CHAPTER VII
DESPAIR

A few yards from the palace the Count met Michael, who was coming towards him.

"A boat, quick, quick, my good Michael," he shouted, "'tis a matter of life and death."

The sailor, terrified at the condition in which he saw his commandant, wished to ask him what the matter was, but the Count roughly imposed silence on him by repeating his order to procure a boat at once.

Michael bowed his head.

"Woe is me. I foresaw this," he muttered, with mingled grief and anger, and he ran off towards the port.

It is not a difficult task to find a boat at Cadiz, and Michael had only to choose; comprehending that the Count was in a hurry, he selected one pulled by ten oars.

The Count arrived at the same moment.

"Twenty louis for you and your crew if you are at Puerto in twenty minutes," he shouted, as he leaped into the boat, which was almost capsized by the violence of the shock.

The boat started, the sailors bent over their oars, and made her fly through the water.

The captain with his eyes obstinately fixed on Santa Maria, and striking his clenched fist on the boat's gunwale, in spite of the excessive speed at which it was going, incessantly repeated in a choking voice —

"Quicker, quicker, muchachos."

He passed like an arrow across the bows of the frigate, whose crew were preparing to weigh anchor. At length they reached Puerto.

"No one is to follow me," the captain cried, as he leaped ashore.

But Michael did not heed this order, and at the risk of what might happen to him, he set out in pursuit of the Count, whom he would not abandon in his present frightful condition.

It was fortunate he did so, for when he reached the house Doña Clara had inhabited, he saw the young man lying senseless on the ground.

The house was deserted, and Doña Clara had disappeared.

The sailor took his captain on his shoulders and conveyed him to the boat, where he laid him as comfortably as he could in the stem sheets.

"Where are we going?" the master asked.

"To the French frigate; and make haste," Michael replied.

When the boat was alongside the frigate, Michael paid the master the promised reward, and then aided by several of the crew, conveyed the captain to his cabin. As it was eminently necessary to keep the Count's secret, and avoid arousing suspicions, the sailor in his report to the first commandant, ascribed to a violent fall from a horse, the condition in which the captain was; then, after making a signal to Bowline to follow him, he returned to the cabin.

M. de Barmont was still as motionless as if he were dead; the chief surgeon of the frigate in vain bestowed the greatest care on him without succeeding in recalling life, which seemed to have fled forever.

"Send away your assistants; Bowline and myself will suffice," Michael said to the doctor, with a meaning glance.

The surgeon comprehended, and dismissed the mates. When the door had closed on them the sailor drew the doctor into a gun berth, and said to him, in so low a voice as to be scarce audible —

"Major, the Commandant has just experienced a great sorrow, which produced the terrible crisis he is suffering from at this moment. I confide this to you because a surgeon is like a confessor."

"All right, my lad," the surgeon replied; "the Captain's secret has been trusted to sure ears."

"I am convinced of that, Major; the officers and crew must suppose that the Captain has been thrown from his horse, you understand. I have already told the lieutenant so in making the report."

"Very good; I will corroborate your statement, my lad."

"Thanks, Major; now I have another thing to ask of you."

"Speak."

"You must obtain the lieutenant's leave that no one but Bowline and myself may wait on the Captain. Look you, Major, we are old sailors of his, he can say what he likes before us; and then, too, he will be glad to have us near him; will you get this leave from the lieutenant?"

"Yes, my lad; I know that you are a good fellow, sincerely attached to the Captain, and that he places entire confidence in you; hence, do not feel alarmed – I will settle that with the lieutenant, and you and your companion shall alone come in here with me so long as the Captain is ill."

"Thanks, Major; if an opportunity offers itself I will repay you this; on the faith of a Basque, you are a worthy man."

The surgeon began laughing.

"Let us return to our patient," he said, in order to cut short the conversation.

In spite of the intelligent care the doctor paid him the Count's fainting fit lasted the whole day.

"The shock was frightful," he said – "it was almost a congestion."

It was not till night, when the frigate had been for a long time at sea, and had left Cadiz roads far behind it, that a favourable crisis set in, and the Captain became slightly better.

"He is about to regain his senses," the doctor said.

In fact, a few convulsive movements agitated the Count's body, and he half-opened his eyes; but his glances were wild and absent; he looked all around him, as if trying to discover where he was, and why he was thus lying on his bed.

The three men, with their eyes fixed on him, anxiously watched this return to life, whose appearance was anything but reassuring to them.

The surgeon, more especially, seemed restless; big forehead was wrinkled, and his eyebrows met, through the effort of some internal emotion.

All at once the Count hurriedly sat up, and addressed Michael, who was standing by his side.

"Lieutenant," he said to him, in a quick, sharp voice, "let her fall off a point, or else the Spanish vessel will escape – why have you not beat to quarters, sir?"

The surgeon gave Michael a sign.

"Pardon, Commandant," the latter replied, humouring the sick man's fancy, "we have beaten to quarters, and the tops are all manned."

"Very good," he answered; then suddenly changing his ideas, he muttered – "She will come, she promised it me. But no, she will not come; she is dead to me henceforth – dead! dead!" he repeated, in a hollow voice, with different intonations; then he uttered a piercing cry – "Oh, heaven! How I suffer!" he exclaimed, bursting into sobs, while a torrent of tears inundated his face.

He buried his head in his hands, and fell back on his bed.

The two sailors anxiously examined the surgeon's impassive face, trying to read in his features what they had to hope or fear.

The latter uttered a deep sigh of relief, passed his hand over his damp forehead, and turning to Michael, said —

"Heaven be praised! He sheds tears – he is saved."

"Heaven be praised!" the sailors repeated, crossing themselves devoutly.

"Do you think he is mad, Major?" Michael asked, in a trembling voice.

"No, it is not madness, but delirium; he will soon fall asleep – do not leave him; when he awakes he will remember nothing. If he ask for drink give him the potion I have prepared, and which is on that table."

"Yes, Major."

"Now I am going to retire; if any unforeseen accident occur, warn me at once; but, in any case, I shall look in again tonight."

The surgeon left the cabin; his previsions were soon realised, M. de Barmont gradually fell into a calm and peaceful sleep.

The two sailors stood motionless by his bedside; no nurse could have watched a patient with greater care and more delicate attention than did these two men, whose exterior seemed so hard, but whose hearts were really so kind.

The whole night passed away thus; the surgeon had come in several times, but after a few minutes' examination he withdrew with an air of satisfaction, and laying a finger on his lips.

About morning, at the first sunbeam that entered the cabin, the Count made a slight movement, opened his eyes, and slightly turned his head.

"My good Michael, give me some drink," he said, in a feeble voice.

The sailor handed him a glass.

"I feel crushed," he muttered; "have I been ill?"

"Yes, a little," the sailor replied; "but now it is all over, thank heaven! You need only have patience."

"I feel the motion of the frigate – are we under weigh?"

"Yes, Commandant."

"And who gave the orders?"

"Yourself, last night."

"Ah!" he remarked, as he handed back the glass. His head fell heavily on the pillow again, and he was silent.

Still, he did not sleep; his eyes were opened, and gazed anxiously all around.

"I remember," he murmured, while two tears welled in his eyes; then he suddenly addressed Michael.

"It was you who picked me up and brought me aboard?"

"Yes, Captain, 'twas."

"Thanks! and yet it would have perhaps been better to leave me to die."

The sailor shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"That is a fine idea, strike me!" he grumbled.

"Oh, if you only knew," he said, sorrowfully.

"I knew all; did I not warn you of it the first day?"

"That is true; I ought to have believed you – but, alas! I already loved her."

"Zounds! I knew that, and she deserved it."

"Does she still love me?"

"Who can doubt it, poor dear creature?"

"You are a good man, Michael."

"I am just."

There was another silence.

At the expiration of a few minutes the Count renewed the conversation.

"Did you find the letter?" he asked. "Where is it?"

"Here," he said, as he handed it to him.

The Count eagerly clutched it.

"Have you read it?" he asked.

"For what purpose?" said Michael. "Zounds, it must be a tissue of lies and infamies! And I am not curious about reading such things."

"There, take it," said the Count.

"To tear it up?"

"No, to read it."

"What's the good?"

"You must know the contents of the letter – I order it."

"That is different – give it here."

He took the letter, opened, and ran through it.

"Read it aloud," said the Count.

"That is a pretty job you give me, Commandant. Still, as you wish it, I must obey you."

"I implore you, Michael."

"Enough, Captain."

And he began reading the strange missive aloud.

It was short and laconic, but on that very account it necessarily produced a more terrible effect, because every word was carefully chosen to go straight home.

The following was its tenor: —

MY LORD,

You have not married my daughter: I defrauded you by a false marriage. You shall never see her again – she is dead to you. For many years there has been an implacable hatred between your family and mine. I should not have gone to seek you, but Heaven itself brought you in my way. I understood that it was desired I should avenge myself, and I obeyed. I believe that I have succeeded in breaking your heart forever. The love you have for my daughter is sincere and deep. All the better, for you will suffer the more cruelly. Farewell, my lord. Believe me, you had better not try to find me, for, if you succeed, my vengeance will be even more terrible. My daughter will marry in a month the man she loves, and whom alone she has ever loved.

"Don Estevan de Sylva, Duc de Peñaflor."

When the sailor had finished reading he turned an enquiring glance to his chief. The latter shook his head several times, but made no other reply.

Michael handed back the letter, which the Captain at once concealed beneath his pillow.

"What do you intend to do?" the sailor asked him, a moment after.

"You shall know hereafter," the Count answered, in a hollow voice. "I could not form a determination now, for my head is still heavy, and I require to reflect."

Michael gave a nod of assent.

At this moment the doctor came in. He appeared delighted at seeing his patient in so good a state, and with a joyous rubbing of his hands, promised that he should leave his bed in a week at the latest.

In fact, the surgeon was not mistaken, for the Count rapidly recovered; ere long he was able to rise, and at the end of a few days, were it not for a cadaverous pallor spread over his face, and which he ever retained, his strength seemed to have entirely come back to him.

M. de Barmont steered his frigate up the Tagus, and anchored before Lisbon. So soon as the vessel was moored the Captain summoned the second in command to his cabin, and had a long conversation with him, after which he went ashore with Michael and Bowline.

The frigate remained under the command of the first lieutenant: the Count had abandoned it for ever.

This deed almost constituted a desertion; but M. de Barmont was resolved on returning to Cadiz at all hazards.

During the few days that had elapsed since his conference with Michael, the Count had reflected, as he promised the sailor.

The result of his reflections was, that Doña Clara had been deceived by the Duke like himself, and believed herself really married – indeed, the whole of the young lady's behaviour to him proved the fact. In desiring to insure his vengeance too thoroughly, the Duke had gone beyond his object: Doña Clara loved him, he felt certain of that. She had only obeyed her father under the constraint of force.

This admitted, only one thing was left the Count to do; to return to Cadiz, collect information, find the Duke, and have a solemn explanation with him in his daughter's presence.

This plan drawn up in his mind, the young man immediately set, about carrying it out, leaving the command of his vessel to the lieutenant, at the risk of destroying his career and being pursued as a traitor, as the war was raging between France and Spain. He freighted a coaster; and, followed by his two sailors, to whom he had frankly explained his intention, but who would not leave him, he returned to Cadiz.

Thanks to the thorough knowledge of Spanish he possessed, the Count did not arouse any suspicions in that city, where it was easy for him to obtain the information he desired.

The Duke had really set out for Madrid. The Count at once proceeded to that city. A gentleman of the importance of the Duc de Peñaflor, a grandee of Spain of the first class, a caballero cubierto, could not travel without leaving traces, especially when nothing led him to suspect that he was followed. Hence the Count had not the slightest difficulty in discovering the route he had taken, and he arrived at Madrid, persuaded that he should soon have with the Duke the explanation he so ardently desired.

But his hopes were foiled. The Duke, after being honored with a private audience by the King, had set out for Barcelona.

Fatality interfered, but the Count would not be baffled: he mounted his horse, crossed Spain, and arrived at Barcelona.

The Duke had embarked for Naples on the previous day.

This pursuit was assuming the proportions of an Odyssey: it seemed as if the Duke felt that he was being pursued.

It was not so, however. He was carrying out a mission with which his sovereign had entrusted him.

The Count made enquiries, and learnt that the Duc de Peñaflor was accompanied by his daughter, and two sons.

Two days later, M. de Barmont was sailing to Naples, on board a smuggling vessel.

We will not enter into all the details of this obstinate pursuit, which lasted for several months.

We will confine ourselves to saying that the Count missed the Duke at Naples, as he had missed him at Madrid and Barcelona, and that he traversed the whole of Italy, and entered France, still in chase of his intangible enemy, who seemed to fly before him.

But during the interval, although the Count did not suspect, the parts had been greatly modified, if not completely changed.

In this way.

The Duke had a great interest in knowing what the Count would do. Though it was certain that the war would compel him to leave Spain, still he was too well acquainted with the young man's resolute and determined character to suppose for a moment that he would accept the insult offered him, without trying to take a startling revenge.

In consequence, he had left at Cadiz a confidential man with orders to watch the Count's movements with the greatest care, in the event of his reappearing, and to warn the Duke of what steps he might take.

The man had conscientiously and most skilfully discharged the delicate duty entrusted to him, and while the Count was pursuing the Duke, he pursued the Count, never letting him out of sight, stopping when he stopped, and setting out behind him directly he saw him start.

When at last he felt assured that the Count was really after his master, he got ahead of him, rejoined the Duke, whom he came up with in the neighbourhood of Pignerol, and reported to him all that he had learned.

The Duke, though internally terrified by the hateful persistency of his enemy, pretended to attach but very slight importance to this communication, and smiled contemptuously on listening to his servant's report.

But, for all this, he did not neglect to take his precautions; and, as peace was on the point of being signed, and a Spanish plenipotentiary was in Paris, he sent off the same valet to him at full speed, with a pressing letter.

This letter was a formal denunciation of the Count de Barmont Senectaire.

Cardinal de Richelieu raised no difficulty about granting an order to arrest the Count, and police agents of his Eminence, commanded by François Bouillot, left Paris in pursuit of the unhappy officer.

The latter, completely ignorant of what was going on, had continued his journey, and even gained ground on the Duke, who, persuaded that henceforth he would have nothing to fear from his enemy, as the latter would be arrested before he could come up with him, now travelled by easy stages.

The Duke's calculations were false, however. He had not reflected that the Cardinal's guards, not knowing where to find the man whom they had orders to arrest, and obliged to feel their way, would be compelled to almost double their journey: and this really occurred.

Moreover, as, with the exception of Bouillot, not one of them was personally acquainted with the Count, and he, as we now know, desired nothing so much as the Count's escape, he passed through the midst of them unsuspected, which occasioned them a great loss of time, by compelling them to turn back.

We have already narrated how, after the stormy explanation which took place between father-in-law and son-in-law, the latter was arrested, taken by Bouillot to the Isle St. Marguerite, and delivered over to Major de l'Oursière. And now that we have fully explained the respective positions of each of our characters, we will resume our narrative at the point where we left it.