Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“I used not to have a complaint against Fortune,” said the other. “Before we met, she had treated me well for many a year.”

“And ‘twas me that changed it, I suppose,” said the first, in the same insolent tone as before; “do you mean that?”

“The world has gone ill with me since that day.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Partly yours,” said the other, in a slow, deliberate voice, every syllable of which thrilled through Cashers heart as he listened. “Had you secured the right man, it was beyond the power of Fortune to hurt either of us. That fatal, fatal mistake!”

“How could I help it?” cried the other, energetically; “the night was as dark as this – it was between two high banks – there was nothing to be seen but a figure of a man coming slowly along – you yourself told me who it would be – I did n’t wait for more; and troth!” – here he gave a fiendish laugh – “troth! you’ll allow the work was well done.”

“It was a most determined murder,” said the other, thoughtfully.

“Murder! murder!” screamed the first, in a voice of fierce passion; “and is it you that calls it a murder?”

“No matter how it is called. Let us speak of something else.”

“Very well. Let us talk about the price of it. It is n’t paid yet!”

“Is it nothing that I have taken you from abject, starving misery – from a life of cold, want, and wretchedness, to live at ease in the first city of the universe? Is it no part of the price that you spend your days in pleasure and your nights in debauch? – that, with the appetite of the peasant, you partake of the excesses of the gentleman? Is it no instalment of the debt, I say, that you, who might now be ground down to the very earth as a slave at home, dare to lift your head and speak thus to me?”

“And is it you dares to tell me this?” cried the other, in savage energy; “is it you, that made me a murderer, and then think that I can forget it because I’m a drunkard? But I don’t forget it! I ‘ll never forget it! I see him still, as he lay gasping before me, and trying to beg for mercy when he could n’t ask for it. I see him every day when I ‘m in a lonely place; and, oh! he’s never away from me at night, with his bloody hands on his head trying to save it, and screaming out for God to help him. And what did I get for it? answer me that,” yelled he, in accents shrill with passion. “Is it my wife begging from door to door – is it my children naked and hungry – is it my little place, a ruin and a curse over it – or is it myself trying to forget it in drink, not knowing the day nor the hour that it will rise up against me, and that I ‘ll be standing in the dock where I saw him that you tried to murder too?”

“There is no use in this passion,” said the other, calmly; “let us be friends, Tom; it is our interest to be so.”

“Them’s the very words you towld Mr. Phillis, and the next day he was taken up for robbery, and you had him transported.”

“Phillis was a fool, and paid the penalty of a fool; but you are a shrewd fellow, who can see to his own advantage. Now listen to me calmly: were it not for bad luck, we might all of us have had more money now than we could count or squander. Had Maritaña continued upon the stage, her gains would by this time have been enormous. The bank, too, would have prospered; her beauty would have drawn around us all that was wealthy and dissipated in the world of fashion; we could have played what stake we pleased. Princes, ambassadors, ministers of state would have been our game. Curses be on his head who spoiled this glorious plan! From that unhappy night at Venice she never would appear again, nor could she. The shock has been like a blight upon her. You have seen her yourself, and know what it has made her.”

The artifice by which the speaker contrived to change the topic, and withdraw the other from a painful subject to one of seeming confidence, was completely successful; and in the altered tone of voice might be read the change which had come over him.

“You wish to go to America, Tom?” continued he, after a pause.

“Ay; I never feel safe here. I ‘m too near home.”

“Well, if everything prospers with us, you shall have the money by Tuesday – Wednesday at farthest. Rica has at last found a clew to old Corrigan, and, although he seems in great poverty, his name upon a bill will still raise some hundreds.”

“I don’t care who pays it, but I must get it,” said the other, whose savage mood seemed to have returned. “I ‘ll not stay here. ‘T is little profit or pleasure I have standin’ every night to see the crowds that are passing in, to be cheated out of their money, – to hear the clink of the goold I ‘m never to handle, – and to watch all the fine livin’ and coortin’ that I ‘ve no share in.”

“Be satisfied. You shall have the money; I pledge my word upon it.”

“I don’t care for your word. I have a better security than ever it was.”

“And what may that be?” said the other, cautiously.

“Your neck in a halter, Mr. Linton,” said he, laughing ironically. “Ay, ye don’t understand me, – poor innocent that ye are! but I know what I ‘m saying, and I have good advice about it besides.”

“How do you mean good advice, Tom?” said Linton, with seeming kindliness of manner. “Whom have you consulted?”

“One that knows the law well,” said Tom, with all the evasive shrewdness of his class.

“And he tells you – ”

“He tells me that the devil a bit betther off you’d be than myself, – that you are what they call an ‘accessory’ – that’s the word; I mind it well.”

“And what does that mean?”

“A chap that plans the work, but has n’t the courage to put hand to it.”

“That’s an accessory, is it?” said the other, slowly.

“Just so.” He paused for a few seconds, then added,

“Besides, if I was to turn ‘prover, he says that I’d only be transported, and ‘t is you would be hanged” – the last word was uttered in a harsh and grating tone, and followed by a laugh of insolent mockery – “so that you see ‘tis better be honest with me, and pay me my hire.”

“You shall have it, by G – !” said Linton, with a deep vehemence; and, drawing a pistol from his bosom, he fired. The other fell, with a loud cry, to the bottom of the boat. A brief pause ensued, and then Linton raised the body in his arms to throw it over. A faint struggle showed that life was not extinct, but all resistance was impossible. The lightness of the boat, however, made the effort difficult; and it was only by immense exertion that he could even lift the heavy weight half-way; and at last, when, by a great effort, he succeeded in laying the body over the gunwale, the boat lost its balance and upset. With a bold spring, Linton dashed into the current, and made for shore; but almost as he did so, another and a stronger swimmer, who had thrown off his clothes for the enterprise, had reached the spot, and, grasping the inert mass as it was about to sink, swam with the bleeding body to the bank.

When Casbel gained the stairs, he threw the wounded man upon his shoulder, for signs of life were still remaining, and hastened to a cabaret near. A surgeon was soon procured, and the bullet was discovered to have penetrated the chest, cutting in its passage some large blood-vessel, from which the blood flowed copiously. That the result must be fatal it was evident; but as the bleeding showed signs of abatement, it seemed possible life might be protracted some hours. No time was therefore to be lost in obtaining the dying man’s declaration, and a Juge d’Instruction, accompanied by a notary, was immediately on the spot. As the surgeon had surmised, a coagulum had formed in the wounded vessel, and, the bleeding being thus temporarily arrested, the man rallied into something like strength, and with a mind perfectly conscious and collected. To avoid the shock which the sight of Cashel might occasion, Roland did not appear at the bedside.

Nor need we linger either at such a scene, nor witness that fearful straggle between the hope of mercy and the dread consciousness of its all but impossibility. The dying confession has nothing new for the reader; the secret history of the crime is already before him, and it only remains to speak of those events which followed Keane’s flight from Ireland. As Linton’s servant he continued for years to travel about the Continent, constantly sustained by the hope that the price of his crime would one day be forthcoming, and as invariably put off by the excuse that play, on which he entirely depended for means, had been unlucky, but that better times were certainly in store for him. The struggles and difficulties of an existence thus maintained; the terrible consciousness of an unexpiated crime; the constant presence of one who knew the secret of the other, and might at any moment of anger, or in some access of dissipation, reveal it, made up a life of torture to which death would be a boon; added to this, that they frequently found themselves in the same city with Cashel, whom Linton never dared to confront. At Messina they fell in with Rica, as the proprietor of a gaming-table which Linton continually frequented. His consummate skill at play, his knowledge of life, and particularly the life of gamblers, his powers of agreeability, soon attracted Rica’s notice, and an intimacy sprang up which became a close friendship – if such a league can be called by such a name.

By the power of an ascendancy acquired most artfully, and by persuasive flatteries of the most insidious kind, he induced Rica to bring Maritaña on the stage; where her immense success had replenished their coffers far more rapidly and abundantly than play. At Naples, however, an incident similar to what happened at Venice was nigh having occurred. She was recognized by a young Spaniard who had known her in Mexico; and as the whole assumed history of her noble birth and Sicilian origin was thus exposed to contradiction, they took measures to get rid of this unwelcome witness. They managed to hide among his effects some dies and moulds for coining, – an offence then, as ever, rife at Naples. A police investigation, in which bribery had its share, was followed by a mock-trial, and the young fellow was sentenced to the galleys for seven years, with hard labor.

Their career from this moment was one of unchanging success. Maritaña’s beauty attracted to the play-table all that every city contained of fashion, wealth, and dissipation. In her ignorance of the world she was made to believe that her position was one the most exalted and enviable. The homage she received, the devotion exhibited on every side, the splendor of her life, her dress, her jewels, her liveries, dazzled and delighted her. The very exercise of her abilities was a source of enthusiastic pleasure to one who loved admiration. Nor had she perhaps awoke from this delusion, had not the heart-uttered cry of Roland burst the spell that bound her, and evoked the maiden’s shame in her young heart. Then – with a revulsion that almost shook reason itself – she turned with abhorrence from a career associated with whatever could humiliate and disgrace. Entreaties, prayers, menaces – all were unavailing to induce her to appear again; and soon, indeed, her altered looks and failing health rendered it impossible. A vacant unmeaning smile, or a cold impassive stare, usurped the place of an expression that used to shine in joyous brilliancy. Her step, once bounding and elastic, became slow and uncertain. She seldom spoke; when she did, her accents were heavy, and her thoughts seemed languid, as though her mind was weary. None could have recognized in that wan and worn face, that frail and delicate figure, the proud and beautiful Maritaña.

She lived now in total seclusion. None ever saw her, save Rica, who used to come and sit beside her each day, watching, with Heaven alone knows what mixture of emotion! that wasting form and decaying cheek. What visions of ambition Linton might yet connect with her none knew or could guess; but he followed the changing fortunes of her health with an interest too deep and earnest to be mistaken for mere compassion. Such, then, was her sad condition when they repaired to Paris, and, in one of the most spacious hotels of the Rue Richelieu, established their “Bank of Rouge et Noir.” This costly establishment vied in luxury and splendor with the most extravagant of those existing in the time of the Empire. All that fastidious refinement and taste could assemble, in objects of art and virtu, graced the salons. The cookery, the wines, the service of the different menials, rivalled the proudest households of the nobility.

A difficult etiquette restricted the admission to persons of acknowledged rank and station, and even these were banded together by the secret tie of a political purpose, for it was now the eve of that great convulsion which was to open once more in Europe the dread conflict between the masses and the few.

While Linton engaged deep in play, and still deeper in politics, “making his book,” as he called it, “to win with whatever horse he pleased,” one dreadful heartsore never left him: this was Keane, whose presence continually reminded him of the past, and brought up besides many a dread for the future.

It would have been easy at any moment for Linton to have disembarrassed himself of the man by a sum of money; but then came the reflection, “What is to happen when, with exhausted means and dissolute habits, this fellow shall find himself in some foreign country? Is he not likely, in a moment of reckless despair, to reveal the whole story of our guilt? Can I even trust him in hours of convivial abandonment and debauch? Vengeance may, at any instant, overrule in such a nature the love of life, – remorse may seize upon him. He is a Romanist, and may confess the murder, and be moved by his priest to bring home the guilt to the Protestant.” Such were the motives which Linton never ceased to speculate on and think over, always reverting to the one same conviction, that he must keep the man close to his person, until the hour might come when he could rid himself of him forever.

The insolent demeanor of the fellow; his ruffian assurance, the evidence of a power that he might wield at will – became at last intolerable. Linton saw this “shadow on his path” wherever he wandered. The evil was insupportable from the very fact that it occupied his thoughts when great and momentous events required them. It was like the paroxysm of some painful disease, that came at moments when health and calm of spirit were most wanted. To feel this, to recognize it thoroughly, and to resolve to overcome it, were, with Linton, the work of a moment. “His hour is come,” said he, at length; “the company at La Morgue to-morrow shall be graced by a guest of my inviting.”

Although to a mind prolific in schemes of villany the manner of the crime could offer no difficulty, strange enough, his nature revolted against being himself the agent of the guilt It was not fear, for he was a man of nerve and courage, and was, besides, certain to be better armed than his adversary. It was not pity, nor any feeling that bordered on pity, deterred him; it was some instinctive shrinking from an act of ruffianism; it was the blood of a man of birth that curdled at the thought of that which his mind associated with criminals of the lowest class, – the conventional feeling of Honor surpassing all the dictates of common Humanity.

Nothing short of the pressing emergency of the hour could have overcome these scruples, but Keane’s insolence was now in itself enough to compromise him, and Linton saw that but one remedy remained, and that it could not be deferred. Constant habits of intercourse with men of a dangerous class in the Faubourgs and the Cite gave the excuse for the boating excursion at night. The skiff was hired by Keane himself, who took up Linton at a point remote from where he started, and thus no clew could be traced to the person who accompanied him. The remainder is in the reader’s memory, and now we pursue our story.

The surgeon who examined Keane’s wound not only pronounced it inevitably fatal, but that the result must rapidly ensue. No time was, therefore, to be lost in obtaining the fullest revelations of the dying man, and also in taking the promptest measures to secure the guilty party.

The authorities of the British Embassy lent a willing aid to Cashel in this matter, and an express was at once despatched to London for the assistance of a police force, with the necessary warrant for Linton’s arrest Meanwhile Keane was watched with the narrowest vigilance; and so secretly was everything done, that his very existence was unknown beyond the precincts of the room he inhabited.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE “BANK OF ROUGE ET NOIR”

Vice has its own ambitions.

Morton.

It was already nigh daybreak. The “bank” had long since been closed, and none remained of Rica’s guests save the most inveterate gamblers, who were now assembled in a small room in a secret part of the establishment, presided over by the host himself.

The persons here met were no bad representatives of the “play world,” of which they formed an important part. They were men, many of them of the highest rank, who had no other object or pursuit in life than play! Mingling to a certain extent in public life, they performed before the world their various parts as soldiers, statesmen, courtiers, or ambassadors; their thoughts meanwhile travelled but one solitary track. The only field in which their ambition ranged was the green cloth of the rouge et noir table. As soldiers they would have lost a battle with more fortitude than as gamblers they would lose a bet. As statesmen they would have risked the fate of a kingdom to secure a good “martingale” at play. Men of highest breeding, in society, abounding in all the graces that adorn intercourse; here they were taciturn, reserved, almost morose, never suffering their attention to wander for an instant from that engrossing theme where gain and loss contended.

Into this society, noiseless and still as stifled feelings and repressed emotions could make it, Linton entered; a full dress replacing the clothes he so lately wore, not a trace of unusual agitation on his features, he seemed in every respect the easy man of fashion for which the world took him.

A slight nod, a familiar motion of the hand, were all the greetings which passed between him and such of his acquaintances as deigned to raise their heads from the game. Linton perceived at once that the play was high, nor did he need to cast a look at the mountain of gold, the coinage of every European nation, to know that the “bank” was a winner. The chief player was a young noble of the king’s household, the Duke de Marsac, a man of originally immense fortune, the greater part of which he had already squandered at play. His full dress of the Court, for he had dined the day before at the royal table, contrasted strangely with the haggard expression of his features, while his powdered hair hung in stray and dishevelled masses over his temples, – even his deep lace ruffles, which in his agitation he had torn to very rags, – all bespoke the abandonment of the loser. Linton, who always passed for a mere frequenter of the house, unconnected with its interests in any way, saw at a glance that a perfectly quiet demeanor was imperatively necessary; that not a word should be uttered, not a syllable let fall, which should break the spell of that enchantment that was luring on the gambler to his ruin.

No man was more master of the hundred little artifices by which the spectator – “the gallery” is the play phrase – can arouse the hopes and stimulate the expectations of the losing player. He knew to perfection when to back the unlucky gambler, and how to throw out those half-muttered words of encouragement so dear and precious to the loser’s heart. But if he knew all this well, he also knew that there are times when these interferences become impertinent, and when the intense excitement of the game will not admit of the distraction of sympathy. Linton, therefore, was silent; he took his seat behind the chair of one of his intimates, and watched the table attentively.

At the close of a game wherein fortune vacillated for a long time, the Duke lost above a hundred thousand francs, – a kind of pause, like a truce, seemed to intervene, and Rica sat with the cards before him, not making preparations for a new deal.

“Fortune is too decidedly your enemy this evening, my Lord Duke; I am really ashamed to see you lose thus continuously.”

“There is a certain Château de Marlier, which belongs to me, near St. Germain,” said the Duke. “It has been valued, with its grounds, at upwards of seven hundred thousand francs; are you disposed to advance so much upon it?”

“As loan or purchase?” asked Rica.

“Whichever you prefer. If the choice were mine, I should say as a loan.”

“Parbleu! it is a beautiful spot,” said one of the players. “It was formerly a hunting-seat of Louis XIV.”

“You are quite correct, sir,” said the Duke. “It was a present from that monarch to my grandfather, and possesses, amongst its other advantages, the privilege of giving the owner a ducal coronet. If any man be weak enough in these days to care for the distinction, he can be Duke de Marlier on easy terms.”

“Take him,” whispered Linton in Rica’s ear. “I accept the venture as my own.”

“Were I to accept this offer, my Lord Duke,” said Rica, “am I to understand that no mortgages nor charges of any kind are in existence against this property?”

“It is perfectly unencumbered,” said the Duke, calmly. “There are some half-dozen pictures – a Velasquez or two amongst them – which I should reserve as my own; but everything else would belong to the purchaser.”

“The cost of transferring property in France is considerable, I believe, and there is some difficulty respecting the right of foreigners to inherit,” said Rica, again.

“Take him, I say; the risk is mine,” whispered Linton, whose impatience at the other’s caution became each moment stronger.

“Do you accept, Monsieur de Rica?” said the Duke, pushing back his chair from the table, as though about to rise, “or is there to be an armistice for the present?”

“It would be ungenerous, my Lord Duke, to refuse you anything in my power to grant,” said Rica, obsequiously. “As a high-spirited but unfortunate player – ”

“Let not this weigh with you, sir,” said the Duke, proudly; “the chances are that I leave my estate behind me on this table. That is the only consideration for you to entertain.”

“Take him at once; it will be too late soon,” whispered Linton again.

“I agree, my Lord,” said Rica, with a slight sigh, as if yielding in opposition to his inclination. “When is the money to be forthcoming?”

“Now, sir. Here, upon this spot; here, where, before I rise, I am determined to have my revenge.”

“The bank always closes at daybreak,” said Rica, gravely.

“Upon this occasion it will not,” said the Duke, with an air of command.

“Be it so, my Lord Duke; you shall have everything as you wish it. I only call these gentlemen to witness that this proceeding is contrary to my desire, and must form no precedent for the future.”

“Few will be found to ask for such concession,” said the Duke, tartly. “Let us have no more trifling, but begin.”

“I back the Duke,” said Linton, opening his pocket-book, and taking out a roll of bank-notes. “Whatever I have touched to-night has gone luckily with me, and I am sure to bring him good fortune.”

“If I might ask a favor, Monsieur,” said the Duke, “it would be to leave me to deal single-handed with my destiny.”

“As you please, my Lord,” said Linton, gayly. “If you will not accept me as ally, you must have me as adversary. Charley, make room for me beside you,” continued he, addressing a man whose haggard cheek and deep sunken eye could scarcely recall the features of Lord Charles Frobisher.

“He’s in for it,” muttered Frobisher, as Linton seated himself at his side.

“We shall see,” said Linton, calmly, arranging his notebook before him. Meanwhile, Rica was busily engaged in counting out to the Duke the heavy sum of the purchase. This occupied a considerable time, during which Linton amused the others with a running fire of that gossipry which goes the round of Parisian society, and takes in the world of politics, of literature, of art, and of morals. The eventful period was full of rumors, and none knew better than Linton how to exalt some into certainty, and degrade others into mere absurdity. “If the bank wins,” said he, laughingly, at the close of some observation on the condition of parties, “our friend Rica will be the last Duke in Europe.”