which I shall carefully look after) she is likely to remain.
"I have made a memorandum of the date at which her promissory note falls
due--viz., the 31st December in the present year. The note being made
payable at Wurzburg, you must take care (in the event of its not being
honored) to have the document protested in that town, and to communicate
with me by the same day's post. I will myself see that the law takes its
regular course.
"Permit me most gratefully to thank you for the advance on my regular
fees which you have so graciously transmitted, and believe me your
obedient humble servant to command."
II
I next submit a copy of a letter addressed by the late
Chemistry-Professor Fontaine to an honored friend and colleague. This
gentleman is still living; and he makes it a condition of supplying the
copy that his name shall not appear:--
"Illustrious Friend and Colleague,--You will be surprised at so soon
hearing from me again. The truth is, that I have some interesting news
for you. An alarming accident has enabled me to test the value of one of
my preparations on a living human subject--that subject being a man.
"My last letter informed you that I had resolved on making no further use
of the Formula for recomposing some of the Borgia Poisons (erroneously
supposed to be destroyed) left to me on the death of my lamented
Hungarian friend--my master in chemical science.
"The motives which have led me to this decision are, I hope, beyond the
reach of blame.
"You will remember agreeing with me, that the two specimens of these
resuscitated poisons which I have succeeded in producing are
capable--like the poisons already known to modern medical practice--of
rendering the utmost benefit in certain cases of disease, if they are
administered in carefully regulated doses. Should I live to devote them
to this good purpose, there will still be the danger (common to all
poisonous preparations employed in medicine) of their doing fatal
mischief, when misused by ignorance or crime.
"Bearing this in mind, I conceive it to be my duty to provide against
dangerous results, by devoting myself to the discovery of efficient
antidotes, before I adapt the preparations themselves to the capacities
of the healing art. I have had some previous experience in this branch of
what I call preservative chemistry, and I have already in some degree
succeeded in attaining my object.
"The Formula in cipher which I now send to you, on the slip of paper
enclosed, is an antidote to that one of the two poisons known to you and
to me by the fanciful name which you suggested for it--'Alexander's
Wine.'
"With regard to the second of the poisons, which (if you remember) I have
entitled--in anticipation of its employment as medicine--'The
Looking-Glass Drops,' I regret to say that I have not yet succeeded in
discovering the antidote in this case.
"Having now sufficiently explained my present position, I may tell you of
the extraordinary accident to which I have alluded at the beginning of my
letter.
"About a fortnight since, I was sent for, just as I had finished my
lecture to the students, to see one of my servants. He had been suffering
from illness for one or two days. I had of course offered him my medical
services. He refused, however, to trouble me; sending word that he only
wanted rest. Fortunately one of my assistants happened to see him, and at
once felt the necessity of calling in my help.
"The man was a poor half-witted friendless creature, whom I had employed
out of pure pity to keep my laboratory clean, and to wash and dry my
bottles. He had sense enough to perform such small services as these, and
no more. Judge of my horror when I went to his bedside, and instantly
recognized the symptoms of poisoning by "Alexander's Wine!"
"I ran back to my laboratory, and unlocked the medicine-chest which held
the antidote. In the next compartment, the poison itself was always
placed. Looking into the compartment now, I found it empty.
"I at once instituted a search, and discovered the bottle left out on a
shelf. For the first time in my life, I had been guilty of inexcusable
carelessness. I had not looked round me to see that I had left everything
safe before quitting the room. The poor imbecile wretch had been
attracted by the color of "Alexander's Wine," and had tasted it (in his
own phrase) "to see if it was nice." My inquiries informed me that this
had happened at least thirty--six hours since! I had but one hope of
very gradual progress of the deadly action of the poison.
"What I felt when I returned to the suffering man, I shall not attempt to
describe. You will understand how completely I was overwhelmed, when I
tell you that I meanly concealed my own disgraceful thoughtlessness from
my brethren in the University. I was afraid that my experiments might be
prohibited as dangerous, and my want of common prudence be made the
subject of public reprimand by the authorities. The medical professors
were permitted by me to conclude that it was a case of illness entirely
new in their experience.
"In administering the antidote, I had no previous experiments to guide
me, except my experiments with rabbits and dogs. Whether I miscalculated
or whether I was deluded by my anxiety to save the man's life, I cannot
say. This at least is certain, I gave the doses too copiously and at too
short intervals.
"The patient recovered--but it was after sustaining some incomprehensibly
deteriorating change in the blood, which destroyed his complexion, and
turned his hair gray. I have since modified the doses; and in dread of
losing the memorandum, I have attached a piece of notched paper to the
bottle, so as to render any future error of judgment impossible. At the
same time, I have facilitated the future administration of the antidote
by adding a label to the bottle, stating the exact quantity of the poison
taken by my servant, as calculated by myself.
"I ought, by the way, to have mentioned in the cipher that experience has
shown me the necessity, if the antidote is to be preserved for any length
of time, of protecting it in blue glass from the influence of light.
"Let me also tell you that I found a vegetable diet of use in perfecting
the effect of the treatment. That mean dread of discovery, which I have
already acknowledged, induced me to avail myself of my wife's help in
nursing the man. When he began to talk of what had happened to him, I
could trust Madame Fontaine to keep the secret. When he was well enough
to get up, the poor harmless creature disappeared. He was probably
terrified at the prospect of entering the laboratory again. In any case,
I have never seen him or heard of him since.
"If you have had patience to read as far as this, you will understand
that I am not sure enough yet of my own discoveries to risk communicating
them to any other person than yourself. Favor me with any chemical
sugge
stions which may strike you--and then, in case of accidents, destroy
the cipher. For the present farewell."
_Note to Doctor Fontaine's Letter_
"Alexander's Wine" refers to the infamous Roderic Borgia, historically
celebrated as Pope Alexander the Sixth. He was accidentally, and most
deservedly, killed by drinking one of the Borgia poisons, in a bowl of
wine which he had prepared for another person.
The formula for "The Looking-Glass Drops" is supposed to have been found
hidden on removing the wooden lining at the back of a looking-glass,
which had been used by Lucrezia Borgia. Hence the name.
III
The third and last letter which I present is written by me, and was
addressed to Mrs. Wagner during her stay at Frankfort:--
"I exaggerate nothing, my dear aunt, when I say that I write in great
distress. Let me beg you to prepare yourself for very sad news.
"It was late yesterday evening before I arrived at Bingen. A servant was
waiting to take my portmanteau, when I got out of the coach. After first
asking my name, he communicated to me the melancholy tidings of dear Mr.
Engelman's death. He had sunk under a fit of apoplexy, at an early hour
that morning.
"Medical help was close at hand, and was (so far as I can hear) carefully
and intelligently exercised. But he never rallied in the least. The fit
appears to have killed him, as a bullet might have killed him.
"He had been very dull and heavy on the previous day. In the few words
that he spoke before retiring to rest, my name was on his lips. He said,
"If I get better I should like to have David here, and to go on with him
to our house of business in London." He was very much flushed, and
complained of feeling giddy; but he would not allow the doctor to be sent
for. His brother assisted him to ascend the stairs to his room, and asked
him some questions about his affairs. He replied impatiently, 'Keller
knows all about it--leave it to Keller.'
"When I think of the good old man's benevolent and happy life, and when I
remember that it was accidentally through me that he first met Madame
of him more painful than I can describe. I call to mind a hundred little
instances of his kindness to me--and (don't be offended) I wish you had
sent some other person than myself to represent you at Frankfort.
"He is to be buried here, in two days' time. I hope you will not consider
me negligent of your interest in accepting his brother's invitation to
follow him to the grave. I think it will put me in a better frame of
mind, if I can pay the last tribute of affection and respect to my old
friend. When all is over, I will continue the journey to London, without
stopping on the road night or day.
"Write to me at London, dear aunt; and give my love to Minna and
Fritz--and ask them to write to me also. I beg my best respects to Mr.
Keller. Please assure him of my true sympathy; I know, poor man, how
deeply he will be grieved."
PART II
MR. DAVID GLENNEY COLLECTS HIS MATERIALS AND CONTINUES THE STORY
HISTORICALLY
CHAPTER I
In the preceding portion of this narrative I spoke as an eye-witness. In
the present part of it, my absence from Frankfort leaves me dependent on
the documentary evidence of other persons. This evidence consists (first)
of letters addressed to myself; (secondly) of statements personally made
to me; (thirdly) of extracts from a diary discovered after the lifetime
of the writer. In all three cases the materials thus placed at my
disposal bear proof of truthfulness on the face of them.
Early in the month of December, Mr. Keller sent a message to Madame
Fontaine, requesting to see her on a matter of importance to both of
them.
"I hope you feel better to-day, madam," he said, rising to receive the
widow when she entered the room.
"You are very good, sir," she answered, in tones barely audible--with her
eyes on the ground. "I can't say that I feel much better."
"I have news for you, which ought to act as the best of all
restoratives," Mr. Keller proceeded. "At last I have heard from my sister
on the subject of the marriage."
He stopped, and, suddenly stepping forward, caught the widow by the arm.
At his last words she had started to her feet. Her face suddenly turned
from pale to red--and then changed again to a ghastly whiteness. She
would have fallen if Mr. Keller had not held her up. He placed her at
once in his own easy chair. "You must really have medical advice," he
said gravely; "your nerves are seriously out of order. Can I get you
anything?"
"A glass of water, sir, if you will be so kind as to ring for it."
"There is no need to ring for it; I have water in the next room."
She laid her hand on his arm, and stopped him as he was about to leave
her.
"One word first, sir. You will forgive a woman's curiosity on such an
interesting subject as the marriage of her child. Does your sister
propose a day for the wedding?"
"My sister suggests," Mr. Keller answered, "the thirtieth of this month."
He left her and opened the door of the next room.
As he disappeared, she rapidly followed out a series of calculations on
her fingers. Her eyes brightened, her energies rallied. "No matter what
happens so long as my girl is married first," she whispered to herself.
"The wedding on the thirtieth, and the money due on the thirty-first.
Saved by a day! Saved by a day!"
Mr. Keller returned with a glass of water. He started as he looked at
her.
"You seem to have recovered already--you look quite a different woman!"
he exclaimed.
She drank the water nevertheless. "My unlucky nerves play me strange
tricks, sir," she answered, as she set the empty glass down on a table at
her side.
Mr. Keller took a chair and referred to his letter from Munich.
"My sister hopes to be with us some days before the end of the year," he
resumed. "But in her uncertain state of health, she suggests the
thirtieth so as to leave a margin in case of unexpected delays. I presume
this will afford plenty of time (I speak ignorantly of such things) for
providing the bride's outfit?"
Madame Fontaine smiled sadly. "Far more time than we want, sir. My poor
little purse will leave my girl to rely on her natural attractions--with
small help from the jeweler and the milliner, on her wedding day."
Mr. Keller referred to his letter again, and looked up from it with a
grim smile.
"My sister will in one respect at least anticipate the assistance of the
jeweler," he said. "She proposes to bring with her, as a present to the
bride, an heirloom on the female side of our family. It is a pearl
necklace (of very great value, I am told) presented to my mother by the
Empress Maria Theresa--in recognition of services rendered to that
illustrious person early in life. As an expression of my sister's
interest in the marriage, I thought an announcement of the proposed gift
&nbs
p; might prove gratifying to you."
Madame Fontaine clasped her hands, with a fervor of feeling which was in
this case, at least, perfectly sincere. A pearl necklace, the gift of an
Empress, would represent in money value a little fortune in itself. "I
can find no words to express my sense of gratitude," she said; "my
daughter must speak for herself and for me."
"And your daughter must hear the good news as soon as possible," Mr.
Keller added kindly. "I won't detain you. I know you must be anxious to
see Minna. One word before you go. You will, of course, invite any
relatives and friends whom you would like to see at the wedding."
Madame Fontaine lifted her sleepy eyes by slow gradations to the ceiling,
and devoutly resigned herself to mention her family circumstances.
"My parents cast me off, sir, when I married," she said; "my other
relatives here and in Brussels refused to assist me when I stood in need
of help. As for friends--you, dear Mr. Keller, are our only friend. Thank
you again and again."
She lowered her eyes softly to the floor, and glided out of the room. The
back view of her figure was its best view. Even Mr.
Keller--constitutionally inaccessible to exhibitions of female
grace--followed her with his eyes, and perceived that his housekeeper was
beautifully made.
On the stairs she met with the housemaid.
"Where is Miss Minna?" she asked impatiently. "In her room?"
"In your room, madam. I saw Miss Minna go in as I passed the door."
Madame Fontaine hurried up the next flight of stairs, and ran along the
corridor as lightly as a young girl. The door of her room was ajar; she
saw her daughter through the opening sitting on the sofa, with some work
lying idle on her lap. Minna started up when her mother appeared.
"Am I in the way, mamma? I am so stupid, I can't get on with this
embroidery----"
Madame Fontaine tossed the embroidery to the other end of the room, threw
her arms round Minna, and lifted her joyously from the floor as if she
had been a little child.
"The day is fixed, my angel!" she cried; "You are to be married on the
thirtieth!"
She shifted one hand to her daughter's head, and clasped it with a fierce
fondness to her bosom. "Oh, my darling, you had lovely hair even when you
were a baby! We won't have it dressed at your wedding. It shall flow down
naturally in all its beauty--and no hand shall brush it but mine." She
pressed her lips on Minna's head, and devoured it with kisses; then,
driven by some irresistible impulse, pushed the girl away from her, and
threw herself on the sofa with a cry of pain.
"Why did you start up, as if you were afraid of me, when I came in?" she
said wildly. "Why did you ask if you were in the way? Oh, Minna! Minna!
can't you forget the day when I locked you out of my room? My child! I
was beside myself--I was mad with my troubles. Do you think I would
behave harshly to you? Oh, my own love! when I came to tell you of your
marriage, why did you ask me if you were in the way? My God! am I never
to know a moment's pleasure again without something to embitter it?
People say you take after your father, Minna. Are you as cold-blooded as
he was? There! there! I don't mean it; I am a little hysterical, I
think--don't notice me. Come and be a child again. Sit on my knee, and
let us talk of your marriage."
Minna put her arm round her mother's neck a little nervously. "Dear,
sweet mamma, how can you think me so hard-hearted and so ungrateful? I
can't tell you how I love you! Let this tell you."
With a tender and charming grace, she kissed her mother--then drew back a
little and looked at Madame Fontaine. The subsiding conflict of emotions