The Fate of a Crown

CHAPTER XV
A DANGEROUS MOMENT

Not since I parted with him in the road on the morning of Dom Miguel’s murder had I seen Paola or heard from him directly.

At that time, after giving me two men who had proved faithful both to me and the Cause, he had ridden on to the house of death – “to breakfast with his sister.” From that moment his actions had been a mystery not only to me but to all his fellow-conspirators.

But now it seemed easy to understand that the Minister of Police had been attending to the Emperor’s business, and that he had also been playing a double game from the beginning, and promoting the revolution that he might the more easily crush it.

As he rose to his feet after saluting the Emperor, Paola glanced around the room and noted my presence. I could not well disguise the scorn I felt for this treacherous fellow, and as he met my eyes he smiled and twirled his small moustache with a satisfied air.

“Well?” demanded the Emperor.

“All is indeed well, your Majesty,” returned the minister, lightly. “The leaders of the conspiracy, with one exception, are now under arrest.”

“And that one?”

“Sanchez Bastro, a coffee-planter with a ranch near by. He has crossed the border. But it is unimportant.”

“And Mendez?”

“Imprisoned in the citadel.”

“Barros?”

“He is comforting Mendez, in the same cell.”

“Treverot?”

“Unfortunately we were obliged to shoot him. He chose to resist.”

“Hm! And Piexoto?”

“Is below, under arrest.”

“Have him brought here.” The captain left the room, and again the Emperor turned to Paola.

“You have done well, senhor; and your reward shall be adequate. It was a far-reaching plot, and dangerous.” And Dom Pedro sighed as if greatly relieved.

Paola brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve and laughed in his silly fashion.

“The serpent is only dangerous, your Majesty, until its fangs are pulled,” he drawled, and strolled away toward Valcour, while the soldiers brought in Senhor Floriano Piexoto.

The famous patriot was not only hand-cuffed, but his elbows were bound together by cords across his back. But despite his bonds he walked proudly and scowled into Dom Pedro’s face as he confronted him. Indeed, I was filled with admiration to find that this man whom Fonseca had called “croaker” could be brave when occasion demanded it.

“So, my clever statesman has seen fit to turn traitor,” began the Emperor, sternly regarding the prisoner.

“A champion of Liberty must needs be a traitor to Dom Pedro,” replied Piexoto, with equal sternness.

“But the conspiracy is at an end, and I am inclined to be merciful,” resumed the Emperor. “I am told you were the trusted friend of Miguel de Pintra, and knew his secrets. If you will inform us how to unlock the secret vault, I will promise to regard your offense lightly.”

Piexoto stared at him a moment indignantly. Then he turned with a frown upon Paola.

“Ask of your Minister of Police,” he retorted; “for there stands a double traitor! It was he who stood closest to de Pintra, winning his confidence only to betray it. It was Francisco Paola who planned the secret vault. Who should know better than he how to open it?”

The Emperor turned to Paola with suspicion written visibly upon his stern features.

“Did you plan the vault?” he demanded.

“Truly, your Majesty. Otherwise the records would have been scattered in many places. I planned the vault that all might be concentrated in one place – where we should find them when we were ready to explode the conspiracy. Records – plans – money – all are now at our hand.”

“But we have not the key. Why did you plan so complicated a lock?”

“Nothing else would have satisfied de Pintra. As for the lock, it is nothing. A drill through one of the steel panels would have admitted us easily. But – ”

“But what, sir? Why do we not drill now, instead of seeking this cursed ring?”

The Minister smiled and again twirled his moustaches.

“Because Dom Miguel suddenly developed inventive genius on his own part. I was absent when the work was completed, and too late I discovered that de Pintra had made pockets everywhere between the steel plates, and filled every pocket with nitro-glycerine.”

“Well?”

“That is all. To drill into the vault is to explode a pocket of nitro-glycerine, which in turn will explode all the other pockets through concussion.”

“And then?”

“And then the contents of the vault would be blown to atoms. Of the mansion itself not one stone would remain upon another. The records we seek would be lost irrevocably.”

Valcour, pale with fear, uttered a cry and dashed through the door, while the Emperor rose to his feet with a look of terror upon his face.

“They are drilling now!” he gasped.

Silently we stood, none daring to move; and into our drawn faces Piexoto gazed with a grim and derisive smile.

Paolo, more composed than any of the others, except Piexoto, began rolling a cigarette, but remembering the Emperor’s presence he ceased.

And so we stood, motionless and silent, until footsteps were again heard and Valcour re-entered wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. His face wore a look of relief, but there was a slight tremor in his voice as he said:

“I have ordered the drilling stopped, your Majesty.”

Dom Pedro, thus reassured, strode back and forth in evident perplexity.

“We must have the key!” he said, angrily. “There is no other way. And the key cannot be far off. Has your prisoner, the Mexican, recovered?”

“I will go and see,” answered the detective, and again left the room.

I caught a look of surprise upon the face of the Minister of Police. It was fleeting, but I was sure it had been there.

“May I inquire who this prisoner is?” he asked. One of the men who acted as secretary to the Emperor, receiving a nod from Dom Pedro, informed Paola of the finding of the dead body in the shrubbery, and of the consequent arrest of the Mexican.

“And the key was not found in his possession?” he inquired, eagerly.

“No.”

“Then he secreted it, fearing arrest. Have the out-buildings been searched?”

“Not yet.”

“Let it be done at once.”

Valcour, entering in time to hear this, flushed angrily.

“That is my business, Senhor Paola. I will brook no interference from the police.”

“Ah! had it not been for the police, Senhor Valcour would have blown his Emperor into eternity,” returned Paola, smiling blandly into the spy’s disturbed countenance.

“Enough of this!” cried the Emperor. “Let the grounds and out-buildings be carefully searched. Is your prisoner recovered, Valcour?”

“He is raving mad,” returned the detective, in a surly tone. “It requires two soldiers to control him.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, for I had feared the Mexican, in his terror, would betray the fact that he had given me the ring.

CHAPTER XVI
TRAITOR TO THE CAUSE

The Emperor retired while the search of the grounds was being conducted, and Piexoto and I were escorted to another room upon the ground floor and locked in. There were two unbarred windows looking upon the grounds, but a sentry was posted at each of these, and as we were still hand-cuffed, our escape was impossible.

For a time my companion did nothing but curse Paola in the most hearty and diversified manner, and I made no effort to stop him. But finally this amusement grew monotonous even to its author, and he asked me how I had allowed myself to be captured.

I therefore related my adventures, but said nothing about the ring.

“I have always suspected Paola,” he told me, “and often warned Dom Miguel against him. The man’s very nature is frivolous. He could not be expected to keep faith. Yet it is surprising he did not choose to betray the Emperor, rather than us; for the Revolution is too powerful and too far advanced to be quelled by the arrest of a few of its leaders.”

“But what of Fonseca?” I asked curiously. “Why was he not arrested also? Why was not his name mentioned to the Emperor?”

“I confess the fact puzzles me,” returned Piexoto, thoughtfully. “Fonseca is even more compromised than I am myself, and unless he had a secret understanding with Paola, and purchased immunity, I cannot account for his escaping arrest.”

“But the general will not forsake the cause, I am sure,” I said, earnestly. “And it seems that Senhor Bastro, also, has succeeded in eluding arrest. Therefore, should the royalists fail to find the key to the vault, all may yet be well, in spite of Paola’s treachery.”

“There is another perplexing matter,” returned Piexoto, pacing the room in deep thought. “Miguel de Pintra never told me the vault was sheathed with nitro-glycerine. Did you know it?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But the secret was revealed to me by Lesba Paola, the Minister’s sister.”

“I can scarcely believe it, nevertheless,” he resumed. “Yet what object could the traitor have in preventing their reaching the records, unless he knew the attempt to drill through the walls would destroy us all – himself included?”

“Perhaps he has fear that the records would incriminate him with the Emperor,” I suggested.

“Bah! He has made his terms, evidently. That he worked faithfully in our interests for a time is quite believable; but either the Emperor’s bribes were too tempting or he lost faith in the Cause.”

I was about to reply when the door opened to admit Paola. Piexoto paused in his walk to glare at the Minister, and I was myself no less surprised at the inopportune visit.

But Paola, with the old, smirking smile upon his face that nothing ever seemed to banish, nodded pleasantly at us and sat down in an easy-chair. He rolled a cigarette and carefully lighted it before he addressed us.

“Senhors, you are about to denounce me as a traitor to the Cause,” said he; “but you may both spare your words. Before the Cause existed I was Minister to the Emperor. A policeman walks in devious paths. If I am true to the oath I gave the Emperor, how dare you, Floriano Piexoto, who have violated yours, condemn me?”

“I don’t,” answered the other. “It is absurd to condemn a man like you. Treachery is written on every line of your false face. My only regret is that I did not kill you long ago.”

“Yet the chief, Dom Miguel de Pintra, trusted me,” remarked Paola, in a musing tone, at the same time flicking the ash from his cigarette with a deliberate gesture. “He was, it seems, the only one.”

“Not so,” said I, angry at his insolent bearing. “Your sister, sir, had faith in you.”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression, and laughed. I had ventured the remark in an endeavor to pierce his shield of conceit and indifference. But it seemed that even Lesba’s misplaced confidence failed to shame him, for at that moment the girl’s loyalty to the Cause seemed to me beyond a doubt.

“My sister was, I believe, an ardent republican. Poor little girl! How could she judge the merits of a political controversy? But there, senhors, let us have done with chidings. I am come for the key.”

Piexoto and I stared at each other aghast. The key! Could the Minister suspect either of us of possessing it?

“Quite prettily acted, gentlemen,” he resumed, “but it is useless to oppose my request. I suppose our friend Harcliffe has passed it on to you, senhor? No? Then he must have it on his person.”

“Are you mad?” I asked, with well-assumed contempt.

“No; but the Mexican is. I have just left his room, and he raves perpetually of a ring he has given to Robert Harcliffe, of New Orleans. A ring that must be restored to him on demand.”

“He raves,” said I, coolly, although my heart was beating wildly.

“He does, indeed,” acknowledged Paola. “And he tells exactly where the ring was placed – in the outer pocket of your jacket. Will you pardon me, senhor, if I prove the truth of his assertion?”

He rose and advanced to me with a soft, stealthy tread, and I backed away until I stood fairly against the wall, vainly endeavoring to find some way to circumvent him.

“Hold!” cried a clear voice, and as Paola swung around upon his heel I saw beyond him the form of Valcour outlined by the dark doorway.

“You were doubtless about to search the prisoner, senhor,” said the spy, calmly, as he approached us. “I have myself just come from the Mexican’s room and heard his ravings. But the task must be mine, since the Emperor has placed the search for the key in my hands.”

Paola turned with a slight shrug and resumed his seat.

“I have searched the prisoner already,” he announced, “but failed to find the ring. Doubtless he has passed it to Piexoto, or secreted it. Or, it may be, the Mexican’s words are mere ravings.”

The detective hesitated.

“Who is this Mexican, Senhor Paola?” he asked.

“Frankly, I do not know. Not a conspirator, I am sure, and evidently not a royalist.”

“Then how came he to know of the existence of the ring?”

“A mystery, my dear Valcour. Have you yet identified the man this Mexican murdered?”

“Not yet.”

“I myself have not had a good look at the body. If you will take me to him I will endeavor to locate the fellow. It was doubtless he who murdered Madam Izabel.”

As he spoke he rose and walked quietly toward the door, as if he expected Valcour to follow. But the spy, suddenly suspicious, cast a shrewd glance at me and replied:

“One moment, Senhor Paola. I must satisfy myself that neither Harcliffe nor Piexoto has the ring, in order that I may report to the Emperor.”

“As you like,” returned the Minister, indifferently, and resumed his chair.

Valcour came straight to my side, thrust his hand within my pocket, and drew out the ring.

“Ah!” he cried, his face lighting with joy, “your search must have been a careless one, my dear Paola! Here is news for the Emperor, at last.”

He hurried from the room, and Paola, still smiling, rose and faced us.

“It is a great pity,” said he, pleasantly, with his eyes on my face, “that God permits any man to be a fool.”

Before I could reply he had followed Valcour from the room, and Piexoto, regarding me with a sullen frown, exclaimed:

“I can say amen to that! Why did you not tell me you had the ring?”

I did not reply. The taunts and the loss of the ring had dazed me and I sank into a chair and covered my eyes with my hands.

Pacing the room with furious energy, Piexoto growled a string of laments and reproaches into my unwilling ears.

“My poor comrades! It is their death-warrant. These records will condemn to punishment half the great families of Brazil. And now when the battle is almost won, to have them fall into the Emperor’s hands. Thank God, de Pintra is dead! This blow would be worse to him than death itself.”

“However,” said I, somewhat recovering myself, “we shall now secure his body from that grim vault. That is one satisfaction, at least.”

He did not see fit to reply to this, but paced the floor in as great agitation as before.

Captain de Souza entered with two of his guards.

“The Emperor commands you to unlock the vault,” he said to me. “Be good enough to follow, senhor. And Senhor Piexoto is also requested to be present.”

“Tell the Emperor I refuse to unlock the vault,” I returned, firmly.

“And why?” demanded Piexoto, scornfully. “It is merely a question of time, now that they have the key, when they will find the right indentation in the door.”

“True,” I answered. Then, to the captain: “Lead on, I will follow.”

They escorted us to the library and down the winding stair until we stood in the well-known chamber at the end of the passage. The outer door of the vault lay open, displaying the steel surface of the inner door, with its countless indentations.

The Emperor and his secretary, together with Paola and Valcour, were awaiting us. The latter handed me the ring.

“His Majesty commands you to open the door, senhor Americano,” he said.

“I believe the Minister of Police designed this vault. Let him open it himself,” I replied, my resolution halting at the thought of what the open door would reveal.

“Yes, I designed it,” said the Minister, “but I did not execute the work. Doubtless in time I could open the door; but the Emperor is impatient.”

I saw that further resistance was useless. Bending over, I fitted the stone of the ring into the proper indentation, and shot the bolts. The great door was swung upward, a whiff of the damp, confined air entered my nostrils and made me shiver.

Reaching my hand within the vault I turned the switch that threw on the electric light, and then withdrew that the others might enter.

But no one moved. The light illuminated the full interior of the great vault, and every eye gazed eagerly within.

Valcour uttered a groan of baffled rage; Piexoto swore horribly in a scarcely audible tone, and the Minister of Police laughed.

“Good God!” cried the Emperor, with staring eyeballs, “the vault is empty!”

CHAPTER XVII
THE TORCH OF REBELLION

With a bound I stood within the grim vault and searched its confines with anxious eyes. True enough, the place was empty. Not a scrap of paper, a book, or a bank-note had been left there. The shelves that lined the walls were as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

The records of the Revolution were gone. The body of Miguel de Pintra was gone. Thank God, the great and glorious Cause was as yet safe!

Valcour was on his hands and knees, prying into the corners for some scrap that might have been overlooked.

Paola stood beside me with the old aggravating simper upon his face, twirling one end of his moustache.

Suddenly Valcour stood up and faced him.

“Traitor!” he cried, with a passionate gesture, “it is you who have done this! It is you who have led us here only to humiliate us and laugh at us!”

“Your Majesty,” said Paola, without moving his head, “will you kindly protect me from the insults of your servants?”

“Have peace, Valcour!” growled the Emperor. “Senhor Francisco has proved his loyalty, and doubtless shares our chagrin. Come, gentlemen, let us leave this dismal place.”

I followed slowly in the train of the party as it wound its way through the narrow passage and up the iron stairs into the library. My hand-cuffs had been removed when I was brought to open the vault, and an idea came to me to lag behind and try to effect my escape from the house.

But Valcour was waiting for me at the trap door, and called Captain de Souza to guard me. I was taken to the large room on the ground floor, from whence they had brought me, thrust through the doorway, and the key turned upon me.

Piexoto had been taken elsewhere, and I found myself alone.

My thoughts were naturally confused by the amazing discovery we had just made, and I was so engaged in wondering what had become of Dom Miguel and the records that I scarcely looked up when the door opened to admit Francisco Paola.

He had in his hand a small parcel that looked like a box, which he placed upon a table near the open window.

Next he drew a note-book from his pocket, scribbled some lines upon three several leaves, and then, tearing them out, he reached within the box, taking care to lift but a portion of the cover, and busied himself some moments in a way that made me wonder what he could be doing. I had no suspicion of the truth until he carried the box to the window and quickly removed the cover. Then, although his back was toward me, I heard a rapid flutter of wings, followed by a strange silence, and I knew that Paola was following with his eyes the flight of the birds he had liberated.

“So, my dear Minister, I have at last discovered your secret!” said a sharp voice, and as Paola whirled about I noted that Valcour had entered the room and was standing with folded arms and eyes that sparkled triumphantly.

“Orders to my men,” remarked the Minister, quietly, and brushed a small feather from his arm.

“True enough!” retorted Valcour, with a bitter smile. “Orders to General Fonseca, whom you strangely overlooked in making your decoy arrests. Orders to Sanchez Bastro, who is to distribute arms to the rebels! And where did the third pigeon go, my loyal and conscientious Minister of Police? To Mazanovitch, or to that Miguel de Pintra whom you falsely led us to believe had perished in yonder vault?”

He came close to the Minister.

“Traitor! In setting free these birds you have fired the torch of rebellion; that terrible flame which is liable to sweep the land, and consume royalist and republican alike!”

Paola, the sneering smile for once gone from his face, gazed at his accuser with evident admiration.

“You are wonderfully clever, my dear Valcour,” said he, slowly. “You have wit; you have a clear judgment; your equal is not in all Brazil. What a pity, my friend, that you are not one of us!”

Somehow, the words seemed to ring true.

Valcour flushed to the roots of his hair.

“I hate you,” he cried, stamping his foot with passion. “You have thwarted me always. You have laughed at me – sneered at me – defied me! But at last I have you in the toils. Francisco Paola, I arrest you in the name of the Emperor.”

“On what charge?”

“The charge of treason!”

Paola laughed softly, and in a tone denoting genuine amusement.

“Come, my brave detective,” said he; “we will go to the Emperor together, and accuse each other to our hearts’ content!”

He attempted to take Valcour’s arm, in his inimitable jaunty fashion; but the spy shook him off and followed Paola from the room, trembling with suppressed rage.

For my part, I knew not what to make of the scene, except that these men were bitter enemies, and each endeavoring to destroy the other. But could Valcour’s accusation be true? Had the torch of revolution really been fired?

God forbid that I should ever meet with such another man as Francisco Paola again! Deep or shallow, coxcomb or clever conspirator, true man or traitor – it was as impossible to read him or to judge his real character as to solve the mighty, unfathomable secrets of Nature.

One moment I called him traitor; the next I was sure he was faithful to the Cause. But who could judge the man aright? Not I, indeed!

Thus reflecting, I approached the window and looked out. Eight feet below me one of the Uruguayan guards paced back and forth upon the green lawn, his short carbine underneath his arm, and a poniard swinging at his side.

The fellow looked up and saw me.

“Close that window!” he commanded, with a scowl.

I obeyed, sliding the sash to its place. But still I gazed through the glass at the labyrinth of walks and hedges defining the extensive gardens at this side of the house. I knew every inch of these grounds, having wandered there many hours during my sojourn at the mansion. And the thought came to me that it would not be difficult to escape in that maze of hedge and shrubbery, had I once a fair start of my pursuers.

Within my range of vision was a portion of the driveway, and presently I saw the Emperor’s carriage roll away, followed by several others. Piexoto was seated in the last of the carriages, but only a small portion of the Uruguayan guard accompanied the cortège.

I tried to see if the Minister of Police was among those who were returning to Rio, but was unable to note his presence in the brief time the carriages were in view. Nor did Valcour seem to be with them. Captain de Souza evidently remained in charge of the guards left at the mansion.

Well, I longed to leave the place myself, now that the emptiness of the secret vault had been disclosed; but for some reason my captors desired me to remain a prisoner.

The day dragged wearily away. One of the Uruguayans brought me food at noontime, and I ate with good appetite. The room grew close, but when I attempted to raise the window the surly guard outside presented his carbine, and I respected his wish to leave the sash lowered.

During this time I had ample opportunity to speculate upon the astonishing events of the morning; but my attempt to solve the problem of what had become of Dom Miguel and the records seemed absolutely futile. That the body of the chief had been removed by some friendly hand – the same that had saved the funds and papers – there was no doubt whatever. But when had this removal taken place?

At one time a fleeting hope animated me that the vault had been entered in time to save Dom Miguel from suffocation; but a little reflection soon caused me to abandon that notion. Allowing that the slayer of Madam Izabel had been a patriot, and left the train at the first station beyond Cruz, he could not possibly have returned to de Pintra’s mansion on the swiftest horse within eight hours of the time my friend had been entombed alive, and long before that Dom Miguel would have succumbed to the confined atmosphere of his prison.

Moreover, none of the conspirators who knew of the ring or was competent to recognize it had been on the train at the time of Izabel de Mar’s death. Therefore the patriot who finally secured the key to the vault and saved the records must have obtained the ring long after any hope of saving the life of the imprisoned chief had been abandoned.

Somehow, it occurred to me that the man in the shrubbery had not been murdered by the Mexican, but by some one of our band who had promptly cleared the vault and escaped with the contents – even while the Emperor and his party were in possession of the house. The ring might have been dropped during the escape and found by the Mexican – this being the only plausible way to account for its being in his possession.

Although these speculations were to some extent a diversion, and served to occupy my thoughts during my tedious confinement, there were many details to contradict their probability, and I was not at all positive that I had discovered the right explanation of the mystery.

It must have been near evening when the door was again opened. This time a man was thrust into the room and the door quickly locked upon us.

I started from my chair with an exclamation of dismay. My fellow-prisoner was the mad Mexican!