as he was to part with his only daughter, nevertheless viewed the match with unqualified favour; the proposals had been formally made and accepted; the preliminaries were all arranged, and the marriage was fixed for a certain day.
“Time passed on, slowly enough, we may be sure, to the impassioned lovers, and at length the day arrived on the morrow of which the wedding was to take place. Isabel’s lover rode out early to the chateau, ostensibly for the purpose of concluding the last trifling arrangements connected with the ceremony, but doubtless it was in reality to enjoy one more interview with his inamorata before the performance of those holy rites which were to make her his for ever. The Count di Solzi was absent when he arrived, and the young couple, anticipating no evil, wandered away from the chateau, and at length in their preoccupation entered a wood through which runs the road from Ajaccio across to the eastern side of the island. They sauntered along this road for a considerable distance, when they heard the tramp of a party of soldiers behind them, and looking back found themselves in the presence of a detachment of French infantry.
“There was a great deal of ill-feeling existing even then between the Corsicans and the French, though it was not of course anything like what it is at present; hostilities had not as yet broken out; the flame which is so fiercely raging to-day throughout the island being then no more than a smouldering spark.
“Still, the rencontre was disagreeable, and to shorten it as much as possible Isabel and her lover turned back with the intention of passing the French in the opposite direction. But by the time that they had resolved on this, the French were upon them, and instead of courteously permitting them to pass, the officer in command ordered them to halt and give an account of themselves.
“They had of course no option but to obey, which they did. The French officer, however, either doubted, or affected to doubt, their story, and announced his intention of taking them both as prisoners into Ajaccio.
“Isabel’s lover remonstrated, entreated, and threatened by turns, in vain; and at length the officers, turning from him, began to assail the trembling Isabel with jests of the coarsest kind. This was more than the hot Corsican blood could endure, and suddenly breaking from his guard, the frantic lover rushed upon the commanding officer, who seemed to be the chief offender, and with a single blow struck him senseless to the ground. The next moment he would have been impaled upon the bayonets of the soldiery, had the other officers not interfered; they knew their chief, and knew too that they would never be forgiven, did they not preserve their victim for a punishment to be inflicted by himself.
“A halt was immediately called, they being at the time in perhaps the most lonely part of the road. A strong guard was placed over the prisoners, the rest of the men piling their arms, and vigorous efforts were at once proceeded with for the restoration of the injured officer.
“The injury being slight, they were soon successful, and a mock drum-head court-martial was then instituted, by which the male prisoner was tried and convicted; sentence was passed, and the ruffianly band at once proceeded jeeringly to carry it into execution. The unhappy lover was stripped and firmly bound to a tree; the shrieking Isabel was then dragged before him, and in her presence he was scourged to death with the soldiers’ belts. The miserable girl was then released, the troops shouldered their arms and marched merrily away, safely reaching in due time their barracks in Ajaccio.
“Meanwhile the day passed on; Count Robert returned to the chateau, and as was his custom at once sought his daughter. Failing to find her, he made inquiry among the servants, and then learned that the lovers had left the domain some hours before. This intelligence made the count somewhat uneasy, and remounting his horse, he set out in quest of the truants upon the road which he learned they had taken. He penetrated the forest for some distance, and at length was startled by hearing shrill screams of maniacal laughter.
“Imagine if you can his horror and distress, when, on reaching the spot from which the sounds proceeded, he discovered his daughter seated upon the ground, with her dead lover’s head upon her lap, uttering peal after peal of blood-curdling laughter, as she strove to bind up the bruised and lacerated body in strips of linen torn from her own clothing.
“On approaching her, the poor girl appeared to recognise her father in a confused sort of way, and with a little difficulty he at length persuaded her to allow him to lay the murdered man across the horse’s back, and to accompany him home.
“It was of course patent to the distracted count that a fiendish atrocity of some sort had been committed, but it was quite impossible to gather any particulars or even the most meagre hint from the poor demented girl by his side; he therefore made the best of his way back to the chateau, whence immediately upon his arrival he despatched a couple of mounted servants—one of whom had charge of a note conveying a hint of the catastrophe to the friends of the murdered man, while the other had instructions to find and bring back with him to the chateau the first medical man in Ajaccio. By nightfall the chateau was full of self-invited guests, attracted thither by the rumours which had reached their ears concerning the events of the day, and all sorts of surmises and suggestions were made as to the probable perpetrators of the outrage. The doctor, too, as well as the friends of the murdered man, was there, and the former had on seeing his patient lost no time in administering a powerful opiate with the object of procuring for the unfortunate Isabel a temporary relief from the unnatural excitement of her overtaxed brain.
“When at length the drug had done its work, and the poor girl lay stretched upon her bed in a state of unconsciousness, a general consultation was held, at which it was resolved to spare no pains to discover and punish the authors of so atrocious a crime, and with this understanding the visitors on the following morning departed on their several ways.
“For days the efforts put forth to discover the offenders resulted in a complete failure, and in the meantime poor Isabel lay tossing restlessly with brain-fever. At length one night an intoxicated French soldier blurted out the secret in the hearing of every one of the occupants of the tavern, and a little judicious questioning, mingled with occasional expressions of incredulity, extracted from the fellow the full details of the crime. These were promptly communicated to Count di Solzi, who immediately called upon the officer who had been named as the chief culprit, and taxed him with it.
“The wretch scornfully admitted his share in the outrage, and scoffed at the agonising grief of the poor old man. A challenge followed, as a matter of course, and a meeting was arranged for the following morning; but when that morning dawned, the French officer was found dead in bed, stabbed to the heart. The count was immediately arrested on suspicion of being the assassin, and though all the neighbouring nobility knew the charge to be as monstrous and ill-founded as ever was brought against mortal man, and did all that lay in our power to have the matter properly investigated—and though soon after his arrest one of his own servants came voluntarily forward and confessed that it was he, and not his master, who had done the deed—poor Isabel’s father was summarily tried, sentenced, and hanged over the gate of his own chateau.
“This act of base and cruel injustice, coupled with the previous outrage, caused the smouldering spark of discontent and disaffection to blaze forth at once into a devastating insurrectionary flame.
“The most ruthless reprisals were forthwith resorted to on both sides; assassination, secret and open, became the order of the day; the Corsicans flew to arms, and the struggle commenced which is now being waged, and which can never end until the hated French have been extirpated from off the face of the island.”
“And how fared the unhappy Isabel meanwhile?” I inquired.
“She was on her father’s arrest brought here at the imminent risk of her life,” replied the count, “and while she still lay delirious, her father’s execution took place; the chateau was then sacked, and when the soldiers had loaded themselves with every article of value which it was possible for them to take away, they set fire to the place, and, driving back at the point of the bayonet all who approached for the purpose of extinguishing the flames, stood by until it was burned to the ground. It was late at night before all was done, and the officer in charge of the troops who had carried through this shameful deed of murder and spoliation was imprudent enough to camp for the night close to the scene of the outrage. Sentinels were duly posted, and everything was, as this man thought, made perfectly secure; but he was fatally mistaken. The sentinels were surprised in detail, and despatched without having had an opportunity to give the alarm, and then a band of upwards of 100 armed Corsicans stole in upon the defenceless camp and slaughtered every one of the sleeping Frenchmen—not one survived to tell the tale.
“Isabel, contrary to expectation, rapidly recovered both her health and her reason; but it soon became apparent that a terrible change had been wrought in her, though how terrible we did not realise until afterwards.
“Of course it was not to be expected that a girl who had passed through what she had would ever be the same again, but there was a change in her, apart from what might reasonably have been expected under the circumstances. Her reason appeared to be completely restored; she talked calmly and rationally enough upon all subjects, not excepting even her misfortunes; but there was a coldness and reserve about her, even with us, her most intimate friends, which we found it very difficult to understand. At length one day we missed her, and apprehensive of a recurrence of the temporary aberration of intellect from which she had so recently recovered, we searched for her in all directions for three whole days without success, at the end of which time we received a note from her, thanking us for what she was pleased to term our great kindness, and informing us that she had taken steps to carry out the sole purpose of her future life, which was vengeance upon the authors of her wrongs, and the enemies of her country. We knew not what to make of this statement at first, but we soon afterwards learned that it meant she had formed a guerilla band at the head of which she had placed herself—the avowed object of which is war to the knife with the French, as long as any of them remain in Corsica.
“And most terribly has she carried out her purpose so far, for already nearly 300 Frenchmen have perished upon the weapons of her band, and fourteen French officers have met their deaths at her own hands.
“The adoption of so vindictive a purpose has gained for her the title of Bell’ Demonio, a title which she has accepted as perfectly appropriate, and as indicative of the relentless vengeance which her enemies may look for from her.”
“What a terrible history of wanton wrong and of merciless retribution!” I exclaimed, when the count had finished his narrative. “It is horrible to think that beings claiming to be civilised can be capable of such monstrous deeds, but it is so, as I can testify from the conversation of the Frenchmen who took me prisoner, and by the bye that reminds me that you were the subject of their remarks. Have you any reason to suppose yourself in any sort of danger?”
“Well, no,” replied the count; “I should scarcely say that I consider myself in absolute danger; of course it is only reasonable to suppose that, since my brother has placed himself at the head of the insurgents, I should be regarded with a certain amount of suspicion; but that occasions me no anxiety whatever, for I have no one about me but those whom I can implicitly trust, and even to them I confide no more than I can possibly help, so I think I may say I am reasonably safe from betrayal. At the same time I omit no precaution, because I have strong reason to suppose that my actions are being watched, as I believe I have already mentioned. But perhaps you will favour me with a recapitulation of the remarks made by the French concerning me? I have hitherto had no means of ascertaining exactly in what estimation they hold me, and any light on the subject would be especially valuable just now.”
In accordance with this request, I related the substance of the conversation which had occurred among the Frenchmen while I was being conveyed toward Ajaccio. The count listened intently, never interrupting me once, but I could see by the expression of his features how powerfully he was moved, especially by the remarks which had reference to his daughter. When I had finished—
“Thank you signor—how shall I call you?” said he.
“My name is Ralph Chester,” I replied.
“I thank you sincerely, Signor Ralph, for the very valuable information which you have afforded me. It gives to my position an altogether new and somewhat alarming aspect. It is true that I am safe, so far as the papers which you brought are concerned; they are out of my hands, and, even if discovered, contain nothing which could possibly compromise me; but what you have just told me appears to indicate a decided desire on the part of the French to find some excuse for molesting me. Personally, there is nothing I should like better than an opportunity for holding the chateau against an attack from the French. I hate them with a deadly hatred—heaven knows it is not without ample cause!—but if the day were to go against us, I shudder to think of the inevitable fate of my darling child. But, signor, she should never fall into their hands alive. I would rather blot out her innocent young life with these unarmed hands than leave her alive at the mercy of those fiends. I have already told you somewhat of what they can do, but they are capable of even greater refinement of cruelty than that which poor Bell’ Demonio experienced at their hands. I am glad to have heard what you have just told me, but it greatly increases my anxiety; could I only place Francesca in safety it would not greatly matter, but as it is—yes, I must endeavour to find a secure retreat for my child, or I shall have no further peace of mind. The more I think of it the clearer does it become that the chateau is no longer a fit place for her.”
We conversed for some time longer, and then Maria made her appearance, and, with the licence of an old servant, unhesitatingly expressed her conviction that I had conversed far more freely than was at all good for me in my feeble condition, and asserted decidedly that unless I were at once left for the rest of the day in perfect quiet, the direst consequences would surely follow. Upon this the count abruptly took his departure, with an elaborate apology for what he chose to term his want of consideration.
For the remainder of the day a strict embargo was laid upon my room by that stern old disciplinarian, Maria, and on the following day the count was only permitted to enter for the purpose of making a few brief but kind inquiries as to my progress.
I spent the time chiefly in meditating upon the charms of the count’s lovely daughter, and in hoping for the happiness of a visit from her; but to my intense disappointment she remained invisible. Maria mounted strict guard over me, and when circumstances necessitated her absence, the dark-eyed Angela was called in to relieve the watch.
The latter was evidently willing enough to chat with me, but it soon became apparent that she had received her orders from Maria, and that she entertained too wholesome a dread of that individual lightly to disobey her. Under these circumstances the time dragged on wearily enough, so that when on the fourth day I received permission to rise from my bed and change my room for an hour or two, I regarded the inflexible Maria with feelings of gratitude almost akin to love.
The experience of a sick-bed is unfortunately so little a rarity that most of my readers will be able to realise for themselves the delight with which, after a refreshing toilet, and clad in the easiest as well as the most gorgeous of dressing-gowns, I passed out through the door of the sick-room. The sprightly Angela was my guide, and also to a great extent my support, as we passed down a short corridor and turned into a small but elegantly furnished room single glance round which was sufficient to assure me that I was in the favoured abode of beauty. A table littered with a variety of those flimsy trifles which ladies are wont to dignify with the name of “work” occupied the centre of the room, a harp stood in one corner and a guitar in another, an easel supporting an unfinished sketch in water-colours stood by one of the two windows which lighted the room, and a small bookcase filled with elegantly-bound books occupied a niche in one of the walls. A tiny riding-gauntlet of embroidered leather trimmed with lace, and a gold-mounted riding-switch lay upon a most inviting-looking couch, while an open book, placed face downwards, occupied a low-seated reclining chair, which faced the other window; some small but choice water-colours graced the walls, and against that which faced the windows stood a small chamber organ. In addition to these evidences of taste and luxury there were a few small but exquisite statuettes supported on wall brackets; delicate alabaster vases of choice and sweetly-scented flowers, and a cage of gaily plumaged birds.
“There!” said my guide, as she deposited me in the most comfortable chair in the room, “is that to your liking, signor?”
“Perfectly,” I replied. “But see here, Angela, have you not made some mistake? Was it understood that I was to occupy this room? If I may hazard a guess, I should say it is your mistress’s own especial apartment, the one to which she retreats when she desires strict privacy.”
“You are quite right, signor, it is my lady’s boudoir, but the count’s instructions were that you were to be taken to the most comfortable room in the chateau; and though there are many larger and more grand, I know of none where you would be quite so comfortable as in this.”
“I have no doubt you are perfectly right, little one,” said I; “but I greatly fear that in taking possession of this apartment I shall be intruding—”
“It is very unkind of you to think any such thing, signor; no one who has suffered as you have in the cause of my countrymen could ever be deemed an intruder in any of the apartments of the Chateau Paoli,” said a clear, silvery voice behind me. I turned and saw that the owner of the apartment had just entered at the open door in time to hear my remark.
The beautiful girl looked more lovely than ever, I thought, as she somewhat shyly congratulated me on the progress I had made toward recovery.
She playfully scolded the unabashed Angela for not putting the room in somewhat better order before introducing me to it, apologised for the state of confusion which it was in, and finally asked me if she could do anything to add to my comfort. With all the boldness of a British midshipman, I at once replied that my comfort and happiness would be complete if she would but condescend to favour me with as much of her society as possible.
The dear girl blushed, laughed, called me a bold boy, and then, at my earnest request, placed herself in a chair near me, and, after a slight pause of embarrassment, commenced a conversation, the theme of which was the struggle upon which the Corsicans had just entered.
This, of course, was all very well and highly interesting; no one could have looked at and listened to so lovely a creature unmoved as she descanted in feeling language upon the wrongs from which the Corsicans had suffered so greatly at the hands of the French; but, to tell the truth, I felt just then too weak to take more than a languid interest in the subject, it was too exciting for me in my invalid condition, besides which, I perceived that the theme was a painful one to my companion; I therefore gradually drew the conversation into a lighter channel, and we were soon deep in the discussion of poetry, music, and painting, subjects in which we both seemed to be equally interested, and our enthusiasm upon which speedily broke down the slight barrier of reserve which had interposed itself between us at the commencement of the interview. The result was that when that objectionable old party, Maria, came to announce the arrival of the moment when a return to my own room was judged advisable, she found us both comfortably established upon the same lounge, sitting very close to each other, and deep in the beauties of a portfolio of choice engravings which rested upon our knees; moreover, we had grown so confidential that by mutual agreement our usual formal style of address had been discarded, my young hostess promising to call me “Ralph,” if I would address her as “Francesca.”
From this date my progress toward perfect recovery was rapid. A few days more were passed in Francesca’s boudoir, in the enjoyment of her delightful society, and then came the happy moment when supported by her arm, I was able to move slowly and for short distances about the superbly laid-out grounds of the chateau. These delightful walks, which became more extended every day, naturally resulted in the establishment of still more intimate relations between us, and in a very short time each knew all about the past history and the future prospects of the other. The latter were eminently satisfactory on both sides, for, with all the assurance of a boy and a midshipman, I speedily announced my intention of winning my post rank in the shortest possible amount of time, chiefly as a desirable preliminary to my return to Corsica for the purpose of claiming the lovely Francesca’s hand in marriage.
The sweet girl laughed heartily at me, at first; though younger than myself, she was more of a woman than I was of a man, and she assumed with me a great many of the airs of a senior; but upon my vehement and repeated protestations of the seriousness and permanent nature of my intentions, her laughter ceased, she became embarrassed and agitated, and finally, after much pressing, assured me, her face crimsoned with blushes the while, that if I ever came to claim her, she would be mine.
Now I am quite aware that my conduct in this respect was wrong. I was too young, and my prospects were far too vague at that time, to justify me in speaking of love to any woman, besides which, in so unceremoniously laying siege to the beautiful Francesca’s susceptible heart, I might, for all that I could tell, be seriously interfering with the count’s plans for his daughter’s future. But at the time neither of us thought anything of this, or of any thing or being but ourselves; we were perfectly content with the state of things as they were, happy in the present, and quite agreed as to the future, to which, however, neither of us gave a single serious thought. I do not think Francesca was to blame in the matter, she had never had a mother to teach her prudence, but I certainly acted very wrongly, for, though little more than a boy, I was old enough to know better.
I offer no excuse for my conduct, it was quite inexcusable, but as I am telling the story of my life, I feel that I should not be dealing fairly with my readers did I attempt to pass over my faults and misdeeds in silence.
A day or two more passed swiftly away, I was rapidly regaining strength, my fractured arm-bone had knit itself firmly together again—though of course it was still quite useless, the splints not having been removed, and the use of a sling promising to remain a necessity for some little time longer—and I was revolving seriously in my mind the question of what would be the best course to pursue in order to rejoin my ship, when a little incident occurred which immediately diverted my thoughts in an entirely different direction.
Francesca and I were sauntering slowly down the broad tree-bordered drive which led from the main road to the chateau, when a man passed us. Francesca stopped him, to ask a question or two, and to give him some directions, and I thus got a full view of his features for perhaps quite three minutes. To my intense surprise I recognised in him the individual who had betrayed me to the French troops, and who had without doubt betrayed them in turn to Bell’ Demonio’s guerilla band; in a word, it was Guiseppe.
When our eyes met for the first time I saw in a moment that he not only recognised me, but also that he was most anxious to know whether I recognised him. I had it on the tip of my tongue to tax him with his perfidy, and to threaten to denounce him; but there was a something in his glance which gave me the idea that he was meditating further treachery, and I instantly decided that the most effective means to defeat his plans, if he entertained any, would be to throw him off his guard, and watch keenly the course of events; I therefore assumed a calmness and indifference of demeanour which I certainly did not feel, and looked at him as though I had never seen him before.
Waiting until the fellow was well out of ear-shot, I asked Francesca whether he was one of the servants at the chateau.
“Well, no,” she replied, “he is not exactly that. He is merely a kind of hanger-on; his father died in our service, and this man was, in his younger days, one of our stable-boys, but he left us about a year ago to become a wood-cutter and charcoal-burner, and since then he just comes and goes when he likes, finding board and lodging when he requires it, and giving in return any trifling services that may be required of him.”
Nothing more was said about the man at that time, but I resolved to speak to Count Lorenzo about him at the first opportunity.
This presented itself the same evening, on our return to the chateau. I recalled to the count’s mind the conversation which had passed respecting him among the French soldiers, and also directed his attention to the fact that the subject of my remarks had been referred to in terms which seemed to leave no room for doubt as to his treachery.
“But the individual of whom you speak was called Guiseppe, was he not?” remarked the count, when I had said my say.
“Certainly,” I replied. “What is the name of this man?”
“Matteo, Matteo Bartolozzi is his full name,” replied the count. “I thought there must be a mistake somewhere; you have evidently been misled, my friend, by an accidental resemblance. Matteo a traitor! Pardon me, my dear Signor Ralpho, but if you knew the poor fellow as well as I do, you would recognise the absurdity of the supposition. I have known Matteo all his life, and I should have no hesitation in trusting him with anything, ay, even with my daughter’s safety.”
“Heaven forbid that such a necessity should ever arise,” I fervently exclaimed. “It would be better to confide her to the protection of a pack of starving wolves. I am not deceived by any accidental resemblance, I feel as sure of the identity of this man, whom you call Matteo, with the traitor Guiseppe, as I am of my own existence. Believe me, count, I would not speak so positively, did there exist the faintest possibility of doubt.”
“But, my good sir,” returned the count somewhat tartly, “I assure you that what you say is quite impossible. I repeat, I have known the man all his life, and I have done him nothing but good. I have befriended him in a thousand ways, and I know he would lay down his life rather than bring harm to me and mine.”
I saw that my efforts to undeceive the count were worse than useless, and I therefore abandoned the attempt; at the same time his arguments utterly failed to convince me that I had been mistaken, they did not even raise the most transitory doubt in my mind; I therefore determined to simply wait and watch the course of events.