SELLING A SECRET.
On a sunny day in January, a traveling coach crunched up the drive to Castle Brand, and produced a visitor for Miss Walsingham.
The Waaste, so broad and rolling, looked well in its garb of snow, in which the late New Year had wed it; and along the drive the phinny firs and silver holly-bushes were piled with molded purity, while every creamy nymph in stone or stucco wore a crown of brightness.
The turrets even of the hoary castle were fringed with diamond stalactites, from which dropped liquid pearls upon the deep green ivy; and the griffins at the door each upheld a cone of dazzling snow upon his old stone forehead.
The visitor glanced about with many a smirk of approbation, and some wise shrugs of the shoulder; but said nothing aloud, preserving his breath for more important speech.
Margaret was sitting listlessly over her needle-work when the footman brought her a card, upon which was discernible, amid flourishes of the wildest fantasy, "Ludovic, Chevalier de Calembours."
She started up with a wild flush mantling her cheek, and a smothered cry of wrath.
The elegant little gentleman clad in the Hungarian velvet costume, beribboned, bejeweled, flaunting with many a badge of mystic significance, got upon his crooked little legs, and held out his white hands dramatically to the flashing, palpitating, queen-like creature who swept through the great drawing-room to greet him for the first time.
"Chevalier de Calembours! accomplice of Roland Mortlake, I have heard of you before!" she panted, not deigning to touch him.
"Mademoiselle Walsingham, champion of Colonel Brand, all the world has heard of you before!" rasped the bland-faced Hun.
"Why have you come here, heartless man!" cried Margaret.
"To see the dear mademoiselle whose actions so wise, so unselfish, so heroique, have won my heart?"
"Am I to accept praise from the enemy of St. Udo Brand? Never! You murdered him among you!"
"Softly, my heroine! The chevalier was not on the field when the admirable colonel was stabbed! Ma foi! he was lying bleeding on his litter amid his Southern friends, who had captured him for the second time. The first, the dear mademoiselle knows, the chance of fortune wooed me to the South; but the second, mon Dieu! no one asked me my will, but they hacked and hewed over my shackled body, and then the South won me from my captors."
"Sir, I desire to hear nothing of your history. You were paid by the murderer to dog the steps of St. Udo Brand; you were both leagued against him. Had he ever harmed you, chevalier? Was he not too brave to fall by treachery?"
Quite undaunted by her reproaches, M. le Chevalier listened to her passionate praise of his quondam comrade with sparkling eyes, and threw up his hands in ecstatic assent.
"Brave, did mademoiselle say?" he echoed; "mon Dieu! he was gallant, gay, free-hearted, helas! that the ladies should love such an Apollo."
"And you betrayed him, knowing him to be all this?" she cried, bitterly.
"Par la messe! mademoiselle is not just!" complained the chevalier, with tears in his eyes. "I love mon colonel, admire, believe in him; I spit upon Monsieur Mortlake—laugh at, revile him! Mademoiselle must have found out that I obeyed him—never; that I stuck to my colonel only because I love him; and that I left him not until fortune beckoned me away. If he had given me his dear company when I fled to Richmond, he would not have been to-day where he is; but would he? not though I prayed to him with tears in the eyes, with grief in the heart. No, no, he was doomed; he would stay with the Yankees, and—Thoms!"
"Did you not suspect who Thoms was, especially as Mortlake sent him to you?"
"Oh! I was blind. I was bewitched; the wretch was too cunning, mademoiselle. But pray, what has all the cunning ended in? Bah! simplicity, honesty for me; I still live, and walk abroad, a free man. But I am a Chevalier of honor. I scorn a crooked policy. When for the second time the South won Calembours, I found that perfidious fortune had changed her mood; from filling my pockets with gold as commissary general, she descended to thrusting me into that unwholesome residence in Richmond, Castle Thunder. All because some head of wood suggested that the Chevalier de Calembours was selling the North to the South, and vice versa. But the chevalier is a Knight of Industry as well as of Honor—he ever makes the honey where other bees would but starved carcasses. I make the situation palatable even in Castle Thunder, for there is a blue-coated soldier with me there. He is wounded, I nurse him; he is hungry, I feed him from my wretched pittance; we mingle our tears over the moldy crust and the muddy water—we console each other.
"When he is able to crawl, I file off his chains; together we dig our tunnel through the dungeon floor. We have no tools but we use a broken plate and a rusty key, and—patience. Night and day, mademoiselle, night and day that invalid soldier and I gnaw through the baked earth; the nails are torn from the fingers; see, ma chère! the clothes are worn from the bodies; mon camerade faints often, almost dies; but one day we see the sunny earth come crumbling into our rat-hole. Mon Dieu! we have penetrated beneath the wall—we are free.
"I drag him out that night—I drag him into the woods; he says he will die joyfully a free man—he cannot die a captive. But we do not let him die; we aid him day by day through the dismal swamps, cold, wet, famished, but he lives to reach Washington, and he is received in a hospital; while I, morbleu, they give me the cold shoulder, they point the finger, they cry, 'Renegade!' My friend whom I have aided, grows worse of his wound, and cannot speak for me; McClellan, Banks, Pope, Stanton, are all down on poor Calembours for past injuries they dream that he has done them with the South. So, mademoiselle must hear that the republican rabble hoot me from their midst with vile names, and hard usage, and ugly threats, just as the graycoats had done in Richmond, because I believe in universal suffrage, and am a mad cosmopolite, and see no difference between the greedy North and the hungry South. In vain I confide my need to these dogs, in vain I remind the War Department of past deeds of mine while serving under McClellan. They call my laurels tarnished with treachery, they call my past services canceled by succeeding bribery, they refuse me my little price, and order me to leave their barbaric soil.
"So I turn the back upon the dogs who snarl so loudly over their uninviting bone, and, although the tears gush from the eyes at parting from the dear friend whom I aided, I am forced to leave him behind.
"What though I have thrown behind me an illustrious life, titles, honors, pleasures, for to give these dogs my nameless services?
"Where Colonel Brand, the lion of chivalry raged, was not I, Colonel Calembours, ever at his side, the unwearied partner of the perilous speculation?
"But when I fall under the blind displeasure of the stupid bureau at Washington, justice, nay, honesty, is forgotten—they mulct me of my laurels.
"I go to New York, and turn into a dealer for horseflesh for the army. In a few weeks I fill my wrinkled purse, and get rid of the last of my consignment; and, before the wretched brutes have time to betray their many infirmities, New York in turn loses Calembours. But ere I leave I have the satisfaction of again greeting my invalid friend, who has been sent North to a better hospital, and who is gradually convalescing. He urges me to stay with him, that we may begin the world together; but I have a sacred duty to perform, a slight to remember, an insult to avenge. I am free, I have money, I have health, and I come here, to this Castle Brand, to see mademoiselle, and (for revenge) to sell to her—a secret."
The chevalier paused with empressement, and remained peering into his listener's face with a gay, encouraging smile for two or three minutes.
Whiter Margaret could not be, nor colder.
"Proceed, monsieur," she breathed at last; "do not mock my anxiety."
"Mademoiselle understands that what follows is for sale?" quoth the chevalier slyly.
"Yes, yes, you shall be satisfied. Proceed."
"Mille mercies, dear mademoiselle. Eh, bien! I will do myself the honor to keep you au courant with my history. History pleases mademoiselle; she is a good listener—ma foi! a very good listener.
"Voila! I begin at the end of the volume. I begin, as do the Hebrews, at the last page, and read from right to left, to meet this end of the little tale which you have just heard.
"Some months ago—perhaps eighteen—I, the illustrious Chevalier de Calembours, arrived at Canterbury, on business of mine.
"In time I meet a very great man there; we play rouge-et-noir; mon Dieu! he cheats me at rouge-et-noir. Mademoiselle, rouge-et-noir is my own great weapon, ma foi! I must have learned it in my cradle when an infant; with it I have beat the world, with it I have cheated the world—and this greatest of men cheats me!
"I stop the game, I contemplate him with exalted emotions, with admiration, with awe; tears start to the eyes, I offer him the hand.
"Monsieur," I cry, with much enthusiasm, "tell me your name. You shall be my great model in this noble game; I shall be your pupil."
"The great man glares at me through those cavernous eyes; his lips, so thin and evil, smile sourly, and his long fingers make me the gambler's sign. Ah! he is the gambler by profession, then—the sly sharper, the hanger-on upon the young of the military. I marvel no more at his proficiency in the art in which, beside him, I am but an amateur.
"'My name is Roland Mortlake,' he says, unwillingly; 'you are welcome to any hints you think I can give you; but I was admiring your play all the time. I've never seen it equalled.'
"Mademoiselle, this man had played in Germany, in Italy, in France, and he had never seen my play equalled.
"I listen to the delicious praise; the heart swells with generous pride; I rise, I embrace him as a brother.
"'You do me too much honor, Monsieur Mortlake,' I cry; 'you do the Count of Santo Spirito, Turin, too much honor.'
"We became acquaintances, friends, inseparable brothers—we became necessary to each other.
"We combine our forces, we cheat the world, and we reap a golden harvest.
"The world is so gullible chère amie. Why not glean the benefit then?
"'I must go to London,' says my friend, in March; 'better come along. We can always pigeon the subs, and they are always to be found there.'
"My friend was a great player, but he spoke ill, even coarsely at times.
"So be it, camerade!' I cry and we go.
"At first we do well; we enter humble circles, and we mount to higher every day; the purse is very full, the heart is very merry, when, ouais! hush! Monsieur Mortlake becomes mysterious, close, unjust—says:
"'Better keep out of sight for a while, Calembours; I can't be seen with a notorious harpy like you just now; the circle I'm getting into won't care for a dirty little Frenchman. They're exclusive.'
"'Merci, Monsieur Mortlake,' I return, 'Napoleon the brave thought Calembours worthy of the Legion of Honor; but perhaps your circle are right, and are exclusive of the nobility.'
"We part good friends, though, for are we not necessary to each other? He goes his way and I go mine, but I set myself to know the reason why.
"I discover my Mortlake hovering about a great flame in the military world—a Captain St. Udo Brand, of the Coldstream Guards, who has great expectation of a wealthy grandmother dying and leaving him the sole heir.
"My Mortlake wheels nearer and nearer this mighty captain, learns all he can about his history and habits, and becomes an acquaintance of his. What he intends to do with him I cannot tell; for he cannot pigeon him as he pigeons weaker men. My faith, he dares not.
"Captain Brand treats the gambling Mortlake with that lofty insolence which great men show to little men; he is indifferent to him, he forgets his presence, he turns the back upon him at the mess-table when any of the softer officers bring him there.
"My Mortlake does not like it; he grows very black when the captain is not by, and he swears a great deal against him.
"I look on and laugh; it is a gay comedie for me. I clasp the hands and cry encore!
"Presently the great captain's grandmama's malady grows worse; messages continue to arrive, and he must go to Surrey.
"Monsieur Mortlake comes to me with his curious green eyes gleaming.
"'Come Calembours,' he says; 'we may as well take a run down to Surrey to see this wonderful castle.'
"'So be it!' I cry once more, and we go.
"We are living at a hotel in Regis when the sullen captain arrives; he is accosted to his surprise by Monsieur Mortlake, who is of course quite astonished to meet him there.
"Captain Brand swears a good deal at the idea of going down to that 'infernal dull hole,' his grandmother's handsome castle, which he assures Mr. Mortlake is inhabited by old women and servants.
"'A note will do for to-night, by Jove!' vows Captain Brand, 'and I'll send it over.'
"Monsieur Mortlake protests that he has heard so much of the antiquity of Castle Brand that he would think it a boon if the captain would permit him to carry that note, if it is only for the chance of seeing such a castle.
"'By all means you shall, if that will please you,' says the captain.
"Mademoiselle, as these men stand together in the lobby, I looking down from the staircase upon them—for has not monsieur ordered me not to disgrace him by intruding upon the captain?—a very strange idea occurs to me; it strikes me very forcibly. I watch the men with amazement, with fear. As we ride away together in the moonlight, I say to my friend:
"'Monsieur le Capitaine is a most handsome man.'
"He only curses Monsieur le Capitaine.
"I say again:
"'Mon ami, do not execrate your own image.'
"He turns in his saddle with a savage oath—he glares like the hungry wolf.
"'What's that, you jabbering idiot!' he roars, in his brutal way.
"'Captain Brand and Monsieur Mortlake seem like as twin dogs,' I reply; 'you might change names with our haughty captain, and no one be the wiser, save that he has the bel air which you want—the polish, the courtesy, which those of the mob can never learn.'
"'Curse him! I have as good blood in my veins as he has any day!' hisses the furious voice of my envious Mortlake.
"Then he turns sour and silent, and is very poor company. I sing chansonettes to the moon; I whistle operas; I talk to my horse; he takes no notice; I rally him upon his temper, and he swears madly at me.
"So I light my cigar and smoke for company until we reach the great Castle Brand, which towers like a vast cathedral under the moon.
"Mademoiselle, a magnificent statue waits him at the door. Mademoiselle remembers the interview. Enough! My tripping tongue need not rehearse the scene.
"Back comes Monsieur Mortlake, devil-possessed, and overwhelms me with a terrible curse.
"I laugh at his slow-stepping wit.
"I have seen a pretty possibility for monsieur, even while mademoiselle is speaking.
"'Stupid Englishman!' I cry, as we ride across the Waaste, 'don't you see that you might get this fine English castle and estate to yourself some day, if you could personate brave Captain Brand?'
"My romantic fancy is captivated by this little scheme. I go on amusing myself by describing how it might be done. I give you my word, mademoiselle, that it is all in jest—a freak of imagination nothing more.
"My sour comrade listens with a serpent's guile; his clever brain is twisting a rope out of my threads of fiction; he catches my bagatelle, and transforms it into a plot—the plot which would have proved successful but for Marguerite, the heroic.
"Eh bien, to continue:
"We ride away to the hotel at Regis that night, and monsieur had a little interview with Captain Brand, and tells him the message which Mademoiselle Walsingham has sent to him. Then is the captain furious, and impatient, and self-reproachful for his cold-blooded neglect of the poor fond grandmama, and he gallops off to the old castle on the wings of the wind, and is too late, and remains moping at the castle, seeing nobody but red-eyed Chetwode, for the magnificent Mademoiselle Walsingham has locked herself within her room and will not see him.
"My careful Mortlake gathers all this from the footmen and servants from the castle, and makes envious remarks upon the dog that has, and wants it not, and the dog that wants, and has it not.
"In the evening of that day on which Madame Brand is interred, Monsieur le Capitaine comes back to Regis choking with rage. Monsieur Mortlake offers congratulations, and hears the whole of the will from our angry captain, who utters a scornful fanfaronade against the brave Mademoiselle Walsingham. Cries royally:
"'I won't interfere with the companion—she's free for me; I'll get out of England as fast as I can, and try my luck abroad.'
"'Try the United States,' insinuates M. Mortlake.
"'Good! and join the army,' says our captain, with a war-glance which sweeps the horizon and sees coming fame, 'and win glory, since I am stripped of my fortune.'
"'Will you go, then?' pursues Monsieur Mortlake.
"'I'll think of it,' says Captain Brand.
"And he does think of it, and to such purpose that in an hour he has left Regis and is posting back to London.
"Monsieur Mortlake comes to me and tells me all this.
"'Calembours, I have a job for you,' says my friend. His language is never refined. Ouf! how can it be? But I laugh, amused, and I applaud, for my perception is swifter than Monsieur's tongue; it has skipped on a mile of the plan, and turned to meet the tardy wit of my Mortlake.
"'So be it,' I cry, with smiles. 'You want me to put you in those cavalry boots of Captain Brand, that you may win his castle and his Marguerite.'
"To my surprise my friend writhes with anger—half chokes over this:
"'His castle and his Marguerite? Hang him! I have a better right than he to them.'
"And becomes immediately mysterious, close as a mute.
"When we reach London, and find that Monsieur le Capitaine is really selling his commission in the Guards, and going to America, my Mortlake reveals his well-considered plot to me.
"'Calembours, you are such a plausible rogue,' says my coarse friend, 'that you might be a great help to me in the plan I've thought of.'
"'Dear friend, you flatter me,' I, smiling, reply. 'Command me.'
"'This fellow is in love with some woman of rank here in London,' pursues my Mortlake. 'I can't find out her name, he's such a proud fellow; but that's the reason why he throws off the woman at Castle Brand and forswears the fortune. Now, d'ye see, Calembours, how we can turn his tomfoolery to account?'
"I bow; I am interested, but not admiring.
"He can go off to the war, and somebody can go off with him, to keep an eye on him that he doesn't balk, and to worm himself into all the fellow's secrets and past history. Somebody gentlemanly and taking, and with plenty of confounded jabber about 'em. You'd do first rate, Calembours.'
"'So flattered,' I smile. 'The good opinion of my dear M. Mortlake is so consoling.'
"'You could creep round him so nicely,' observed my friend; 'you could get anything you liked out of him, you've got such an innocent look, you dog; while I can't become the polished gentleman without practice, fact being that I've forgotten the talk. I was once as swell as any of 'em—was in the army, bedad! an artillery officer; but luck changed, curse it! and my company wasn't so high-flying, though we were a jolly pack for all that, especially after the day's duties were over.'
"'Was monsieur a soldier or a knight of the pen?' I ask.
"He shows his long teeth in a snarling smile.
"'I was in a government office—served my country,' he replies; 'and, getting home on furlough, I might as well feather my nest while I have a chance, and then slip the cable on 'em. Pay isn't very good there, nor victuals very plenty.'
"'Eh! prison fare?' I ask, scenting the jest.
"He scowls like an ogre at me.
"'You're a fool!' he growls. 'No; I was a Road Commissioner. Come, now, will you go with Brand, and win some cool thousands by the speculation?'
"'What are my duties?' I cautiously reply.
"'To keep close by him through all his windings, until—'
"My Mortlake stops.
"'Until?' I venture.
"'Until the dog is killed,' whispers monsieur.
"I start back—I wave the vile insinuation from me.
"'Pardieu!' I scream; 'I am chevalier d'honneur! I pride myself upon my illustrious reputation. Monsieur must seek another colleague.'
"'Idiot!' he roars, 'did I ask you to have anything to do with that? Do I suspect you of enough pluck to crush a snake? No, you fool, I don't. The man will be killed in battle. All I want of you is to hear his private business, so that you can post me up. If you want to make your fortune, say so.'
"Mademoiselle, my dearest wish has always been to make my fortune. Ma foi! shall I refuse it when it comes begging at my door?
"'So be it. Vive l'Amerique!' I cry. 'Give me my instructions.'
"And monsieur does give me my instructions.
"I am to be hand and glove with Monsieur le Capitaine; I am to learn his history off by heart and write it down for my Mortlake to study; and when he falls in battle I am to win my reward, but not till then. I am encouraged by every inducement to be the assassin myself. I am assured that if Captain Brand does not die in the course of twelve months, Monsieur Mortlake can do nothing for me; and I laugh to myself, and say:
"'I shall watch my Mortlake.'
"'And what will monsieur do until I return to England?' I say.
"'I'll pigeon the green hands in the gambling saloons,' he tells me, 'and have a neat little sum to carry us through the plot.'
"So we make up our plans, and I follow Captain Brand to Liverpool.
"The last act of friendship which my principal does for me is to send after me a servant to attend me.
"'A trusty fellow,' writes M. Mortlake, 'who will help you with the captain. He is an unscrupulous chap, and might do that little job for you. Thoms is a cute fellow, and won't betray us.'
"Monsieur Mortlake has changed his mind at the last moment; he doubts the villainy of his accomplice; he comes himself, in Thoms' disguise, to watch how the game goes.
"He says to himself, 'Calembours may betray my plot to Captain Brand, or, not betraying it, may fail to see him killed, and he may turn up again when I am least prepared for him; then let me accompany the pair as Thoms, the valet; and Thoms shall remind Calembours of his duty; and Calembours shall commission Thoms to deal the death-blow, if chance withholds it in battle, and Calembours shall ever after be tied hand and foot by that command of his to Thoms, and shall never dare to betray the cunning Mortlake. Then when Brand is dead, Thoms shall disappear; Calembours shall return to England with his report; Mortlake shall pay him much or little, as he likes, and Calembours shall be gagged for life with his share in the murder of Brand. Thus shall Mortlake cover up his traces, and win fortune without one fear of discovery. And if Calembours proves unfaithful in his compact, why then Thoms shall only have to use his dagger twice instead of once, and perhaps that would be the best way after all.'
"Was it not a wonderful plot, mademoiselle?
"So complete, so obscure, so complicated!
"And to think that I should not have been the first to conceive it!
"Bah! I told you that Monsieur Mortlake could cheat me at rouge-et-noir; he was my mental superior.
"Mine was the intellect quick, daring, creative; but his was the sure, silent, and wily brain that could view a scheme in all its bearings, and twist it as he willed.
"Enough; Monsieur Mortlake accompanied us to the seat of war as Thoms, and not once did I suspect the villain of being other than he seemed.
"Bah! to think of being served by such a worm!
"Mademoiselle, the soul of the knight of honor rises in wrath as he recalls these days of foolish deception, when the brother colonels, sitting by the camp-fire, laugh over poor old Thoms, and say, 'He's mad.' Mademoiselle, the blood of an honest man boils as he recalls the dastard pranks of his valet; when he rifles the pockets of brave Colonel Brand; and sitting behind us, mimics the gestures of my friend, rehearsing for his future character; and shoots at Brand and me from behind our tent, and missing fire, stabs the innocent Confederate envoy, who might betray him.
"When I forget my compact with Monsieur Mortlake, and show my affection for the great colonel, Thoms is there to menace me with meaning looks; and when I defy his hints and refuse to spy any longer upon my colonel's life, a letter comes from Mortlake quickening me by threats and promises. 'Tis penned, of course, by Thoms, and I never know it then.
"The history of those days you have discovered for yourself, mademoiselle, in that important note-book, which you seized with such high courage.
"Admirable woman! I bend the knee to you, for you rival in valor Joan of Arc. Without your heart of steel and hand of silk, the wary, lying fox might never have been lured from his hole and crushed; and the noble Colonel Brand might have lain forgotten and unavenged.
"Thus I come to the middle of the volume. The stories have met; I take up the ends of them; I twine them together, and, voila! an eclaircissement! When I have run my little race in the ungrateful republic, I come home to England.
"I am free. I have money, health; I have a sacred duty to perform, an insult to avenge; I hasten into England, and seek my principal.
"Ouais! are not the journals teeming with great news? 'The Great Castle Brand Plot meets my astonished eyes in every journal. The vile imposture is divulged, the daring murderer is condemned; his serpentine guile is held up; and with passion I read that my valet Thoms and my employer Mortlake are one. I foam, I sweat with rage and shame, that he should have cheated me.
"Oh, mon Dieu! that I should live to be cheated by Thoms! Why did I not saber him in those days in Virginia?
"I swear that I will have honorable satisfaction; the dog shall die for his treachery to a knight whose honor is more valued than his life.
"I know the old disguise of my Mortlake. I remember his haunts, I say. England, I will find your criminal for you, but I shall have my little account settled with him before I pass him over to you.
"I hasten to Canterbury, where I have seen him first, and in his old haunt, plying his modest profession as gambler, I find my bird-of-the-jail, with the eye upon Paris when tracked to Canterbury, there to hide from angry England.
"I penetrate to his cafe, where he consorts with blacklegs, sharpers, and barmaids, and I gain a private audience of the great man in his exile.
"I snap the fingers in his face. Tonnere! how white it grows! I cry:
"'Monsieur, you are no gentleman—you are un fripon, a rogue, a speaking cur! Monsieur, I spit upon you for a cur! Will you have pistols or sabers?'
"'Calembours, by all the devils!' groans my rat in the trap. 'Why, man, I thought you were dead long ago. If I hadn't thought so, I should have had you to help me through with that accursed plot, and paid you well for it, too——'
"'Liar!' I cry, 'I don't believe you! You are Thoms, and Thoms was a traitor. Allons, monsieur, will you meet me in the court out there?'
"'Calembours,' whines the slave, 'why need you trample on a down man? Nobody knows me here, and I'll give you my purse, my jewels, and a fine blood-horse which I have out there in the stable, if you'll let me escape to Dover to-night.'
"I weigh the purse, not so light, considering; the jewels—par la messe! a million francs would not purchase them.
"But I do not falter; he has cheated me with a paltry trick, he has practiced upon my credulity—my credulity, mademoiselle, and a chevalier d'honneur never forgives that.
"'Dog! you think to buy me!' I screamed, in my high indignation—'you, who have played your vile trick upon me, who have laughed under the hood at me. You, Thoms! Never, Monsieur Mortlake; but I will have your blood! Fox! beast! you shall be honored for the first time in your plebeian life—you shall fight with Calembours!'
"The slave recoils, for he knows the accuracy of the chevalier's aim, he knows the perfection of the chevalier's passes; he loathes pistol and saber as a means of settling the dispute.
"Glaring at me, eye to eye, he casts about in his wily brain how to cheat me to my face—he was ever my superior in juggling tricks, although he had no bravery, except what paid him.
"But he is late in achieving his last throw for freedom—angry England has tracked the fugitive. A posse of gens d'armes—what you call police—pour into monsieur's private saloon, and advance to take my Mortlake.
"He glares at them with eyes of horror, gathers himself for a tiger's bound through their midst, and nearly gains the door.
"But he is caught—mid air; he is hurled to the floor; the shackles are on his wrists, the gyves are on his feet, and, with foam on his lips and murder in his eyes, he looks up at his captors.
"'Ha, ha! my bird!' jests a gen d'armes; 'you're caged at last. Your ticket of leave won't do any longer—it's out many a month ago; and, since you don't go in for road-work, in Tasmania, you can try the shortest road to glory.'
"The convict says never a word, but shuts his eyes and succumbs; and so they carry him away, and I have bade my last adieu to Monsieur Mortlake.
"Ma chère, there are ups in this world, and there are downs; I have seen both—I have been elevated to the highest pinnacle of fortune, and again thrown under fortune's wheel—but, mademoiselle, my honor has never been impugned, for it was above reproach.
"Yet this dog of a Mortlake had ventured to amuse himself at my expense—had outwitted me in my own game; can the depths of misfortune be too profound for such a traitor? Pardieu! no, a thousand times no!
"So that when my Mortlake was dragged to prison, I, the insulted man of honesty, felt only joy that there was a rogue less to find.
"Most illustrious heroine, shall I resume the chronicles?
"Your face answers with eloquence: 'Yes, my friend, and be brief;' but your great heart trembles, and shrinks from the deep cup of vengeance which I offer, although you long have sought to taste it.
"No? you deny the imputation? But, mademoiselle, you tremble and are pale as the winter moon; wherefore? Ah, you apprehend my halting meaning; you perceive the mists of possibility with those keen eyes, and you urge, 'Haste, haste, and assure me of the truth!'
"Eh, bien! you shall taste of a cup more mellow than this one of revenge. I hasten to hold it to the lips of Margaret la Fidele!
"I learn as much of my Mortlake's history as my interest in him prompts me to search out.
"I hear that he was banished to Tasmania twelve years ago for a daring act of forgery; that he has come back with a ticket of leave two years since, and, seizing the first opportunity, has presented himself with freedom, and escaped from the espionage of the law.
"That the detectives sent on the track of Roland Mortlake have met the detectives on the track of the fugitive ticket of leave man, and that O'Grady has confessed that they are identical.
"O'Grady, being a companion-convict, and having shared in that enterprise for freedom, is well qualified to put the detectives upon his track, and does so. Thus our friend Mortlake vanishes from the scene; one month ago the prosperous heir of Castle Brand—to-day, the convict waiting sentence for the murder of the true heir of Castle Brand.
"But, mademoiselle, the little tale is not complete without the eclaircissement; permit me to draw aside the curtain from my secret.
"You shall give the word that draws the bolt, and drop out Mortlake into a murderer's grave; or you shall raise the warning hand that stays the doom upon the felon's platform, and waves him back to Tasmania for life in the chain-gang.
"How you have that power is my secret, mademoiselle; shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds?"
Grave, keen, penetrating, the Chevalier de Calembours bent forward and waited breathlessly the answer to this momentous question.
The great eyes of Margaret Walsingham still met his in a fascinated gaze; her electric face kept its spell-bound attention. With lips apart and bosom heaving she waited for the end of the story.
"Mademoiselle, shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds, or shall I go back to America, and bury the secret in oblivion?" asked the chevalier.
"Tell me all," breathed Margaret, faintly.
"Mademoiselle will remember my modest request?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur, I will pay you what you ask!" she cried, hysterically; "go on to the end."
"Milles mercis!" cried he, cheerfully, "mademoiselle is magnificent! Mademoiselle does not wish M. Mortlake to escape with his life?"
"No," shuddered Margaret, "he must not live."
"So perfidious!" aspirated the chevalier; "he stole St. Udo's history, he stole his identity, and then he stole his life. Fiendish Mortlake!"
"He shall die, monsieur, be content," groaned Margaret.
"Even if he had not succeeded in killing St. Udo, his intention would make him worthy of death," remarked the chevalier.
"Ah, yes, worthy of twenty deaths!" cried Margaret, wringing her hands.
"Mademoiselle loves the brave man who was murdered?" insinuated the chevalier, in softest accents.
She grew white as death, and the great tears rushed from her eyes.
"What does it matter now?" she moaned. "I do love him—ah, I do love him!"
Then did the little man rise and expand with warm enthusiasm—then did his handsome face glow with rapture and with pride.
He put on a smile of most gracious benevolence, he drank in the rich love-light upon her eloquent countenance, and then he cried, joyfully:
"Incomparable mademoiselle! you deserve good news. We shall hang the dog, and then resurrect the master; for, Viola! Colonel Brand is not dead yet!"