The Mesmerist's Victim

He knocked at the door with a sure enough hand, and, as was the habit, the door was opened.

Leading his horse, he entered the yard. But he had not taken four steps before he was faced by Fritz.

“I wish to speak to the master of the house, Count Fenix,” said Philip, vexed at this simple obstacle and frowning as though the German were not fulfilling his duty.

He fastened his horse to a hitching-ring in the wall and proceeded up to the house.

“My lord is not at home,” answered Fritz.

“I am a soldier and so understand the value of orders,” said the captain: “your master cannot have foreseen my call which is exceptional.”

“The prohibition is for everybody,” replied Fritz, blunderingly.

“Oh, then, your master is in!”

“Well, suppose he is?” challenged Fritz, who was beginning to lose patience.

“Then I shall wait till I see him.”

“My lord is not at home,” repeated the valet: “we have had a fire here and the place is not fit to live in.”

“But you are living here!”

“I am the care-taker. And any way,” he continued, getting warm, “whether the count is or is not in, people do not force their way in; if you try to break the rule, why – I will put you out,” he added tranquilly.

“You?” sneered the dragoon of the Dauphiness’s Regiment, with kindling eye.

“I am the man,” rejoined Fritz, with his national peculiarity of being the more cool while the more roused up.

The gentleman had his sword out in a minute. But Fritz, without any emotion at the sight of the steel, or calling – perhaps he was alone in the house – plucked a short pike off a trophy of arms and attacking Philip like a single-stick player rather than a fencer, shivered the court sword.

The captain yelled with rage, and sprang to the panoply to get a weapon for himself. But at this, a secret door opened, and the count appeared enframed in the dark doorway.

“What is this noise, Fritz?” he asked.

“Nothing, my lord,” replied the German, but placing himself with the pike on guard so as to defend his master, who, standing on the stairs, was half above him.

“Count Fenix,” said Philip, “is it the habit in your country for visitors to be received by the pikepoints of your varlets or only a peculiar custom of your noble house?”

At a sign Fritz lowered his weapon and stood it up in a corner.

“Who are you?” queried the count, seeing badly by the corridor lamplight.

“I am Philip of Taverney,” replied the officer, thinking the name would be ample for the count’s conscience.

“Taverney? my lord, I was handsomely entertained by your father – be welcome here,” said the count.

“This is better,” uttered Philip.

“Be good enough to follow me.”

Balsamo closed the secret door and walked before his guest to the parlor where he had outfaced the five masters of the Invisibles. It was lighted up as though visitors were expected, but that was only one of the habits of this luxurious establishment.

“Good evening, Captain Taverney,” said Fenix in a voice so mild and low that it made him look at him.

He started back. He was but the shadow of himself: a smile of mortal sorrow flitted on the pallid lips.

“I must offer excuses for my servant,” he said; “he was only obeying orders and you must own that you were wrong to overbear them.”

“My lord, you must know that there are cases when circumstances overrule,” returned Philip, “and this is one of them. To speak to you, I was bound to brave death.”

“Speak quickly,” said Balsamo, “for I warn you that I listen out of kindness and that I am soon tired.”

“I shall speak as I ought to do, and at what length I see fit, and whether you please or not, I shall commence with a question.”

At this, a flash of lightning was disengaged from Balsamo’s terrible frowning brows.

“Sir,” said he, with a tone which he forced to be calm while haughty, “since I have had the honor to see you, I have met misfortune; my house has been partly burnt, and many valuable objects destroyed, very valuable, understand; the result is that I am grieved and a little estranged by this grief. I beg you to be clear, therefore, or I must immediately take leave of you.”

“Oh, no,” replied Philip, “you are not going to leave as easily as you say. You may have had misfortunes, but one has befallen me, far greater than any of yours, I am sure.”

Balsamo smiled hopelessly as before.

“The honor of my family is lost my lord, and you can restore it.”

“Indeed? you must be mad,” and he put out his hand to ring a bell, and yet with so dull and feelingless a gesture that Philip did not stay it.

“I am mad,” said he in a broken voice. “But do you not understand that the question is of my sister, whom you held senseless in your arms on the 31st of May, last, and whom you took to a house no doubt of ill fame – my sister, of whom I demand the honor, sword in hand.”

“What a lot of beating the bush to come to a plain fact. You say I insulted – Who says I insulted your sister?”

“She herself, my lord – ”

“Verily, you give me a very sad idea of yourself and your sister. You ought to know that it is the vilest of speculations that some women make with their fame. As you come to me, bursting in at my door, with your sword flourished like the bully in the Italian comedies who quarrels for his sister, it proves that she has great need of a husband or you of money – for you hear that I make gold. You are mistaken on both points, sir: You will get no money, and your sister will remain unwed.”

“Then I will have all the blood in your veins,” roared Philip.

“No, I want it, to shed it on a more serious occasion. So take yourself off, or if you do not and make a noise, I shall call Fritz, who at a sign from me, will snap you in twain like a reed. Begone!”

As Philip tried to stop him ringing the bell, he opened an ebony box on a gilt console and took out a pair of pistols which he cocked.

“Well, I would rather this – kill me,” said the young man, “because you have dishonored me.”

He spoke the words with so much truth, that Balsamo said as he bent mild eyes upon him:

“Is it possible that you are acting in earnest? and that Mdlle. de Taverney alone conceived the idea and urged you forward? I am willing to admit that I owe you satisfaction. I swear on my honor that my conduct towards your sister on that memorable night was irreproachable. Do you believe me? You must read in my eyes that I do not fear a duel? Do not be deceived by my apparent weakness. It is a fact that I have scant blood in my face; but my muscles have lost none of their strength. See!”

With one hand and no apparent effort, he raised off its pedestal a massive bronze vase.