CHAPTER X.

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO.

Rome was agitated by a vague scandal, so vague, in fact, that nobody

seemed to know the precise details. It had arisen from a newspaper

account, given in the indefinite, unsatisfactory way characteristic of

Roman journalism. One of the city journals had published the statement

that a young and very handsome peasant girl, living with her father in

the country beyond the Trastavere, had recently been abducted, report

said, by a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy; that the reckless

scion of nobility had courted and won her in the guise of a peasant, had

carried her off to a bandit fastness and there had eventually deserted

her. No names were given. Inquiry at the office of the journal elicited

the fact that the proprietors had undoubted authority for the

publication of the statement, but no further information could be gained

from them. A few days later, however, the same newspaper gave the

further particulars that the nobleman had been assisted in effecting the

abduction by a young foreigner residing in Rome, and that the brother of

the unfortunate girl had been killed in attempting to rescue her. That

completed all the intelligence ever vouchsafed to the public in regard

to the mysterious affair, and thereafter the journal maintained an

unbroken silence respecting the matter. The rumor ran that its

proprietors had been bribed by interested parties to say nothing

further, but this rumor could not be traced to any reliable source and

was, therefore, by many considered a fabrication. No steps were taken by

the authorities in the premises, and it was evident that the affair was

to be allowed to die out. Still Roman society was considerably excited,

conjectures as to the identity of the guilty party and his accomplice

being rife in all the fashionable and aristocratic quarters of the city.

These conjectures, however, did not grow to positive statements, though

insidious hints were thrown out that those who guessed the Viscount

Giovanni Massetti to be the culprit were not far out of the way.

Massetti, it was known, had been absent from Rome for several days about

the period the abduction was supposed to have taken place, but he did

not deign to notice the hints current in regard to himself and no one

was hardy enough to question him. Nevertheless some color was given to

the rumors concerning him by the fact that, immediately on his return to

the city, after the absence above referred to, he became involved in a

violent quarrel with a young Frenchman, generally supposed to be

Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo, who at once challenged him to a

duel, but the duel was not fought for some reason not made public, the

difference between the two fiery youths having been arranged through the

mediation of mutual friends. It was observed, however, and widely

commented upon that, although the twain had previously been almost

inseparable companions, Esperance after this quarrel studiously avoided

the Viscount Massetti, refraining from even mentioning his name.

Meanwhile at Civita Vecchia another act in the drama of Annunziata

Solara's clouded life had been played. In that city was located a famous

asylum for unfortunate women, founded and managed by a French lady of

enormous wealth and corresponding benevolence, Madame Helena de

Rancogne, the Countess of Monte-Cristo.[6] This lady was untiring in her

efforts to reclaim and rehabilitate the fallen of her sex. She was the

Superior of the Order of Sisters of Refuge, the members of which were

scattered throughout Europe, but made their headquarters at the asylum

in Civita Vecchia, where a sufficient number of them constantly aided

Madame de Rancogne in carrying out her good and philanthropic work.

The Refuge, as the asylum was called, was a vast edifice of gray stone

with a sombre and cloister-like look. Over the huge entrance door on a

tablet of polished metal this sentence was incrusted in conspicuous

letters of black: "Be Not Led to Consider Any Unworthy!" It was an

utterance of the Countess of Monte-Cristo in the past and had been

adopted as the guiding rule and maxim of the Order of Sisters of Refuge.

The interior of the building in no way corresponded with its gloomy,

forbidding outside. Tall, wide windows freely admitted the ardent rays

of the glowing Italian sun, flooding the corridors and apartments with

cheerful light and warmth. Crimson hangings and magnificently wrought

tapestry of fabulous price adorned the walls, while costly and beautiful

statues and paintings, the work of old masters and contemporaneous

artists, added to the attractiveness of the numerous salons and

drawing-rooms. The great refectory and the dormitories possessed charms

of their own, bright colors everywhere greeting the eye and nothing

being allowed that could inspire or promote melancholy moods or painful

thoughts. There was an immense library, to which all the inmates of the

Refuge had free access. It was sumptuously furnished, and the floor was

covered with a gorgeous Turkey carpet, so thick and soft that footsteps

made no sound upon it, while the brilliant figures of tropical flowers

profusely studding it gave the impression of eternal summer. Desks

abundantly supplied with writing materials, tables loaded with the

latest newspapers and periodicals in all the languages of Europe,

luxurious sofas and inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the

Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the

library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances,

volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories

and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly

non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition

elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which

those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture

the thousand and one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers

are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being

to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate

them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated

lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the

past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble

Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.

The protegees of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of

all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included

Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her

coquettish apartment of the Chaussee d' Antin, for Nini had proved a

most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to

designing roues and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of

destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened

too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant

girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin;

unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even

brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This

somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord,

chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the

path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the

unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.

One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of

Civita Vecchia, a timid knock at the entrance door of the Refuge

aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and

well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the

door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken

form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown

over her shoulders, and her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of

poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with

difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and

beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the

Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her

beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from

a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with

clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.

"What do you require, my poor child?" asked the portress, tenderly and

sympathetically.

"Shelter, only shelter!" replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow,

broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.

"The Superior must decide upon your case," said the portress. "You shall

go to her at once."

The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge

who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de

Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and

ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of

commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls

of silver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive

look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the

celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as

the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European

nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial,

comforting smile.

"Sit down, my child," she said, in a rich, melodious voice. "You are

fatigued. Are you also hungry?"

Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her

thin hands.

"Alas! signora," she replied, faintly, "I have walked many weary miles

and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!"

"Take the poor child to the refectory," said the Countess to the Sister,

who had remained standing near the door. "After her hunger has been

appeased, I will see her again and question her."

Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal,

once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.

"My child," said the latter, "what is your name?"

"Annunziata Solara."

"You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know

that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?"

"I know it, signora; that is the reason I came."

"Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?"

"I have repented bitterly," answered the girl, bursting into a flood of

tears, "oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the

world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can

find to do."

"It is well," said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

"The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large,

is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but

more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received

and given an opportunity to share in the great work."

"From the depths of my soul I thank you!" sobbed the girl. "I will try

earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!"

"Tell me your story now," said the Superior. "I cannot believe that the

guilt was altogether yours."

"I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and

indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant

home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men,

of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father

and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from

time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was

free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I

possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor

inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!"

Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed

her and she continued:

"One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our

cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had

been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some

days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made

love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his

endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed

in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself

with, and Tonio, that was my admirer's name, seemed sincerity itself.

One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was

interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know

what to do. That evening I received a letter from him--I found it on the

table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box--telling me

that everything was prepared for our flight that night, and asking me to

be in readiness. I was terrified. I could not understand why he wished

me to fly with him if everything was as it should be, as my father and

brother would not have objected to any proper suitor for my hand on whom

I had bestowed my heart. For the first time I was suspicious of Tonio,

and I resolved to pay no attention to his letter. On the morrow I would

see him and tell him to speak to my father and brother. Alas! that

opportunity was not given me. Oh! that horrible, horrible night!"

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. When she looked up

she was ghastly pale, and her voice quivered as she resumed:

"That dreadful night, as I lay upon my bed, wrapped in slumber, I was

suddenly aroused by hearing some one in my chamber. It was very dark and

I could not see the intruder. I started up in terror, but a hand was

placed firmly over my mouth. I was torn from my bed and borne in a man's

arms from the cabin. I struggled to release myself, but in vain. My

abductor appeared to possess the strength of a giant. There was no moon,

but in the dim starlight I could see that the man was masked. He

hastened with me into the neighboring forest. There he accidentally

struck his right arm against the trunk of a tree and his hand dropped

from my mouth. Instantly I uttered a loud, piercing cry, but the hand

went back to its place again almost immediately, and I was unable to

give vent to another sound. My cry, however, had been heard by my

brother, who hastened to my assistance. He overtook my abductor in the

forest, and, though unarmed, at once attacked him. The man dropped me

and turned upon my brother. A fierce struggle ensued, during which the

mask was struck from my abductor's face and, to my horror, I thought I

recognized Tonio. Suddenly there was a report of a pistol. I had watched

the conflict, unable to move. I saw my brother stagger; blood was

gushing from him. I could endure no more; I fell to the ground in a

swoon.

"When I recovered my senses, I was in a strange hut. Savage looking men,

whom I took to be bandits, were guarding me. How long I remained in the

hut I do not know, but it must have been several days. At times a

masked man came to me, telling me that he was Tonio and pressing his

suit upon me. I refused to listen to him, upbraiding him for tearing me

from my home and wounding my brother. I told him his conduct was not

that of a lover, but of a villain. I implored him, if he possessed a

spark of manhood, to set me free, to send me to my father. He informed

me that I was his captive and should so remain until I yielded to his

wishes. I repulsed him with scorn, with the energy of desperation.

Ultimately he overpowered me by sheer force, and compelled me to yield.

Then I saw him no more. I wandered about the hut like one demented. My

cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. I was in despair. Shame and

degradation were henceforth my portion.

"After my abductor's departure, a new comer appeared among the brigands.

He seemed to be their chief. He expressed pity for me, and told me that

my abductor was not a peasant, but a young Roman nobleman, the Viscount

Giovanni Massetti. I cared nothing for this revelation. I had no thought

of vengeance; my sole desire was to hide myself from the gaze of the

world, to avoid the pitiless finger of scorn. Eventually the bandit

chief took me back to my home. There I found my father, learning from

his lips that my brother was dead. This intelligence made my sorrow

utterly unbearable. My father was moody and morose. For days at a time

he did not speak to me. He appeared to have lost all paternal affection.

Finally I left the cabin. I had heard of the Refuge and determined to

seek its shelter. I walked to Civita Vecchia, and to-night found myself

at your door. Such, signora, is my sad history. I have told you the

whole truth. You see I am not altogether to blame."

As Annunziata concluded, the Countess of Monte-Cristo drew her upon her

bosom.

"My poor girl," said she, in tender, pitying tones, "you have, indeed,

tasted the bitterness of life and have been more sinned against than

sinning. But you are my daughter now. The Sisterhood of the Order of

Refuge has covered you with its protecting shield."

FOOTNOTE:

[6] For a full account of the life and career of "The Countess of

Monte-Cristo," see that powerful, romantic and absorbing novel, "The

Countess of Monte-Cristo," published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers,

Philadelphia.