CHAPTER XXII
THE CONTENTS OF THE BOX
One day very soon thereafter my servant presented me a box, which hesaid had been brought there by an Indian from Colonel d'Ortez, with therequest that it be delivered into my own hand. And further, to beg Iwould make him a visit as soon as my duties would permit.
The evening being far advanced I could not go that night, so contentedmyself with the promise I would cross the bay on the morrow.
Later, my company being my own, I gave attention to the box, such ametal receptacle as was commonly used for articles of value. Itresponded easily to the key, and opened without difficulty.
The reasons for d'Ortez's fear and retirement lay bare before me, if Iwould but search them out. Within the box, bound together by deerskinthongs, were many writings, some on parchment, some paper, of differentdates and degrees of preservation. Some were well worn from age andhandling, others more recent, were in better condition. Some therewere which appeared quite new and fresh; these must have been thelatest to find a resting place in his keeping.
All were arranged in due and systematic order; of whatever age, eachbore a careful superscription, giving in brief the contents of thepaper written by his own exact hand. Beside this, each document wasnumbered and placed in sequence. Verily, it was most methodicallydone, so any child could read and understand.
It was with much misgiving I approached the task of making myselffamiliar with my old friend's secret. Had he committed some youthfulcrime which weighed heavily upon his trembling age, and had driven himto these savage shores, where, shut out from all companionship with hiskind, he did a lonely penance? If so, I preferred to remain inignorance, for his was a friendship so dear, so pure, I desired not totaint it with the odor of guilt.
He had, however, made his request in such urgent terms, even pathetic,I could not disregard it, and putting aside the reluctance I felt, Itook up the paper which lay on top, directed to myself, and began itsperusal. It was as follows:
My dear Placide:
The great feebleness of my worn-out frame warns me again that time forme is almost past. It may be, when you recross the seas, I shall havegone to final judgment. * * * remember my request, and carry on to theend that work which generations of cowards have left undone. * * * Allis here contained in these papers, except some recent news I have ofthe Pasquiers from the northern colonies.
Possibly if you went to Quebec and sought out the Cure of St. Martin's(who wrote this last letter, No. 32) you may right it all, and give tomy soul its eternal peace. * * * With the strong affection which mybodily infirmities have in no wise diminished, I am,
Your old friend. RAOUL ARMAND XAVIER D'ORTEZ. of Cartillon, Normandy.
Having carefully read this letter, I then proceeded to peruse thevarious documents in the order he had arranged them.
The first, written by the hand of the Benedictine, Laurent of Lorraine,Abbot of Vaux, told of the admission to the monastery of a child, sonof Henri d'Artin, to whom the good monks gave the name BartholomewPasquier. This child, though designed for orders, left the monastery,cast his fortunes with the King of Navarre, and became a great officerin the household of King Henri the Fourth.
Other documents gave an account of the posterity of this child down toone Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, who fled to America in 1674 toescape the vengeance of a certain great lord whose son he slew in aduel. This was he who was reputed to have been killed in battle, andto have left no issue. And this was he whom I afterward found to be myown good father.
There was also contained an account of the later life of Pedro d'Ortez,who, profiting not by his blood-gotten gains, threw himself, while indelirium, into the same old well whereon he had hanged his brother,Henri d'Artin.
Some further notes by the good abbot told of how Raoul, the second sonof Pedro, slew his own brother, before their father's eyes, in orderthat he, Raoul, might be Count of Cartillon. And this same Raoul, someyears later, did have the locket made and forced his own son to swearthat he would restore the real sons of d'Artin, the true children ofthe Black Wolf's Breed, to their own again. All of these accounts areof surpassing interest, old and quaint, to a perusal of which Irecommend my children.[1]
For the first time, in reading these manuscripts, did I begin clearlyto associate the name d'Ortez with the name used by the madman in hisstory at the old Norman ruin. With this new light, link by link didthe whole knotted chain untangle. Curiously enough, the tale I hadheard at the ruined castle tallied in the main with the monkishdocuments here preserved. Indeed it supplied me with knowledge of muchwhich otherwise I would not have comprehended so completely. Thehorrible reality of that weird recital was still fresh and distinctbefore me, undimmed by time and unforgotten through all my troubles.
I had sought refuge many times from brooding over my own affairs byturning to this for interest and occupation. Every further detail wassupplied by a number of quaint documents, which Colonel d'Ortez haddigested into this:
TABLE SHOWING THE MALE DESCENDANTS OF
HENRI d'ARTIN AND OF PEDRO ORTEZ.
Henri Francois Placide Pedro d'Ortez, suicided 1604. d'Artin, died Aug. 28, Charles Pedro, killed ) Sons 1572. by Raoul 1602. ) of Bartholomew Pasquier (son Raoul, died 1618. ) above of above), died 1609. Charles Francis Peter (son of Bartholomew Placide ) Raoul), died without issue. Pasquier killed in ) Sons Pedro d'Ortez (brother to wars of the Fronde. ) of above), died 1663 Henri Louis John (brother ) above. Henry (son of above), killed to above), died 1654. ) in battle. Francois Rene Xavier de Pasquier Alphonze, killed in ) (ennobled), killed 1650. battle. ) Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, Felix, died in infancy. ) Sons fled to America. Supposed to Raoul Armand Xavier ) of have been killed about 1681. d'Ortez, born 1641 ) above. No known descendants. Well (myself). Died ----. ) known to the Cure of St. No children. ) Martin's, Quebec. She who was born my daughter I disowned, and she died without issue.
It appeared that the only thing to be done was to visit the good Cureof St. Martin's, and, enlisting him in the search, find whateverdescendants might have been left by this Francois Rene Alois dePasquier. The task need not be a difficult one, as many old peopleshould still be living who might have known of the man.[2]
I now bethought me of this enterprise as a fair excuse whereby I couldleave Biloxi for a space. I would, therefore, call upon my old friend,and having obtained leave, matters now being safe with the colony, makethe journey to Quebec.
But, alas for the weakness of fallen humanity; my last act beforeputting myself out of temptation's way was to run full tilt into it.
While this came so near to causing my dishonorable death, yet it was,under Divine Providence, the direct means of spreading before me a longlife of happiness and honor. After a hard battle with my weaker self Ilost the fight.
Just as on the day I departed from Versailles, I determined, cost whatit would, to see Agnes once again. So I wrote her a note. Such ablunt and clumsy billet as only a love-sick soldier or a country clowncould have written. It craved pardon for the heat and the hastedisplayed by me when we parted at Sceaux; it implored one lastinterview before I left the colonies forever. I had not the art toconceal or veil my meaning, but told it out and plainly. Such a noteas an idiotic boy might pen, or a simpering school lass be setfluttering to receive.
I bade my man deliver this to Madame de la Mora on the morrow, charginghim minutely and repeatedly to see it safe in her own hands. Socareful was I, I did not doubt that even so stupid a lout as Jacquesunderstood me perfectly.
His further instructions were to meet me at the Bay when I shouldreturn in the evening from my vi
sit to Colonel d'Ortez, and therebeside its rippling waters--or so I had arranged--I was to receive heranswer.
It had now turned late of the night, and I sought repose. Sleep evadedmy bed. What with my own restless desires, my chiding sense ofill-doing, and the d'Ortez story I had read, I tossed and tumbledthrough the remaining hours of darkness. Tumbled and tossed, whilstthe sins and sufferings of men long dead passed and repassed with theirspectral admonitions.
Early on the morrow, while the day was yet cool, I crossed the Bay, andclimbed the slope of sand before the lonely house. It looked moredeserted and desolate than I had ever seen it. The stillness ofsolitary death clung as a pall about the place. Pachaco, the Indianservant, sat beside the gate, as motionless as the post against whichhe leaned.
"How is the master, Pachaco?" I inquired, passing in.
"Him die yesterday," came the stolid reply.
"What? Dead! When?"
"The shadows were at the longest," he answered, indicating by a gesturethe western horizon.
I hurried into the master's room. In the same position he hadoccupied, when, months ago, he had beckoned me to remain, he sat there,dead in his chair. His clothing hung about him in that sharply angularfashion in which garments cling to a corpse. Long, thin locks werematted above his brow, awesomely disarranged. But the pose of hishead, drooped a little forward, suggested a melancholy reverie, nothingmore.
The golden locket, which he had shown me that well-remembered night,rested within his shrunken palm. I noted that the side was open whichrevealed the blazing bar of red. As if absorbed in that sameunpleasant thought, there sat the master, dead; dead, and I alone knewhis story. How vividly the old man's sorrow came back; how itoppressed me.
I bent down in tender sympathy to look again upon his wasted features,and kneeling, gazed into his wide-open eyes. The calm of promisedpeace upon his brow was distorted by the unsatisfied expression of onewho has left his work undone.
So are the sins of the fathers visited upon their children, for I wasno longer in doubt but that the murderer, Pedro Ortez, was the sinningancestor of my old-time friend. Even in his presence my thoughts flewto Agnes; had she not spoken of her grandsire as being such a man? Thestiffening body at my side was speedily forgotten in the music of thismeditation.
I gained my feet again and looked down upon him, fascinated by thechangeless features of the dead. It was probably natural that standingthere I should revolve the whole matter over and over again, from thefirst I knew of it until the last. A young man's plans, though, workever with the living; the dead he places in their tomb, covers themwith earth, bids them "God-speed," and banishes the recollection. Iwas already busy with my contemplated search for the last d'Artin, andstood there leaning against the oaken table pondering over thequestion, "Where is the last d'Artin?"
My mind wandered, returning with a dogged persistence to that onethought, "Where is the last d'Artin?" "Where could _I_ find him?" Myrestless eyes roamed round the cheerless room, coming always back torest upon a long dust-covered mirror set in the wall across the way.
As wind-driven clouds gather and group themselves in fantastic shapes,so, deep in that mirror's shadowy depths, a vague figure gradually tookform and character--myself.
With the vacant glance of a man whose mind is intensely preoccupied, Istudied minutely the reflection, my own bearing, my dress, my weapons.I even noted a button off my coat, and tried dimly to remember where Ihad lost it, until--great God--this chamber of death and revelation hadturned my brain.
What face was that I saw? My own, assuredly, but so like another.
Aghast, powerless to move or cry out, I stared helplessly into theglass. Every other sensation vanished now before this new-born terrorwhich held my soul enslaved. I closed my eyes, I dared not look.
My body seemed immovable with horror, but a trembling hand arose andpointed at the mirror. Scant need there was to call attention to thatdim, terrible presence; my whole soul shrank from the ghostly facereflected in the glass. For there, there was the same pallidcountenance, death-distorted and drawn, which I had conjured up in manya frightened dream as that of the murdered Count--there was Henrid'Artin.
How long I stood transfixed, pointing into the mirror, I know not. Asmen think of trifles even in times of deadly fear, so did my lips frameover and over again the last question I had in mind before all senseforsook me, "Where is the last d'Artin? Where is the last d'Artin?Where--?"
And in answer to my question, that long, rigid finger pointed _directlyat me_ from out the dusty glass. It was as if the hand of the dead hadtold me who I was.
It had been no blind chance, then, which led me to the Paris house ofthe "Black Wolf's Head;" the girl's ring with the same device, and thegrewsome narrative beneath the shadow of the Wolf at the Normanruin--nothing less than fate had brought these lights to me.
Verily some more logical power than unreasoning accident must directthe steps of men. A God of justice perhaps had placed these tokens inmy path. And soldiers call this "Fortune."
* * * * * *
I dispatched Pachaco to Biloxi with the news of death, and long beforethe afternoon our few simple arrangements for his funeral had been made.
"Bury me here, Placide, beneath this great oak," he had said to me oneday. "The Infinite Mercy will consecrate the grave of penitence,wherever it may be."
He had his wish.
[1] These documents have been included in an appendix to this volume.
[2] A very slight investigation showed that this last named FrancoisRene Alois de Pasquier was none other than my own good father, whoassumed the name de Mouret to avoid the consequences of a fatal duel inFrance. This I learned from the pious Cure of St. Martin's, who knewhim well.