By the power of an ascendancy acquired most artfully, and by persuasive flatteries of the most insidious kind, he induced Rica to bring Maritaña on the stage; where her immense success had replenished their coffers far more rapidly and abundantly than play. At Naples, however, an incident similar to what happened at Venice was nigh having occurred. She was recognized by a young Spaniard who had known her in Mexico; and as the whole assumed history of her noble birth and Sicilian origin was thus exposed to contradiction, they took measures to get rid of this unwelcome witness. They managed to hide among his effects some dies and moulds for coining,—an offence then, as ever, rife at Naples. A police investigation, in which bribery had its share, was followed by a mock-trial, and the young fellow was sentenced to the galleys for seven years, with hard labor.
Their career from this moment was one of unchanging success. Maritaña's beauty attracted to the play-table all that every city contained of fashion, wealth, and dissipation. In her ignorance of the world she was made to believe that her position was one the most exalted and enviable. The homage she received, the devotion exhibited on every side, the splendor of her life, her dress, her jewels, her liveries, dazzled and delighted her. The very exercise of her abilities was a source of enthusiastic pleasure to one who loved admiration. Nor had she perhaps awoke from this delusion, had not the heart-uttered cry of Roland burst the spell that bound her, and evoked the maiden's shame in her young heart. Then—with a revulsion that almost shook reason itself—she turned with abhorrence from a career associated with whatever could humiliate and disgrace. Entreaties, prayers, menaces—all were unavailing to induce her to appear again; and soon, indeed, her altered looks and failing health rendered it impossible. A vacant unmeaning smile, or a cold impassive stare, usurped the place of an expression that used to shine in joyous brilliancy. Her step, once bounding and elastic, became slow and uncertain. She seldom spoke; when she did, her accents were heavy, and her thoughts seemed languid, as though her mind was weary. None could have recognized in that wan and worn face, that frail and delicate figure, the proud and beautiful Maritaña.
She lived now in total seclusion. None ever saw her, save Rica, who used to come and sit beside her each day, watching, with Heaven alone knows what mixture of emotion! that wasting form and decaying cheek. What visions of ambition Linton might yet connect with her none knew or could guess; but he followed the changing fortunes of her health with an interest too deep and earnest to be mistaken for mere compassion. Such, then, was her sad condition when they repaired to Paris, and, in one of the most spacious hotels of the Rue Richelieu, established their “Bank of Rouge et Noir.” This costly establishment vied in luxury and splendor with the most extravagant of those existing in the time of the Empire. All that fastidious refinement and taste could assemble, in objects of art and virtu, graced the salons. The cookery, the wines, the service of the different menials, rivalled the proudest households of the nobility.
A difficult etiquette restricted the admission to persons of acknowledged rank and station, and even these were banded together by the secret tie of a political purpose, for it was now the eve of that great convulsion which was to open once more in Europe the dread conflict between the masses and the few.
While Linton engaged deep in play, and still deeper in politics, “making his book,” as he called it, “to win with whatever horse he pleased,” one dreadful heartsore never left him: this was Keane, whose presence continually reminded him of the past, and brought up besides many a dread for the future.
It would have been easy at any moment for Linton to have disembarrassed himself of the man by a sum of money; but then came the reflection, “What is to happen when, with exhausted means and dissolute habits, this fellow shall find himself in some foreign country? Is he not likely, in a moment of reckless despair, to reveal the whole story of our guilt? Can I even trust him in hours of convivial abandonment and debauch? Vengeance may, at any instant, overrule in such a nature the love of life,—remorse may seize upon him. He is a Romanist, and may confess the murder, and be moved by his priest to bring home the guilt to the Protestant.” Such were the motives which Linton never ceased to speculate on and think over, always reverting to the one same conviction, that he must keep the man close to his person, until the hour might come when he could rid himself of him forever.
The insolent demeanor of the fellow; his ruffian assurance, the evidence of a power that he might wield at will—became at last intolerable. Linton saw this “shadow on his path” wherever he wandered. The evil was insupportable from the very fact that it occupied his thoughts when great and momentous events required them. It was like the paroxysm of some painful disease, that came at moments when health and calm of spirit were most wanted. To feel this, to recognize it thoroughly, and to resolve to overcome it, were, with Linton, the work of a moment. “His hour is come,” said he, at length; “the company at La Morgue to-morrow shall be graced by a guest of my inviting.”
Although to a mind prolific in schemes of villany the manner of the crime could offer no difficulty, strange enough, his nature revolted against being himself the agent of the guilt It was not fear, for he was a man of nerve and courage, and was, besides, certain to be better armed than his adversary. It was not pity, nor any feeling that bordered on pity, deterred him; it was some instinctive shrinking from an act of ruffianism; it was the blood of a man of birth that curdled at the thought of that which his mind associated with criminals of the lowest class,—the conventional feeling of Honor surpassing all the dictates of common Humanity.
Nothing short of the pressing emergency of the hour could have overcome these scruples, but Keane's insolence was now in itself enough to compromise him, and Linton saw that but one remedy remained, and that it could not be deferred. Constant habits of intercourse with men of a dangerous class in the Faubourgs and the Cite gave the excuse for the boating excursion at night. The skiff was hired by Keane himself, who took up Linton at a point remote from where he started, and thus no clew could be traced to the person who accompanied him. The remainder is in the reader's memory, and now we pursue our story.
The surgeon who examined Keane's wound not only pronounced it inevitably fatal, but that the result must rapidly ensue. No time was, therefore, to be lost in obtaining the fullest revelations of the dying man, and also in taking the promptest measures to secure the guilty party.