CHAPTER XL.
DISCOVERIES.
The next morning after Beatrice's last performance Langhetti determinedto fulfill his promise and tell her that secret which she had been soanxious to know. On entering into his parlor he saw a letter lying onthe table addressed to him. It bore no postage stamp, or post-officemark.
He opened it and read the following:
"London, September 5,1849.
"SIGNORE,--Cigole, the betrayer and intended assassin of your latefather, is now in London. You can find out about him by inquiring ofGiovanni Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street. As a traitor to the Carbonari, youwill know that it is your duty to punish him, even if your filial pietyis not strong enough to avenge a father's wrongs.
"CARBONARO."
Langhetti read this several times. Then he called for his landlord.
"Who left this letter?" he asked.
"A young man."
"Do you know his name?"
"No."
"What did he look like?"
"He looked like a counting-house clerk more than any thing."
"When was it left?"
"About six o'clock this morning."
Langhetti read it over and over. The news that it contained filled hismind. It was not yet ten o'clock. He would not take any breakfast, butwent out at once, jumped into a cab, and drove off to Red Lion Street.
Giovanni Cavallo's office was in a low, dingy building, with a dark,narrow doorway. It was one of those numerous establishments conductedand supported by foreigners whose particular business it is not easyto conjecture. The building was full of offices, but this was on theground-floor.
Langhetti entered, and found the interior as dingy as the exterior.There was a table in the middle of the room. Beyond this was a doorwhich opened into a back-room.
Only one person was here--a small, bright-eyed man, with thick Vandykebeard and sinewy though small frame. Langhetti took off his hat andbowed.
"I wish to see Signore Cavallo," said he, in Italian.
"I am Signore Cavallo," answered the other, blandly.
Langhetti made a peculiar motion with his left arm. The keen eye ofthe other noticed it in an instant. He returned a gesture of a similarcharacter. Langhetti and he then exchanged some more secret signs. Atlast Langhetti made one which caused the other to start, and to bow withdeep respect.
"I did not know," said he, in a low voice, "that any of the InteriorCouncil ever came to London.... But come in here," and he led the wayinto the inner room, the door of which he locked very mysteriously.
A long conference followed, the details of which would only be tedious.At the close Cavallo said, "There is some life in us yet, and what lifewe have left shall be spent in trapping that miscreant. Italy shall beavenged on one of her traitors, at any rate."
"You will write as I told you, and let me know?"
"Most faithfully."
Langhetti departed, satisfied with the result of this interview. Whatsurprised him most was the letter. The writer must have been one whohad been acquainted with his past life. He was amazed to find any onedenouncing Cigole to him, but finally concluded that it must be some oldCarbonaro, exiled through the afflictions which had befallen that famoussociety, and cherishing in his exile the bitter resentment which onlyexiles can feel.
Cavallo himself had known Cigole for years, but had no idea whatever ofhis early career. Cigole had no suspicion that Cavallo had any thing todo with the Carbonari. His firm were general agents, who did businessof a miscellaneous character, now commission, now banking, and nowshipping; and in various ways they had had dealings with this man, andkept up an irregular correspondence with him.
This letter had excited afresh within his ardent and impetuous natureall the remembrances of early wrongs. Gentle though he was, and pure inheart, and elevated in all his aspirations, he yet was in all respects atrue child of the South, and his passionate nature was roused to a stormby this prospect of just retaliation. All the lofty doctrines with whichhe might console others were of no avail here in giving him calm. He hadnever voluntarily pursued Cigole; but now, since this villain had beenpresented to him, he could not turn aside from what he considered theholy duty of avenging a father's wrongs.
He saw that for the present every thing would have to give way to this.He determined at once to suspend the representation of the "Prometheus,"even though it was at the height of its popularity and in the full tideof its success. He determined to send Beatrice under his sister's care,and to devote himself now altogether to the pursuit of Cigole, even ifhe had to follow him to the world's end. The search after him mightnot be long after all, for Cavallo felt sanguine of speedy success, andassured him that the traitor was in his power, and that the Carbonari inLondon were sufficiently numerous to seize him and send him to whateverpunishment might be deemed most fitting.
With such plans and purposes Langhetti went to visit Beatrice, wonderinghow she would receive the intelligence of his new purpose.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon before he reached her lodgings. Ongoing up he rapped. A servant came, and on seeing him looked frightened.
"WHAT LIFE WE HAVE LEFT SHALL BE SPENT IN TRAPPING THATMISCREANT."]
"Is Miss Despard in?"
The servant said nothing, but ran off. Langhetti stood waiting insurprise; but in a short time the landlady came. She had a troubledlook, and did not even return his salutation.
"Is Miss Despard in?"
"She is not here, Sir."
"Not here!"
"No, Sir. I'm frightened. There was a man here early this morning, too."
"A man here. What for?"
"Why, to ask after her."
"And did he see her?"
"She wasn't here."
"Wasn't here! What do you mean?"
"She didn't come home at all last night. I waited up for her till four."
"Didn't come home!" cried Langhetti, as an awful fear came over him.
"No, Sir."
"Do you mean to tell me that she didn't come home at her usual hour?"
"No, Sir--not at all; and as I was saying, I sat up nearly all night."
"Heavens!" cried Langhetti, in bewilderment. "What is the meaning ofthis? But take me to her room. Let me see with my own eyes."
The landlady led the way up, and Langhetti followed anxiously. The roomwere empty. Every thing remained just as she had left it. Her music waslying loosely around. The landlady said that she had touched nothing.
Langhetti asked about the man who had called in the morning. Thelandlady could tell nothing about him, except that he was a gentlemanwith dark hair, and very stern eyes that terrified her. He seemed to bevery angry or very terrible in some way about Beatrice.
Who could this be? thought Langhetti. The landlady did not know hisname. Some one was certainly interesting herself very singularly aboutCigole, and some one else, or else the same person, was very muchinterested about Beatrice. For a moment he thought it might be Despard.This, however, did not seem probable, as Despard would have written himif he were coming to town.
Deeply perplexed, and almost in despair, Langhetti left the house anddrove home, thinking on the way what ought to be done. He thought hewould wait till evening, and perhaps she would appear. He did thuswait, and in a fever of excitement and suspense, but on going to thelodging-house again there was nothing more known about her.
Leaving this he drove to the police-office. It seemed to him now thatshe must have been foully dealt with in some way. He could think of noone but Potts; yet how Potts could manage it was a mystery. That mysteryhe himself could not hope to unravel. The police might. With thatconfidence in the police which is common to all Continentals he wentand made known his troubles. The officials at once promised to makeinquiries, and told him to call on the following evening.
The next evening he went there. The policeman was present who had beenat the place when Potts met Beatrice. He told the whole story--thehorses running furiously, the screams from the cab, and the appeal
ofBeatrice for help, together with her final acquiescence in the will ofher father.
Langhetti was overwhelmed. The officials evidently believed that Pottswas an injured father, and showed some coldness to Langhetti.
"He is her father; what better could she do?" asked one.
"Any thing would be better," said Langhetti, mournfully. "He is avillain so remorseless that she had to fly. Some friends received her.She went to get her own living since she is of age. Can nothing be doneto rescue her?"
"Well, she might begin a lawsuit; if she really is of age he can nothold her. But she had much better stay with him."
Such were the opinions of the officials. They courteously grantedpermission to Langhetti to take the policeman to the house.
On knocking an old woman came to the door. In answer to his inquiriesshe stated that a gentleman had been living there three weeks, but thaton the arrival of his daughter he had gone home.
"When did he leave?"
"Yesterday morning."