I thanked the good dame, refused a cup of goats" milk, gave her a five-franc piece and started on my way again rejoicing. My luck was in.
This mountain chalet would be just the thing, and I made up my mind to interview the recluse on my way home.
The sun sank, and night came up with a rush out of the Mediterranean.
Everything was dead still. There are no birds in these solitudes, and the hum of day insects was over. Although the moon rose almost at once and gave sufficient light to steer by, the place was eerie. Immense rocks threw ashen shadows. The stone pines stood like silent sentinels, and the huge coronet of jewels--topaz against black velvet--that was Monte Carlo seemed a hundred miles away.
Following my directions, I came at length to the garden wall of a fairly large villa, painted all along the sides, with gigantic and melancholy trees, and the moonlight shed a ghostly radiance upon it.
This, I knew, was the house in occupation. The one that might be let was lower down the slope and on the other side of the road--to my right. I could just see the roof of it as I peered over the parapet.
Pushing open a wooden gate, I went up the garden path towards the Villa Turquoise--that I had discovered was its name. Tree frogs were croaking round the house, but as it was winter, there were no friendly fireflies; once or twice the fans of a palm clicked with a dry, rustling noise.
It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of Cape gooseberries.
And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano.
I stopped dead still.
Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument.
I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.
I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon a grand piano.
But in that moment, though subconsciously, I _knew_.
I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and looked inside, it began.
Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade of Chopin....
Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.
The musician was Mr. Vargus.
He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm, powerful hands rose and fell.
There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful, fantastic music.
I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference whatever to my own feelings.
The melody progressed to that marvellous pa.s.sage which Beardsley saw in line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a lady in a dress of black velvet.
At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened quietly. He heard nothing.
An awful and august figure entered.
It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.
He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an ancient j.a.panese sword--a scabbard of tortoise-sh.e.l.l and silver. His hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line.
The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer in a high light.
He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.
The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.
They remained, staring into each other"s eyes for several seconds.
I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate"s face. Inch by inch something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in a crumpled heap upon the carpet.
The j.a.panese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above his head.
As it gleamed I shut my eyes....
When I looked again, sick with the sickness of death itself, the figure in the yellow robe had raised both arms above its head. The sleeves had slipped away and the coils of muscle stood out upon the brown flesh.
Danjuro"s lips were parted. He seemed to be speaking rapidly to something above him. His whole face was irradiated with joy, and the sword in his right hand shone like a tall flame.
He remained there for some little time. Then he lowered his arms, and taking a square of purple silk from his breast, he cleansed the sword, and I knew what he was going to do.
He placed the jewelled hilt upon the carpet and adjusted the point at his waist, steadying the blade with his left hand. Then, with a loud cry, as if of exaltation, he fell heavily forward....
He had gone to his own place in the way appointed to the Heroes of Old j.a.pan.
THE END