Vivienne was borne from the castle in a deep swoon. The events of the evening had been too much for her frail, nervous organisation, and she had succumbed. She was placed in a close carriage, and Dr. Procida took a seat beside her. They were driven rapidly to Salvanetra. The doctor wet Vivienne’s lips with brandy, which, together with the cool evening air, that blew in through the open carriage window, soon revived her; but she did not speak. When they reached the doctor’s house she was too much exhausted to walk. He called two of his attendants, and she was borne into the house and placed upon a bed in one of the rooms. A nurse was sent to attend her, but she refused her ministrations and was finally left alone. A single candle upon the table gave a flickering light, and filled the room with strange shadows. She heard the bolt slip into place and knew that she was not only a patient but a prisoner.
She passed the most terrible night in her young life. Picture after picture came before her eyes, though she shut them tightly, hoping to escape the phantoms. One by one they followed each other—her friends, with a wreath of roses emblematic of her age—then the music, and singing, and dancing—next, the arrival of Victor and the pleasant conversation they had had at the supper table. So far all was joy and gladness. Then came visions of gloom and misery; the attack upon Victor—his valiant defence—the death of the Count and her brother Julien—the discovery that Victor was Vandemar, the son of the man who had murdered her father—Vandemar in the dungeon chamber, where he must die from starvation unless she could escape and rescue him—her own terrible position, shut off from communication with her friends, on the supposition that she was mad. Could she live through it and not grow mad in reality?
She arose from her bed, took up the sputtering candle, which had burned low, and made a tour of the room—floor and walls of stone, impregnable to any strength which she could exert—windows small, high from ground, and guarded by heavy iron bars—the door of oaken timber, thickly studded with bosses of iron. From such a prison there could be no escape. Strong men might attempt it, but there was no hope for one so physically weak as she. Vandemar in his dungeon chamber was not more completely isolated from the world. She threw herself upon the bed, and the nurse found her there the next morning, sleeping the sleep which kindly comes to save the worn-out mind and body when their limit of resistance has been reached.
The body of Count Mont d’Oro had been taken to his mother’s house and, on the second day after the double tragedy, the remains of Julien Batistelli were placed in the crypt beneath the castle, and those of Count Mont d’Oro, followed by his mother, Miss Renville, and a few friends, were deposited beside the body of his father in the little burying-ground used by the gentry of Alfieri and vicinity.
The night after the funeral, Bertha Renville wrote a long letter to Jennie Glynne. She recounted, in detail, the terrible scenes through which she had passed, and expressed the hope that something would occur to take her away from the terrible place.
“I know that my guardian and Jack,” she had written, “both came to Corsica, but I have not seen them. Perhaps they have met and, in the heat of passion, have fought. It may be that either Jack or Mr. Glynne is dead, and sometimes the horrible thought comes to me that their last meeting ended in the death of both. I am filled with a dread which I cannot express. The Countess is kind to me, but we two weak women are virtually defenceless. Oh, my dear, good friend, will this terrible uncertainty ever end? Has the future any happiness in store for me?”
CHAPTER XXVII.
TO THE RESCUE!
The next morning Dr. Procida came to see Vivienne. On her bended knees she implored him to let her go home. She told him that Vandemar was in the dungeon chamber, and that he would die unless she opened the door. She felt in her bosom for the paper and, finding it was gone, burst into hysterical exclamations. The doctor, who was a friend of Pascal, said:
“My poor young lady, you are labouring under an hallucination. You must take a sedative, or you will break down entirely.” He placed a bottle upon the table, saying: “I will send the nurse to administer it.”
No sooner had he left the room than Vivienne threw the bottle upon the stone floor. “It is a drug,” she cried, “and I will not take it.”