Part 22 (2/2)

”I mean that Giacinto is with Soliviac, and that they are exploring every shoal, creek and cape, interviewing every fisherman. Their destination is Pleneuf. Their project may have a startling effect,” and Louis Pierre's voice rang out almost stridently.

Chapter III

GIACINTO'S RETURN

Amelie was forced to resign herself patiently to await the news. Life tends to normalize itself, whatever the given conditions, and she wisely accommodated herself to the inevitable. During the mornings she roamed over the great castle, in company with Vilon and Baby d.i.c.k. They would ascend towers and descend into subterranean pa.s.sages, rearranging the salons and adorning the altars. The only inmates of the lofty feudal edifice, besides Vilon, Amelie, Louis Pierre and the child were two maid-servants, one of whom was in charge of the kitchen. At dawn both maids went into the fields for fruit and vegetables or to take the cows to pasture, so that Amelie, free from importunate eyes, walked about freely. They were curious to see the Marquis's relative, she who slept in the Marquise's boudoir, but they made no impertinent inquiries through fear of Jean Vilon, who alone waited upon the guest. During the afternoon, Louis Pierre would come up from his room and play dominoes or discuss the future with her. The Carbonaro had read many books. His brain had received certain ideas as though they had been graven thereon with a corrosive. He was visionary, mystical and a dreamer, and pertained to the sect known as Theophilanthropists; he believed himself destined by Providence to accomplish some high mission requiring great valor and abnegation. His chief characteristic was a contempt for life, and this secured him Amelie's esteem.

With Jean Vilon, Amelie conversed less than with Louis Pierre and her treatment always displayed an air of affectionate patronage. She was a woman, very much of a woman, and fully conscious of her effect upon men.

She used no coquetry toward the fine peasant for in no particular did her feminine artifices approach familiarity. The homage she loved to receive was that of the soul, the adoration of chivalry; she longed for the devotion which ill.u.s.trious unhappy queens had inspired, such as Mary Stuart, or Marie Antoinette. The attachment of Jean Vilon, each day more apparent, was such as a youth of medieval ages paid the holy relics. He divined and filled her every wish. On warm nights he escorted her through the woods that she might breathe the fresh, pure air. They took long walks which brought the roses back to her cheeks and the litheness to her limbs. These clandestine rambles, which seemed at first so risky, soon became a custom.

But her chief delight was the child, the unfortunate waif, torn from the arms of his drowning mother and cast into hers. When asked his name, he would answer ”Baby, baby!”

”Only Baby?” Amelie would ask.

One day the little fellow fixed his blue eyes, full of candor, on her face, and added:

”Baby d.i.c.k.”

”His name is Richard, then,” said Amelie. ”This is some information gained,” and with that much she had to content herself. The child had either forgotten or did not know his family name. Of his father he remembered nothing; of his mother he knew that she lived in a cottage near the beach, amid many flowers and with a large dog, as large as Silvano. Amelie began to think that he was a child born out of wedlock and she felt for him a greater attachment than ever. From the first moment of being with her, he had called her ”Mamma.” Her eyes would fill with tears as she placed him at night in his little bed and clasped his tiny hands in prayer. ”He has no mother but me,” she would say with trembling lips.

One afternoon Louis Pierre read aloud to her from Rousseau's Emile while she held Baby d.i.c.k on her knees. Suddenly Jean Vilon appeared.

”A man has just arrived,” he said ”bringing my master's watch-word. He came by the road of Saint Brieuc. Shall I open to him?”

Louis exchanged a lightning glance with Amelie.

”Is he dark, handsome, with curly black hair and in sailor's clothes?”

she asked.

”Yes, and he seems very tired.”

”Bring him through the subterranean pa.s.sage, no matter how great is his fatigue. The servants must not see a stranger enter.”

Jean Vilon withdrew, and it was night when, almost fainting with exhaustion, and covered with dust, Giacinto appeared before them. Amelie ordered Vilon to retire. There was no need to ask questions. The Italian's face, with terrible eloquence, revealed the truth.

Nevertheless Louis Pierre inquired:

”Bad news?”

”The worst.”

”Volpetti is saved?”

”Saved and on the road to Paris.”

Louis Pierre's voice uttered an inarticulate growl, but the girl recovered sufficient courage to say:

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