# Mathias Sandorf/Page 15

Mathias Sandorf.

## CHAPTER VIII. THE MOUTHS OF THE CATTARO.

And so fatality, which plays so predominant a rôle in the events of this world, had brought together in Ragusa the families of Bathory and Toronthal; and brought them not only to the same town, but to the same quarter of that town—the Stradone. And Sava Toronthal and Pierre Bathory had seen each other, met each other, loved each other! Pierre, the son of a man who had been betrayed to death, and Sava, the daughter of the man who betrayed him!
As soon as the engineer had left the schooner the doctor might have been heard to say to himself:
“And Pierre goes away full of hope, hope he never had before, hope that I have just given him!”
Was the doctor the man to undertake a merciless struggle against this fatality? Did he feel himself strong enough to dispose of the affairs of humankind at his will? That force, that moral energy, which must be his if he was to succeed in fighting destiny, would it not fail him?
“No! I will fight against it!” he said. “Such love is hateful, criminal! That Pierre Bathory should become the husband of Toronthal's daughter and one day learn the truth would be to deprive him of all hope of revenge, He could only kill himself in despair. And I will tell him all if need be. I will tell him what this family has done to his. At all costs I will break this thing off.”
And in truth such a union did seem monstrous. It will be remembered that in his conversation with Mme. Bathory the doctor had told her that the three chiefs of the Trieste conspiracy had been the victims of an abominable scheme, which had come to light in the course of the trial, and that this had come to his knowledge through the indiscretion of one of the Pisino warders.
And it will also be remembered that Mme. Bathory for certain relisons had thought it best to say nothing of this treachery to her son. Besides, she did not know who were the traitors. She did not know that one of them was wealthy and respected and lived at Ragusa, a few yards away from her in the Stradone. The doctor had not named them? Why? Doubtless because the hour had not yet come for him to unmask them! But he knew them. He knew that Silas Toronthal was one of the traitors and that Sarcany was the other. And if he had not taken her more into his confidence it was because he reckoned on Pierre's assistance, and he wished to associate the son in the retribution with which he was about to visit the murderers of his father.
And that is why he could not say more to the son of btephen Bathory without breaking his heart.
“It matters little,” he repeated. “I shall break off this match.”
Having made up his mind, what did he do? Reveal to Mme. Bathory and her son the history of the banker of Triests? But did he hold material proofs of the treachery? No, for Mathias Sandorf, Stephen Bathory, and Ladislas Zathmar, who alone had these proofs, were dead. Did he spread through the town the report of this abominable act without first telling Mme. Bathory? That would probably have been enough to open an abyss between Pierre and the young lady—an abyss that could not be bridged. But if the secret were divulged, would not Silas Toronthal try to leave Ragusa?
But the doctor did not want the banker to disappear. He wanted the traitor to remain ready for the executioner when the day of execution arrived, and were he to disappear events might turn out differently to what he had imagined.
After having weighed the pros and cons the doctor resolved to proceed more vigorously against Toronthal. In the first place it was necessary to get Pierre away from the town where the honor of his name was in danger. Yes! He would spirit him away so that no one could trace him! When he had him in his power he would tell him all he knew about Toronthal, and Sarcany his accomplice, and he would associate him in his work. But he had not a day to lose.
It was with this object that a telegram from the doctor brought to the mouths of the Cattaro, south of Ragusa, on the Adriatic, one of the swiftest vessels of his fleet. This was one of those huge launches which served as the forerunners of our modern torpedo boats. This long steel tube was about forty-four yards in length and seventy tons measurement, had neither mast nor funnel, and carried simply an exterior deck and a steel cage, with lenticular scuttles for the steersman, who could be hermetically shut up in it when the state of the sea rendered such precautions necessary. She could slip through the water without losing time or distance in following the undulations of the surge, and, having a speed excelling that of all the torpedo boats of the Old or the New World, could easily travel her thirty miles an hour. Owing to this excessive speed the doctor had been able to accomplish many extraordinary voyages, and hence the gift of ubiquity with which he had been credited, for at very short intervals of time he had been able to run from the furthest corners of the Archipelago to the outermost borders of the Libyan Sea.
There was, however, one striking difference between steam launches and the doctor's boats, and that was that instead of superheated steam it was electricity that furnished the motive power by means of powerful accumulators invented by himself long before the later inventions that have become so famous. In these accumulators he could store the electricity to a practically unlimited extent. These dispatch boats were known as electrics, with merely a number denoting the order in which they had been built. It was “Electric No. 2” that had been telegraphed for to the months of the Cattaro.
Having given these orders, the doctor waited for the moment of action, and warned Point Pescade and Cape Matifou that he would soon require their services, and it is hardly necessary to say that they were very glad at having at last an opportunity of showing their devotion. One cloud, one only, threw its shadow over the gladness with which they welcomed the doctor's warning.
Point Pescade was to wait at Ragusa to keep watch on the houses in the Stradone and Rue Marinella, while Cape Matifou was to go with the doctor to Cattaro. This was a separation—the first after so many years of misery that they had lived through together—and hence a touching anxiety on the part of Cape Matifou in thinking that he would no longer be near his little Pescade!
“Patience, old Cape, patience! It will not last! The play's beginning, and unless I am mistaken it is a splendid piece they are getting ready for us, and we have a famous manager who has given us both good telling parts! Believe me, you will have no reason to complain of yours.”
“Think so?”
“I am sure of it. Ah! no lover's part for you. It is not in your nature, although you are so sentimental. No traitor's part either! You are too big for that. No, you are to be the good genius coming in at the end to punish vice and recompense virtue.”
“Like they do in the traveling booths?” answered Cape Matifou.
“Like they do in the traveling booths! Yes. I can see you in the part, old Cape! At the moment the traitor expects it least you appear with your huge hands open, and you have only to clasp him in them to bring about the end. If the part is not long, it is sympathetic; and what bravos, what coin you will get during the run!”
“Yes, perhaps so,” answered Hercules; “but all the same we must separate.”
“For a few days! Only promise me you will not destroy yourself during my absence! Get your six meals regularly and grow! And now clasp me in your arms; or rather pretend to do so as if you were on the stage, else you will risk stifling me. We must get used to a little play-acting in this world! Now embrace me again, and never forget your little Point Pescade who will never forget his big Cape Matifou!”
Such was the affecting farewell of these two friends when their separation came; and Cape Matifou was truly sad at heart when he returned on board the “Savarena.” The same day his companion took up his quarters in Ragusa, with orders not to lose sight of Pierre Bathory, to watch Toronthal's house, and to keep the doctor informed of all that went on.
During this time Point Pescade should have met in the Stradone with the mysterious stranger, who was evidently on a similar mission, and doubtless he would have done so had not the Moor after sending off the telegram left Ragusa for some place further south, where Sarcany could join her. Pescade was not thus interfered with in his operations, and could carry out his instructions with his habitual intelligence.
Pierre Bathory never imagined that he had been so closely watched, nor did he know for the eyes of the Moor there had now been substituted those of Point Pescade. After his conversation with the doctor, after the avowal he had made, he had felt more confident. Why should he now hide from his mother what had taken place on board the “Savarena”? Would she not read it in his look, and even in his soul? Would she not see that a change had taken place in him, and that grief and despair had given place to hope and happiness?
Pierre then told his mother everything. He told her who the girl was that he loved, and how it was for her that he had refused to leave Ragusa. His situation was of little consequence! Had not Dr. Antekirtt told him to hope?
“That is why you suffered so much, my child,” answered Mme. Bathory. “May heaven help you and bring you all the happiness we have missed up to now!”
Mme. Bathory lived in great retirement in her house in the Rue Marinella. She did not go out of it except to church with her old servant, for she attended to her religious duties with all the practical and austere piety of her race. She had never heard tell of the Toronthals. Never had she looked at the large mansion she passed on her way to the Church of the Redeemer, which is situated just where the Stradone begins. She therefore did not know the daughter of the old banker of Trieste.
And so Pierre had to describe her and tell what she had said to him when they had first met, and how he did not doubt that his love was returned. And all these details he gave with an ardor that his mother was not surprised to find in the tender passionate soul of her son.
But when Pierre told her of the position of the Toronthals, when she found that the young lady would be one of the richest heiresses of Ragusa, she could not conceal her uneasiness. Would the banker consent to his only child becoming a poor man's wife?
But Pierre did not think it necessary to insist on the coolness and even contempt with which Toronthal had always received him. He was content to repeat what the doctor had said to him—how he had told him that he could, that he ought even, have confidence in his father's friend who felt for him a quasi-paternal affection. A fact which Mme. Bathory did not doubt, knowing what he had already wished to do for her and hers. And in the end, like her son and like Borik, who thought it his duty to give his advice, she did not abandon all hope; and there was a trifling gleam of happiness in the humble home in the Rue Marinella.
On the following Sunday Pierre had again the happiness of seeing Sava Toronthal at church. The girl's face always rather sad in its expression, lighted up when she caught sight of Pierre, as if it had been transfigured. They spoke to each other with their looks, and they understood each other. And when Sava returned home she bore with her a portion of that happiness she had so clearly read in the young man's countenance.
But Pierre had not again seen the doctor. He waited for an invitation to revisit the schooner. Some days elapsed, but no letter came.
“Doubtless,” he thought, “the doctor is making inquiries. He has come or sent to Ragusa to ascertain something about the Toronthals. Perhaps he has been getting an introduction to Sava. Yes. It is not impossible that he has already seen her father and spoken to him on the subject. A line from him, only a word, how happy it would make me—particularly if that word were ‘Come.’”
The word did not arrive, and Mme. Bathory had some trouble in calming her son's impatience. He began to despair, and now it was her turn to give him hope, although she was not without anxiety. The house in the Rue Marinella was open to the doctor, as he knew; and even without this new interest he had taken in Pierre, was not the interest he took in the family for whom he had already shown such sympathy enough to attract him there?
And so Pierre, after counting the days and the hours, had no longer strength to resist. He must at all costs again see Dr. Antekirtt. An invincible force urged him to Gravosa. Once on board the schooner his impatience would be understood, his action would be excused, even if it were premature.
On the 7th of June at eight o'clock in the morning Pierre Bathory left his mother without saying anything to her of his plans. He left Ragusa and hurried to Gravosa at such a rate that Point Pescade could hardly keep up with him. As he reached the quay in front of the moorings occupied by the “Savarena” at his last visit he stopped.
The schooner was not in the harbor.
Pierre looked about to see if she had changed her place. He could not see her.
He asked a sailor who was walking on the quay what had become of Dr. Antekirtt's yacht.
The “Savarena” had sailed the night before, he replied, and he no more knew where she had gone than where she had come from.
The schooner gone! The doctor had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived.
Pierre went back to Ragusa in greater despair than ever.
Had an accident revealed to the young man that the schooner had left for Cattaro he would not have hesitated to follow her. But his journey would have been useless. The “Savarena” reached the mouths, but did not enter them. The doctor, accompanied by Matifou, went on shore in one of her boats, and the yacht departed for son unknown destination.
There is no more curious spot in Europe, and perhaps in the Old World, than this orographic and hydrographic curiosity known as the mouths of Cattaro. Cattaro is not a river, as any one might be tempted to think; it is a town, the seat of a bishop, and the capital of a Circle. The mouths are six bays side by side, communicating with each other by narrow channels which can be sailed through in six hours. Of this string of lakes, which stretch along in front of the mountains of the coast, the last, situated at the foot of Mount Norri, marks the limit of the Austrian Empire. Beyond that it is the Ottoman Empire.
It was at the entrance of the mouths that the doctor landed after a rapid passage. There one of the swift electric boats was in waiting to take him to the last of the bays. After doubling the point of Ostro, passing before Castel Nuovo, between the two panoramas of towns and chapels, before Stolivo, before Perasto, a celebrated place of pilgrimage, before Risano, where the Dalmatian costumes begin to mingle with the Turkish and Albanian, he arrived from lake to lake at the last bight at the bottom of which is built Cattaro.
“Electric No. 2” was moored a few cable-lengths from the town on the sleepy, gloomy waters which not a breath of air troubled on this fine night in June.
But it was not on board of her that the doctor intended to take up his quarters. For the purpose of his ulterior projects he did not wish it to be known that this swift vessel belonged to him; and he landed at Cattaro, and with Cape Matifou accompanying him, went off to one of the hotels in the town.
The boat that had brought them was soon lost in the darkness to the right of the harbor up a small creek, where it could remain invisible. There at Cattaro the doctor could be as unknown as if he had taken refuge in the most obscure of the world's corners. The Bocchais, the inhabitants of this rich district of Dalmatia, who are of Sclavish origin, would hardly notice the presence of a stranger among them.
From the bay it looks as though Cattaro were built in hollows on the side of Mount Norri. The first houses border on a quay, an esplanade won from the sea at the apex of the acute angle of a small lake which runs deep into the mountain mass. It is at the extremity of this funnel, with its splendid trees and background of verdure, that the Lloyd mail boats and the large coasters of the Adriatic run in to unload.
The doctor was busy in search of a lodging. Cape Matifou had followed him without even asking where they had landed. It might be in Dalmatia, or it might be in China, but it mattered little to him. Like a faithful dog he followed his master. He was only a tool, perhaps, a machine—a machine to turn, to bore, to pierce, which the doctor kept till he thought the time had come to use it.
Having left the quincunxes of the quay they entered the fortifications of Cattaro; then they passed along a series of narrow hilly roads in which is crowded a population of from four to five thousand. As he did so they were closing the Marine Gate—a gate which remains open only till eight o'clock at night except on the arrival of the mail boats.
The doctor soon discovered that there was not a single hotel in the town, and he had to look about for lodgings. At last he found a house, and obtained a room on the ground-floor in a sufficiently respectable street. At first it was arranged that Cape Matifou should be boarded by the proprietor, and although the price charged was enormous on account of his enormous proportions, the matter was soon satisfactorily settled. Dr. Antekirtt reserved the right of taking his meals elsewhere in the town.
In the morning, after leaving Cape Matifou to employ his time as he pleased, the doctor walked to the post-office for any letters or telegrams that might be waiting for him. There was nothing there, and then he went for a stroll out of the town. He soon found a restaurant patronized by the better class of the inhabitants, and Austrian officers and officials who looked upon being quartered here as equivalent to exile, or even to being in prison.
Now, the doctor was only waiting for the moment to act; and this was his plan. He had decided to kidnap Pierre Bathory. But to take him away on board the schooner while she lay at Ragusa would have been difficult. The young engineer was well known at Gravosa, and as public attention had been attracted to the “Savarena,” the affair, even if it succeeded, would be very much noised about. Further, the yacht being only a sailing vessel, if any steamer went after her from the harbor she would almost be certain to be caught.
At Cattaro, on the contrary, Pierre could be spirited off much more quietly. Nothing would be easier than to get him there. At a word sent from the doctor there was no doubt but that he would start immediately. He was as unknown at Cattaro as the doctor himself, and once he was on board the “Electric” could speed off to sea, where he could be told the past life of Silas Toronthal and Sava's image become effaced by the remembrance of his father's wrongs.
Such was the doctor's very simple plan of campaign, two or three days more and the work would be accomplished; Pierre would be separated forever from Sava Toronthal.
Next day, the 9th of June, arrived a letter from Point Pescade. It reported that there was nothing new at the house in the Stradone, and that Point Pescade had seen nothing of Pierre since the day he had gone to Gravosa, twelve hours after the schooner sailed. He had not left Ragusa, and remained at home with his mother. Point Pescade supposed—and he was not wrong in doing so—that the departure of the “Savarena” had brought about this change in his habits, for, as soon as he had found her gone, he had gone home, looking the picture of despair.
The doctor decided to write next day, and invite Pierre Bathory to join him immediately at Cattaro.
But something very unexpected happened to change his plans, and allow chance to intervene and lead to the same end.
About eight o'clock in the evening the doctor was on the wharf at Cattaro, when the mail steamer “Saxonia” was signaled.
The “Saxonia” came from Brindisi, where she had put in to take on board a few passengers. She was bound for Trieste, calling at Cattaro, Ragusa, and Zara, and the other ports on the Austrian coast of the Adriatic.
The doctor was standing near the gang-way, along which the people came ashore, when, in the twilight, his attention was monopolized by one of the travelers, whose luggage was being brought off to the wharf.
The man was about forty, of haughty, even impudent, bearing. He gave his orders loudly; and was evidently one of those persons who, even when polished, show that they have been badly brought up.
“That fellow! here! at Cattaro!”
The passenger was Sarcany. Fifteen years had elapsed since he had acted as accountant in Zathmar's house. With the exception of his clothes, he was still the adventurer we saw in the streets of Trieste at the beginning of this story. He wore an elegant traveling suit, with a dust-coat of the latest fashion, and his trunks, with their many mountings, showed that the old Tripolitan broker was accustomed to make himself comfortable.
For fifteen years Sarcany had lived a life of pleasure and luxury, thanks to the fortune he had acquired from his share of Count Sandorf's wealth. How much was there left of it? His best friends, if he had any, would have been puzzled to say. He had a look of preoccupation, of anxiety even, the cause of which was difficult to discover behind the mask with which he concealed his true disposition.
“Where does he come from? Where is he going?” asked the doctor, who did not lose sight of him.
Where he had come from was easily ascertained by asking the purser of the “Saxonia.” The passenger had come on board at Brindisi. Did he come from Upper or Lower Italy? They did not know. In reality he came from Syracuse. On receipt of the telegram from the Moor he had instantly left Sicily for Cattaro.
For it was at Cattaro that the woman was waiting to meet him, her mission at Ragusa having apparently come to an end.
The Moor was there on the wharf waiting for the steamer. The doctor noticed her, he saw Sarcany walk up to her, he heard the words she said to him in Arabic, and he understood them—
“It was time!”
Sarcany's reply was a nod. Then, after seeing his luggage passed by the custom-house officer, be went off with the Moor toward the right so as to go outside the town.
The doctor hesitated for a moment. Was Sarcany going to escape him? Ought he to follow him?
Turning round he saw Cape Matifou, who was standing gaping at the “Saxonia's” passengers. He beckoned him, and he was at his side in an instant.
“Cape Matifou,” said he, pointing to Sarcany, who was walking away, “do you see that man?”
“Yes.”
“If I tell you to carry him off, will you do so?”
“Yes.”
“And you will give him something to prevent his getting away if he resists?”
“Yes.”
“Remember I want him alive!”
“Yes.”
Cape Matifou was a man of few words, but he had the merit of speaking to the point. The doctor could depend upon him. What he received the order to do, he would do.
The Moor could be seized, gagged, thrown aside in any corner, and before she could give the alarm Sarcany would be on board the “Electric.”
The darkness, though it was not very profound, would facilitate matters.
Sarcany and the Moor continued their walk round the town without noticing that they were being watched and followed. They did not yet speak to each other. They did not wish to do so until they reached some quiet place where they could be safe from interruption. They reached the south gate opening on the road which leads from Cattaro to the mountains on the Austrian frontier.
At this gate is an important market, a bazaar well known to the Montenegrins. Here they have to transact their business, for they are not allowed to enter the town except in very limited numbers, and after having left their weapons behind them. On the Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday of each week the mountaineers come down from Niegons or Cettinge, having walked for five or six hours carrying eggs, potatoes, poultry and even fagots of considerable weight.
This was a Thursday. A few groups whose business had not been finished till late had remained in the bazaar intending to pass the night there. There were about thirty of these mountaineers, moving about and chatting and disputing, some stretched on the ground to sleep, others cooking before a coal fire a small sheep impaled on a wooden spit in Albanian fashion.
To this place, as though it was well known to them, came Sarcany and his companion. There it would be easy for them to talk at their ease, and even remain all night without having to go in search of a lodging. Since her arrival at Cattaro the Moor had not troubled herself about another lodging.
The doctor and Cape Matifou followed them in, one after the other. Here and there a few fires were smoldering and giving but little light. The doctor regretted that he had not put his project into execution on his way from the wharf. But it was now too late. All that could be done was to wait till an opportunity presented itself.
In any case the boat was moored behind the rocks less than two hundred yards from the bazaar, and about two cable-lengths away lay the “Electric” with a small light at the bow to show where she was moored.
Sarcany and the Moor took up their positions in a dark corner near a group of mountaineers already asleep. There they could talk over their business without being understood, if the doctor wrapped in his traveling-cloak had not joined the group without attracting their attention. Matifou concealed himself as well as he could and waited, ready to obey orders.
Sarcany and his companion spoke in Arabic, thinking that no one in the place could understand them. They were mistaken, for the doctor was there. Familiar with all the dialects of Africa and the East, he lost not a word of their conversation.
“You got my telegram at Syracuse?” said the Moor.
“Yes, Namir,” answered Sarcany, “and I started next day with Zirone.”
“Where is Zirone?”
“Near Catania, organizing his new gang.”
“You must get to Ragusa to-morrow, and you must see Silas Toronthal.”
“I'll be there, and I'll see him! You have not made a mistake, Namir? It was time.”
“Yes, the banker's daughter—”
“The banker's daughter!” said Sarcany in such a singular tone that the doctor could hardly prevent himself from giving a start.
“Yes! His daughter!” answered Namir.
“What? Does he allow her to be made love to and without my permission?”
“Are you surprised, Sarcany? Nothing is more certain nevertheless! But you will be still more surprised when you hear who wishes to be the husband of Sava Toronthal!”
“Some ruined gentleman anxious for her father's millions!”
“No!” replied Namir. “But a young man of good birth and no money!”
“And the name of this fellow?”
“Pierre Bathory.”
“Pierre Bathory!” exclaimed Sarcany. “Pierre Bathory marry the daughter of Silas Toronthal!”
“Be calm, Sarcany. That the daughter of Silas Toronthal and the son of Stephen Bathory are in love with each other is no secret from me! But perhaps Silas Toronthal does not know it.”
“Does he not know it?”
“No! And besides he would never consent.”
“I do not know,” answered Sarcany. “Toronthal is capable of anything—even of consenting to this marriage if it could quiet his conscience, supposing he has a conscience after these fifteen years. Fortunately here I am ready to spoil his game, and to-morrow I shall be at Ragusa.”
“Good!” said Namir, who seemed to have a certain ascendency over her companion.
“The daughter of Silas Toronthal marries nobody but me, you understand, Namir, and with her I will get out of my difficulties again.”
The doctor had heard all he wanted. It mattered not what else Sarcany had to say to the Moor.
A scoundrel coming to claim a scoundrel's daughter! Heaven had indeed intervened in the work of human justice. Henceforth there was nothing to fear for Pierre whom this rival was to set aside. There was no use, then, in summoning him to Cattaro, or in attempting to carry off the man who wished to be Toronthal's son-in-law.
“May the wretches marry among themselves, and become all the same family!” said the doctor. “And then we shall see.”
He left, and beckoned to Matifou to follow him. Matifou had not asked why the doctor wished him to walk off with the “Saxonia's” passenger, and he did not ask why the attempt was postponed.
The next day, June 10, at Ragusa, the doors of the principal drawing-room at the house in the Stradone were thrown open about half-past eight in the evening, and a servant announced in a loud tone:
“Mr. Sarcany.”