The World's Greatest Books - Volume 4 Part 44

"I have never danced so much, it is true." And Noemi took her arm and drew her into a small salon. "No, never." She kissed her. "Oh, what it is to be happy! She loves him no longer. I am sure of it--I can see it; I feel it."

"And you love him now?"

Noemi closed her mouth by pressing her lips upon Renee's. A young man came to claim Noemi for the dance, and Denoisel requested the same favour from Renee.

Denoisel was with Henri Mauperin. They were smoking and talking peacefully, when the door was thrust open, and a man forced his way in, pus.h.i.+ng aside the valet who wanted to prevent him from entering.

"M. Mauperin de Villacourt?" he asked.

"That is my name," said Henri, rising.

"Good. My name is Boisjorand de Villacourt," retorted the stranger, striking him so violently on the cheek that his face was immediately covered with blood. Henri conquered his first impulse to throw himself upon the intruder, and said calmly, "You find that there is one Villacourt too many--so do I. Leave your card with my servant. I shall send to you to-morrow."

It was from a marked number of the "Moniteur," which the impoverished heir of the glorious name of De Villacourt found on his return from a two years' sojourn in Africa, that M. Boisjorand had learned that Henri had taken from him this name, which was all that had come down to him from his famous ancestors. He immediately proceeded to Paris and sought legal advice, but found that his poverty rendered legal action impossible. After his interview with the solicitor, he went straight to Henri's apartment to obtain the only satisfaction that was in his power.

Denoisel and another friend of Henri's arranged with Boisjorand's seconds next morning the details of the meeting. Henri, who was an excellent shot, had insisted on pistols at thirty-five paces, each combatant to have the right to advance ten steps. The duel was to take place at four o'clock the same afternoon near the ponds of Ville d'Avray.

Neither of the two adversaries showed a trace of nervousness. The signal was given, M. De Villacourt advanced five steps, Henri remaining stationary. At the sixth step Henri fired, and his opponent fell. Henri hurried towards him.

"Back to your place," shouted the wounded man. On his hands and knees he crawled forward to the limit of his advance leaving a trail of blood in the snow. Then he took careful aim--and Henri fell with arms extended and his face towards the ground.

_IV.--Broken Wanderers_

To Denoisel fell the painful duty of informing Mauperin of his son's death. The old man's grief was heartbreaking. When Denoisel was admitted to Renee, he found her sitting on a footstool, sobbing, with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

"Renee," he said, taking her hands, "he has been killed--that man should never have known. He did not read, he saw n.o.body, he lived like a wolf--he was not a subscriber to the 'Moniteur.' Some enemy must have sent him that paper."

Renee had risen; she moved her lips; she wanted to scream "It was I!"

Then, suddenly pressing her hand against her heart, she fell senseless on the floor.

Renee did not seem to recover from her illness. Denoisel saw her daily, but a certain coldness had set in between them--he thought that Renee held him responsible for not having prevented the duel, while Renee vaguely feared that Denoisel had guessed her secret. He started upon a long journey.

In those days of illness and anxiety the hearts of father and daughter seemed to come together more closely even than before. The heartbroken old man saw his beloved child wasting away. He called in the best specialist from Paris, who did not exactly give up all hope, but did not conceal that Renee's life was in danger. The poor girl, who could not bear to witness her father's misery, put on a gay air, a.s.suring him again and again that she was recovering. Indeed, when, at her urging, the family removed to the country house where she had spent her childhood, there was a real and marked improvement, and for a while the roses seemed to return to her pale cheeks.

But she soon fell back into her listless state. Thus she lingered on for several months, always cheering her father and speaking of her happy future, always fading away until she became a mere shadow of her former bright and healthy self. Only to Denoisel, when after a long absence he returned from the Pyrenees, she opened her heart. To him she confessed that she knew her days were counted.

Those who travel far afield have perhaps met in foreign towns or among the ruins of dead places--now in Russia, now in Egypt--two aged people, a man and a woman, who seem to march along without looking and without seeing. They are the Mauperins--father and mother.

They have sold everything and have gone. Thus they wander from land to land, from hotel to hotel. They wander, trying to lose their grief in the fatigue of the road, dragging their weary life to all the corners of the globe.

JAMES GRANT

Bothwell

The author of "Bothwell," and many other romantic tales, was a Scotsman by birth, parentage, and perfervid sentiment. He was born at Edinburgh on August 1, 1822. His father was a distinguished Highland officer; by his mother he was related to his ill.u.s.trious literary exemplar, Sir Walter Scott. He was only twenty-three years of age when "The Romance of War" made him one of the most famous authors of his day. Other tales quickly followed, including, in 1853, "Bothwell, or The Days of Mary Queen of Scots," and it seemed as if readers could not have too much of the lively adventure and vigorous historical portraiture to which Grant unfailingly treated them. Altogether he wrote more than fifty novels, many of them involving considerable research. Grant outlived his popularity; the public sought new writers, and when he died, on May 5, 1887, he was penniless. For fertility of incident, rapid change of scene, and skilful intermingling of historical with imaginary people and events, "Bothwell" is not surpa.s.sed by any of the romances that came from its author's fertile pen.

_I.--Anna of Bergen_

Erick Rosenkrantz, Governor of Aggerhuis, in Norway, and castellan of Bergen, stood in the hall of his castle to welcome n.o.ble guests. It was a bleak and stormy day in September of 1565. Ill, indeed, would it have fared with the newcomers had not Konrad of the Salzberg, the young captain of the crossbowmen of Bergen, ventured forth on the raging sea at the peril of his life, and piloted their vessel into safety.

The first of these was a tall and handsome man, about thirty years old, with a peculiar, dare-devil expression in his deep, dark eye, richly attired, and wearing a long sword and Scottish dagger. His companion, who deferentially remained a few paces behind, was a man of gigantic stature, swarthy and dark in complexion, with fierce and restless eyes.

"Sir Erick," began the chamberlain, "allow me to introduce Sir James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, a n.o.ble peer, amba.s.sador from Mary Queen of Scots to his Danish majesty."

"We thank you for your gracious hospitality, fair sir," said Bothwell, with a profound courtesy; then, turning to Konrad, "And now, brave youth, by whose valour we have been saved, let me thank _you_."

He warmly shook Konrad's hand, while the youth tried to catch the eye of Anna, the governor's fair-haired and lovely niece. But Anna was too intently regarding the strangers.

Suddenly Bothwell perceived her; his colour heightened, his eyes sparkled.

"Anna--Lady Anna," he exclaimed, "art _thou_ here? When we parted at the palace of King Frederick, I feared it was to meet no more."

"Thou seest, my lord," she replied gaily, "that fate never meant to separate us altogether."

It was Bothwell who sat by Anna's side at the banquet, not Konrad, her lover from childhood. Konrad was displaced and slighted; he left the hall with a heart full of jealous and bitter thoughts.

"Dost thou not see the hand of fate in this meeting with Anna?" said Bothwell, when retiring, to his gigantic companion, Black Hob of Ormiston, the most merciless and ferocious of border barons.

"Nay," said Hob; "I perceive only the finger of mischief!"

"I own to thee," replied the earl, "that all my old pa.s.sion is revived in full force. My whole heart and soul are hers," he went on pa.s.sionately.

"Remember your solemn plight to the Lady Jane Gordon. If that be broken, our doleful case will be worse than ever." For Bothwell was no amba.s.sador, but an exile; and his real mission to King Frederick was in pursuit of a design to hand over the northern Scottish isles to Denmark, and become viceroy of them.

"Hob, be not insolent," retorted Bothwell. "I love her a thousand times more than Huntly's sickly sister."

It was always thus with this reckless n.o.ble--the pa.s.sion of the moment was ever too strong for past pledges and future policy. While waiting at Bergen for the s.h.i.+p to be repaired, he wooed Anna with all the skill of an accomplished man of pleasure.

Anna's heart was ready to be won, and it was not long ere Bothwell, having gained her love, asked Governor Rosenkrantz for her hand. To his mortification, he was refused. Anna, said the governor, had long been pledged to Konrad.

But Konrad, meanwhile, was in despair. Anna no longer smiled upon him; he was lightly cast aside to make way for a more favoured lover. One evening he was missing. A day and a night pa.s.sed, and Konrad was nowhere to be seen. Search for him was useless--he had disappeared.

Two letters were brought to Bothwell by a king's messenger. One was from King Frederick, commanding him to desist from his mock emba.s.sy, and instantly leave the Danish seas; the other, from the Earl of Huntly, told him that his enemies in Scotland were banished, and his forfeiture reversed.

Bothwell's thoughts instantly turned to Anna. He knew that she would not accompany him unless he married her, and policy now more than ever required that he should keep his troth to the sister of his friend, the Earl of Huntly. Then there occurred to him the sinister thought of a mock marriage.