Oh, how every drop of blood in Vavel’s veins boiled and seethed! His face was crimsoned with shame and rage. He read further:
“Themire was perfectly certain that the mysterious hermit of the Nameless Castle had fallen in love with her; and I am not so sure but Themire has ended by falling in love with the knight! Women’s hearts are so impressionable.
“I managed to have my regiment sent to her neighborhood, and took up my quarters in her house. I sought by every means to lure the hermit from his den; but he is a cunning fox, is this protector of fair ladies! I could not get a sight of him. I decided at last to waylay him (when he would be out driving with the veiled lady), to pretend that I was a betrayed husband in search of his errant wife, and ask to see the face of his veiled companion. This, naturally, he would refuse. A duel would be the result; and as he has not for years had a weapon in his hand, and as I am a dead shot, you can guess the result—a hermit against a Spadassin! With a bullet in his brain, the mysterious maid would become my property.”
Here an icy chill shook Vavel’s frame. He read on:
“That was my intention. But something on which I had not counted prevented me from carrying it out. When I insisted on seeing the face of the veiled lady, after telling him I believed her to be my wife, Ange Barthelmy (I need not tell you that that entire story was an invention of my own; I published it in a provincial newspaper, whence it spread all over Europe), my brave hermit showed a very bold front, and we were on the point of exchanging blows, when the lady suddenly flung back her veil and revealed the face of—Themire! You may believe that I was dumfounded for an instant; then I began to believe that my faith in this woman had been misplaced. Could it be possible that she had been caught in her own trap—that she had found this Vavel’s eyes more alluring than the fortune we promised her, and that instead of betraying him to us she would do the very opposite—betray us to him? It may be that she has woven a more delicate web than I can detect with which to entangle her romantic victim the more securely. At all events, when I asked Vavel what relation the lady at his side bore to him, he replied: ‘She is my betrothed wife.’
“I confess I am puzzled. But I have the means of compelling Themire to keep her promise. Her daughter is in my power!”
(“Her daughter?” gasped Vavel. “Her daughter? Then Katharina is a married woman!”)
“But,” he continued to read, “it might happen that a woman who is in love would sacrifice her child. So soon as this war broke out, Vavel threw off his hermit’s mask, and is now leading a company of troopers—which he equipped at his own expense—against us.
“From Jocrisse’s letters I learn that Vavel’s treasures are now in Themire’s hands. That which our fair emissary was commissioned to find is in her possession. Now, however, the question is, What will she do with it?
“Jocrisse also informs me that Themire is quite bewitched with the amiability of the maid who has been intrusted to her care. If this be true, then matters are in a bad way. If this is not another of Themire’s schemes, but actual sympathy, if this girl, whose remarkable loveliness of character (even Jocrisse is compelled to praise her) has won the piquant little Amélie’s place in her mother’s heart, then it will be more difficult to separate Themire from the girl than to win her from her lover.”
This was a solitary ray of sunshine amid the threatening clouds which enveloped Ludwig. He continued to read with rapidly beating heart:
“I must know to a certainty what Themire proposes to do. To-day I sent her a message by a trusty courier, informing her that I should be at a certain place at an appointed time—that I wanted her to meet me and deliver into my hands the treasures she now holds. She will have an excellent excuse for leaving the manor. Our troops are approaching Steiermark, and have already crossed the Hungarian border. Thus it will seem as if she fell by accident into the hands of the enemy.”
Vavel’s heart almost ceased to beat. The letter shook in his trembling hands.
“I shall not, however,” he continued to read, “depend on the fickle mood of a woman, who may be swayed by a tear or a love-letter. If Themire does not appear with the maid and the documents at the designated spot tomorrow evening, then I shall ride with my troop to the manor. My troop, as you know, belongs to the ‘Legion of Demons,’ and they do not know the definition of the word ‘impossible’! If Themire of her own free will delivers the treasures into my hands, I shall thank her becomingly. If, however, she fails to meet me, I shall take the maid and the documents by force.”
Vavel did not notice that the firelight by which he was reading the letter had begun to grow dim; he believed the characters on the page before him were swimming in a blood-red mist.
“And now,” the letter went on, “I come to my instructions to you, general. You will move with your division toward the southern shore of Lake Neusiedl, and cut off the way of our fugitives toward the Tyrol. There is also another task which you must undertake. The mysterious maid, once she is in our hands, must be treated with the utmost courtesy and respect. A remarkable destiny awaits her. You know the emperor is going to separate from Josephine. A new palace will be built for the new empress. Who is the fortunate lady? As yet, no one can tell. A royal maid who can bring as her dowry the crown of a sovereign. A marriage that would unite the imperial crown with the crown of Hugo Capet would firmly establish Napoleon’s throne. The legitimate dynasty would then be satisfied with the sovereign chosen by the people. This fugitive maid is, I hear, lovely, amiable, generous, pure, as only the ideal of a sovereign can be.”
Vavel stamped his foot in a paroxysm of fury. Had this miscreant written that Marie was to be imprisoned in a convent, he could have borne it. But to suggest that his idol, his pure, adored image of a saint, might become the consort of the man on whom all the savage hatred of his nature was concentrated—this was more horrible than all the torments of hell. But he must calm himself and read the letter to the end.