Meanwhile the third domino watched the conservatory doors with a lynx-eyed vigilance worthy a pupil of the celebrated Vidocq. Although the loose black dress might have covered either a short man or a woman of the middle stature, the delicacy of the gloved fingers, and of the tiny foot that peeped from below its border, left little doubt as to the s.e.x of its wearer. From a convenient position on the steps leading up to an orchestra, the fringe of her mask confined by her hand, so as to prohibit even a glimpse of her ivory chin, she subjected to a rigid scrutiny all who issued from the conservatory. Suddenly, from the door nearest to her, the hussar and his companion made their appearance, and, as they pa.s.sed, she shrouded herself behind the portly figure and sumptuous embroideries of a Venetian doge. Then she resumed her watch, and a minute had not elapsed when she saw the tall black domino, whom she had observed during the evening, re-enter the dancing-room and make his way as fast as the crowd would allow him to the nearest door of exit, with a hurried and irregular step, hardly to be explained otherwise than by sudden illness or violent emotion. She followed him to the head of the staircase, down which he rushed, disappearing at its foot through the crowd of lackeys in the hall. Having seen this, she re-entered the ball-room, sought out the hussar and his companion, and soon afterwards was whirling with the former in the giddy circles of a waltz.
Some hours later, as the Hungarian retired from the ball, almost borne along in the dense stream of masks that now flowed through the rooms, he felt a momentary pressure of his hand. A paper remained in its palm, upon which his fingers mechanically closed. Amidst the ever-moving throng it was impossible to detect the person from whom he had received it. By this time a large portion of the company, oppressed by the heat, had unmasked, but he knew none of the faces he saw around him, whilst of those who had preserved their vizards he could fix on none as object of suspicion. So soon as he could extricate himself from the crowd, he unfolded the paper. It contained the following mysterious words, hastily scrawled with a pencil:--
"One whom you think asleep wakes and watches. He is here; has followed and overheard you, and will seek revenge. Be prepared.
Proof is difficult: denial may be safety. Adopt it at all risks.
Masked, the sisters are undistinguishable. Credit this warning from a sincere friend."
Thrice the Hungarian perused this mysterious billet; and then, thrusting it into the breast of his richly braided jacket, slowly left the house.
CHAPTER III.
THE ACCUSATION.
The house selected by Baron Ernest von Steinfeld, wherein to pa.s.s what might possibly be his last season in Paris, was situated in the Rue St Lazare. It was one of those buildings, of frequent occurrence in modern Parisian architecture, which seem intended to gratify the taste of such persons as prefer the English fashion of occupying an entire house, to the French one of dwelling upon a floor. At the bottom of a paved courtyard, around three sides of which was built a large mansion containing many tenants, stood one of those edifices known in French parlance as pavilions--not that they possess a dome, resemble a tent, or, for the most part, have any of the qualities of a summer-house, but because, in Paris, the term "house" is grudgingly bestowed upon a building of less than five stories and thirty or forty rooms. This pavilion had but three stories and a dozen rooms; it was a particularly complete and independent habitation, standing well back from the body of the house under whose number it was included, and of which, although detached, it was considered to form part; and having two entrances, one through the court, the other from a lane running at right angles with the street. The ground-floor contained, besides a light and commodious vestibule and servants" offices, only one apartment, a handsome dining-room, in which, however, it was impossible, for three quarters of the year, to dine without lamps--the daylight admitted by its one broad window being greatly limited by the walls of a nook of garden, and by the impending branches of a laburnum and acacia, which mingled their boughs in affectionate union, twin lords of a square yard of gra.s.s, and of a fathom"s length of flower-bed, and in the spring-time rejoiced the inmates of the pavilion with the odorous rustle of their yellow cl.u.s.ters and rose-coloured blossoms. The first floor contained two pleasant drawing-rooms and a boudoir; the second, bath, bed, and dressing-rooms.
The roof, flat and surrounded by a parapet, commanded a view over the adjacent gardens of an extensive bathing establishment and _maison de sante_, and was no unpleasant resort, on a fine day, for persons desirous to inhale the fresh air, or to scent it with the fumes of Havana"s weed. This pavilion, described by the _Pet.i.tes Affiches_ as _fraichement decore_--the said decoration consisting in fresh paint and paper, and in a profusion of that cheerful French luxury, large and excellent mirrors--was rented for six months by Baron Steinfeld, who had hired, for the same period, from a fashionable upholsterer--for a sum which would almost have furnished the house permanently in a plainer manner--a complete set of furniture, against whose perfect elegance and good taste not a syllable could be breathed. His establishment was as correct as his residence. It consisted, in the first place, of a French cook, with whose sauces Arthur de Mellay had repeatedly expressed his willingness to eat a fragment of his father; which offer--considering the worthy count had been a guardsman in the time of Louis XVI., and, consequently, was neither young nor tender--was certainly a high testimonial to the merits of sauce and cook. Then came an Italian valet, quite as skilful a personage in his way as the professor of gastronomic science--speaking three or four languages, acc.u.mulating in his own individuality the knowledge and acquirements of a legion of hair-dressers, tailors, perfumers, and the like--thoroughly versed in the arcana of the toilet, a secretary in case of need, and a perfect Mercury in matters of intrigue. The third person of Steinfeld"s household, the last, and also by much the least--physically speaking, that is to say, but by no means in his own estimation--was one of those miniature tigers (copied from the English, and essential appendages to the establishment of a Paris lion), who look as if they had been subjected to that curious Chinese process by which lofty shrubs and forest trees are stunted to dimensions that permit the plantation of a grove in a flower-pot--wizen-faced, top-booted abortions, uniting the mischief and the proportions of a monkey, and frightfully precocious in every species of villany. The house also contained, during the day, an old Frenchwoman, of a species indigenous and confined to Paris--the patient b.u.t.t of the cook"s ill-humours and of the groom"s pranks, with bearded chin and slipshod feet, and willing for any sort of dirty work, from the scouring of a kettle to the administration of the remedy renowned in French pharmacy.
It was an hour past noon on the day succeeding the Countess of M----"s masquerade, and Steinfeld sat alone at breakfast. It were more correct to say that he sat at the breakfast table; for the savoury meal before him was still untasted, and he seemed in no haste to attack it. In vain the green oysters from Ostend lay invitingly open, and one of Chevet"s pies displayed, through a triangular aperture in its crust, the tender tints of an exquisite _foie-gras_--the result of the martyrdom of some unhappy Strasburg duck; in vain a fragrant steam of truffles oozed from beneath the covers of two silver dishes, fresh from the laboratory of Macedoine the cook, and mingled its odours with the flowery aroma of a bottle of Sauterne, from which Rufini the valet had just extracted the long yellow-sealed cork. Apparently none of these creature-comforts dwelt in the desires of the baron, who sat sideways to the table, his chin resting on his hand, gazing upon vacancy with an intenseness bespeaking deep pre-occupation. One acquainted with Steinfeld"s circ.u.mstances would have hesitated little in conjecturing the nature of the unpleasant reflections in which he seemed absorbed. They might very well have for motive the unprosperous state of his exchequer, the heavy inc.u.mbrances weighing upon the hereditary acres, the approaching decease of that convenient but fickle ally, on whose succour half the world exist, and whose name is Credit. The baron had been anything but a prudent man. Too careless of the future, he had neglected fortune when she offered herself to his embrace; and now she revenged herself by averting her countenance. Of high descent and fair estate, handsome person and fascinating manners, for some years Steinfeld might have aspired to the hand of almost any heiress in Vienna or Paris. Numerous were the matrimonial overtures that had been more or less directly made to him, at a time when, in love with his bachelorhood, and celebrated for his _bonnes fortunes_, he looked upon the bonds of Hymen as the most oppressive of fetters, intolerable even when sheathed in gold. The match-makers, repulsed without exception, at last renounced all further attempts upon the hand of the handsome Austrian--as Steinfeld was generally called in Paris--and declared him an incorrigible partisan of celibacy. To the unmolested enjoyment of his bachelor bliss the baron was for some years left, until one morning he awoke to the disagreeable consciousness that profuse expenditure had done its work, and that ruin or a rich marriage formed the only alternatives left him. He was fully alive to the difficulties placed in the way of the latter by the change in his circ.u.mstances. His ancient name and personal advantages remained, but his fair estate was in the hands of the harpies; and however disposed romantic young ladies might be to overlook this misfortune, prudent papas would deem it a serious stumbling-block. Then it was that, roused by horrid visions of approaching poverty from his usual state of happy _insouciance_, the baron gathered together the relics of his past opulence, squeezed and exhausted every remaining resource, and, a.s.suming a bold front against bad fortune, returned to Paris with much the feelings of the soldier who screws up all his energies to conquer or to die. It was no apprehension, however, as to the result of this final struggle--no nervous trepidation arising from the imminence of his situation, that now clouded Steinfeld"s brow and spoiled his appet.i.te.
On the contrary, he deemed victory secure, and beheld himself, in no remote perspective, emerging triumphantly from his difficulties, even as a snake, casting its shabby skin, reappears in glittering scales of gold. He had not wasted the three months he had pa.s.sed in Paris, and was well satisfied with the result of his exertions. His present uneasiness had a different origin--one similar to the cause by which, some fifteen hours previously, we saw Sigismund Fatello so deeply moved.
The baron turned and twisted in his hand a letter, to whose contents he again and again recurred, pondering them intently. Like that received by the banker, the billet was anonymous; like his, it contained but three or four lines; but, despite its brevity and want of authenticity, it proved, on the part of the writer, whoever that might be, an acquaintance with the baron"s most important secret, that did not fail greatly to disquiet him. Who had thus detected what he deemed so surely concealed? He strained his eyes and memory, in vain endeavouring to recognise the handwriting; and more than once, fancying he had done so, he fetched notes and letters from a desk in the adjoining boudoir, to compare them with the anonymous epistle. But the comparison always dissipated his suspicion. Then, taking a pen, and a diminutive sheet of amber-scented paper, he began a note, but tore the paper after writing only three words, and threw the fragments impatiently into the fire.
Just then the pavilion bell rang loudly; the next minute there was a knock at the room door, and Celestin the tiger made his appearance, bearing a card inscribed with the name of M. Sigismund Fatello, and an inquiry whether Monsieur le Baron was at home and visible.
On reading the banker"s name, Steinfeld made a slight and sudden movement, almost amounting to a start, but, instantly recovering himself, he bade his groom show the visitor upstairs. At the same time he hastily seated himself, ordered Rufini to take off the covers, poured some wine into a gla.s.s, and helped himself from the first dish that came to hand; so that when Fatello, ushered in by the groom, entered the apartment, he had all the appearance of one whose whole faculties were concentrated, for the time being, in the enjoyment of an excellent meal.
Rising from his chair, with an air of jovial cordiality, he hastened to welcome the banker.
"An unexpected pleasure, my dear Fatello," said he. "What favourable chance procures me so early a visit? You are come to breakfast, I hope.
Rufini, a knife and fork for M. Fatello."
"I have breakfasted, M. le Baron," replied Fatello, with a dryness amounting almost to incivility. "If my call is untimely my business is pressing----and private," he added, with a glance at the Italian, who stood in respectful immobility behind his master"s chair.
"Leave the room, Rufini," said Steinfeld.
The well-drilled valet bowed in silence, and glided noiselessly from the apartment.
"Now, then, my good friend," said the Austrian, in the same gay off-hand tone as before, "I am all ear and attention. What is up?
Nothing bad, I hope; nothing so serious as to spoil my appet.i.te. I have heard a proverb condemning discourse between a full man and a hungry one."
Fatello made no immediate reply. There was something very peculiar in his aspect. His lips were pale and compressed, and his brows slightly knit. He seemed constraining himself to silence until he felt he could speak calmly on a subject which roused anger and indignation in his breast. Whilst seemingly engrossed by his breakfast, Steinfeld lost not a look or motion of his visitor"s, not a line of his physiognomy, or a glance of his small piercing eye. And the baron, notwithstanding his a.s.sumed careless levity of manner, did not feel altogether at his ease.
"You have not turned conspirator, I hope," said he, when Fatello, after a short but awkward pause, still remained silent. "No Henri-quinquist plot, or plan to restore the glorious days of the guillotine and the G.o.ddess of Liberty? No, no; a Croesus of your calibre, my dear Fatello, would not mix in such matters. Your plotters are hungry dogs, with more debts than ducats. Talking of hunger--I am grieved you have breakfasted. This mushroom omelet does honour to Macedoine."
The baron would have talked on--for at that moment any sort of babble seemed to him preferable to silence. But Fatello, who had not heard a word he had said, suddenly rose from his seat, rested his hands upon the table, and leaning forward, with eyes sternly fixed upon Steinfeld, uttered these remarkable words, in tones rendered harsh and grating by the effort that made them calm:
"Monsieur le Baron de Steinfeld, you are courting my wife!"
The most expert physiognomist would have failed to detect upon the countenance of the ex-diplomatist any other expression than one of profound astonishment, tinged by that glow of indignation an innocent man would be likely to feel at an unfounded accusation, abruptly and brutally brought. After sustaining for a few seconds Fatello"s fixed and angry gaze, his features relaxed into a slightly contemptuous smile.
"The jest is surely in questionable taste, my dear M. Fatello. And the severity of your countenance might alarm a man with a conscience less clear than mine."
"I jest not, sir, with my honour and happiness," retorted Fatello, with a rude fierceness that brought a flush to the baron"s cheek--a flame of anger which the next moment, however, dispelled.
"Then, my dear M. Fatello," said Steinfeld, "since, instead of a bad jest, you mean sober earnest, I can only say you are grossly misinformed, and that your suspicions are as injurious to Madame Fatello, as your manner of expressing them is insulting to myself."
"I have no suspicions," replied Fatello, "but a certainty."
"Impossible!" said the baron. "Name my accuser. He shall account for the base calumny."
"He desires no better," replied Fatello, sternly. "I myself accuse you.
No slanderous tongues, but my own ears, are evidence against you. And yourself, sir, shall confess what you now so stubbornly deny. You were at last night"s masquerade."
"I was so."
"In hussar uniform--crimson vest and white pelisse."
Steinfeld bowed a.s.sent. "The uniform of the regiment to which I formerly belonged."
"A black domino was on your arm."
"_Ma foi!_" cried the baron, with a laugh that sounded rather forced, "if you demand an account of all the masks I walked and danced with, I shall hardly be able to satisfy you. Dominoes there were, doubtless; and, of all colours, black amongst the rest."
"You equivocate, sir," said Fatello, angrily. "I will aid your memory.
The domino I mean was your companion early in the night. The domino I mean danced once with you (a waltz), and afterwards walked with you through the rooms, in deep conversation. The domino I mean stood with you for more than ten minutes beside the fountain in the conservatory.
The domino I mean was my wife; and you, Baron Steinfeld, are a villain!"
During this singular conversation Steinfeld had sat, leaning back in his large elbow-chair, in an att.i.tude of easy indifference--one slippered foot thrown carelessly over the other, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his damask dressing-gown. On receiving this last outrageous insult, his lip blanched with pa.s.sion, his whole person quivered as with an electric shock, and he half rose from his semi-rec.u.mbent position.
But the baron was a man of vast self-command; one of those cool-headed cool-hearted egotists who rarely act upon impulse, or compromise their interests by ill-timed impetuosity. The first choleric movement, prompting him to throw Fatello downstairs, was checked with wonderful prompt.i.tude, and with little appearance of effort. In reality, however, the effort was a violent one. As a soldier at the triangles bites a bullet with the rage of pain, so Steinfeld clenched his hands till the strong sharp nails almost cut into the palm. As he did so, a paper in his pocket rustled against his knuckles. It was the note so mysteriously conveyed to him at the masquerade, and which he had been pondering when Fatello was announced. To one so quick-witted, the mere touch of the paper was as suggestive as a volume of sage counsels. In an instant every sign of annoyance disappeared from his features; he rose quietly from his seat, and with easy dignity and an urbane countenance confronted Fatello, who stood gloomy and lowering before the fire.
"I see, M. Fatello," he said, "that you are bent upon our cutting each other"s throats; but, strange as it may seem, after the terms you have employed, I still hope to avert the unpleasant necessity. For one moment moderate your language, and give me time for brief explanation. If I rightly understand you, it is from your own observations you thus accuse me; and I presume you did me the honour of a personal surveillance at last night"s ball?"
Fatello, his violence checked for the moment from further outbreak by the baron"s courtesy and coolness, made a gesture of sullen a.s.sent.
"And that you overheard a part, but not the whole, of my conversation with the black domino in question?"
"I heard enough, and too much," replied Fatello, with a savage scowl at his interlocutor. "This is idle talk, mere gain of time. Baron Steinfeld!" cried the banker, in a voice that again rose high above its usual pitch, "you are----"
"Stop!" interrupted Steinfeld, speaking very quickly, but with an extraordinary and commanding calmness, which again had its effect.
"Descend not to invective, M. Fatello. There is always time for violence. Hear reason. You are in error, an error easily explained.
I certainly saw Madame Fatello at the ball, saw and spoke with her--patience, sir, and hear me! But the domino, of my conversation with whom you heard a part, was _not_ Madame Fatello, but Mademoiselle Gonfalon. You take little interest in the frivolities of a masquerade, and are possibly unaware that the two ladies" dresses were exactly similar. You can have heard our conversation but imperfectly, or you would not have wronged me by this suspicion."
Whilst uttering these last sentences, Steinfeld redoubled the keenness of the scrutiny with which he regarded the banker"s uncomely and agitated physiognomy. But although piquing himself, as a former diplomatist, on skill in reading men"s thoughts through their faces, he was unable to decipher the expression of Fatello"s countenance on receiving this plausible explanation of the error into which he had been led by the sisters" ident.i.ty of costume. As he proceeded with it, the banker"s lips, slightly parting, gave his face an air of stupefied wonderment, in addition to its previously inflamed and angry aspect.
When Steinfeld concluded an explanation uttered with every appearance of sincerity and candour, and in that flexible and affable tone which, when he chose to employ it, imparted to his words a peculiarly seductive and persuasive charm, Fatello"s lips were again firmly closed, and curled with a curious and inexplicable smile. This faded away; he struck his left hand against his forehead, and remained for some moments plunged in thought, as if he hastily retraced in his memory what he had heard the night before, to see how it tallied with the explanation just given him.
Thus, at least, Steinfeld interpreted his manner; and although the Austrian"s countenance preserved its serenity, his heart throbbed violently against his ribs during the banker"s brief cogitation. The result of this was evidently satisfactory to Fatello, from whose brow, when his hand again dropped by his side, the lowering cloud had disappeared, replaced by affability and regret.
"I see," he said, with better grace than might have been expected from him, and taking a step towards Steinfeld, "that nothing remains for me but to implore your pardon, baron, for my unwarrantable suspicions, and for the harsh and unbecoming expressions into which they betrayed me.
Jealousy is an evil counsellor, and blinds to the simplest truths.
I scarce dare hope you will forgive my intemperate conduct, without exacting the hostile meeting for which I was just now as eager as I at present am to avoid it. If you insist I must not refuse, but I give you my word that if I have a duel with you to-day, nothing shall induce me to depart from the defensive."
"I should be unreasonable," replied Steinfeld, graciously, "if I exacted ampler satisfaction than this handsome apology, for what, after all, was no unnatural misconception. Ten years ago I might have been more punctilious, but after three or four encounters of the kind, a duel avoided, when its real motive is removed, is a credit to a man"s good sense, and no slur upon his courage."