Was it a dream? Common-sense said "Yes." My bruises said "No!" But certainly the whole affair was most remarkable, and quite out of the ordinary kind of events which take place in this prosaic nineteenth century. We have done with those romantic episodes in which the heroes and heroines of Boccaccio, Le Sage and M. Dumas père take part, and in the searching light of the Press lantern, which is nowadays turned on all things and on all men, it is impossible to encounter those strange events of the middle ages. Judging from my experiences of the previous night I had been entangled in a terrible intrigue, which might have taken place under Henri Trois or Lorenzo di Medici, yet, as the past can never become the present, the whole affair was a manifest anachronism. I was inclined to think that I had been the sport of some Italian Puck, but as there are no fairies nowadays, such an idea was absurd, so the only feasible explanation of the bizarre occurrence was that I had been dreaming.
I had certainly gone to the old burial-ground and had seen the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia emerge from an old Veronese tomb, and as certainly I had followed her to the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele, but here, without doubt, reality ended and fiction began. Evidently I had sat down upon the stone bench where I was discovered by the peasants, and had there fallen asleep to undergo this extravagant adventure in a vision of the night. In sleep I had dreamed a dream after the fashion of the Athenian lovers in Shakespeare's comedy, and the antique chamber, the quaint costumes, and the phantom characters had been idle visions of the brain, which had played their several parts in this mediæval phantasmagoria.
To put entirely to one side the impossibility of living people dressing themselves in rococo costumes in order to play a fantastic comedy-tragedy in a deserted place, if I had really seen all I imagined, how did I find myself in the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele at daybreak? The visionary pursuit of the lady of the sepulchre had been a long one, and I certainly could not have walked back such a distance to the Piazza without knowing something about it. But memory ceased at my fainting at the door of the fatal chamber, and revived on my finding myself on the stone bench in the Piazza; therefore, granting that the whole adventure had actually occurred, how had I been taken from the deserted palace to the Piazza?
Idling over my midday meal at the Hotel d'Este, I thought of the extraordinary series of events in which I had taken part, and kept puzzling my brain as to whether they had really occurred or whether I had been the victim of a grotesque nightmare. I had received a letter from the Maestro Angello, saying he could not give me my usual lesson, therefore I determined to devote the whole day, which was thus at my disposal, to finding out the truth or falsehood of this mysterious adventure.
My bruises were very painful, but I doctored myself as I best could, so that without much difficulty I was able to walk. Doubtless I had received these bruises whilst pursuing the unknown from the graveyard to the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele, and thus far I was certain of the actuality of my adventure. With this idea in my head, I made up my mind to go to the old graveyard and discover, if possible, who was buried in the tomb from which the ghoul had emerged. By finding out the name I might possibly ascertain that of the lady, as there must certainly have been some connection between her and the person buried in the mysterious vault. No sooner had I thus sketched out my plan of action than I put it at once into execution, and as I found some difficulty in walking, I sent for Peppino's fiacre in order to drive to the cemetery.
Peppino was a merry little Florentine, whose services I employed for two reasons, one being that he spoke excellent Italian, so that I understood him easier than I did the general run of these Northern Italians, who usually gabble a vile patois which no Englishman can understand without constant practice, and my acquaintance with the modern Latin tongue was not sufficient to warrant my indulging in liberties with it; the other reason was that Peppino, having lived a long time in Verona, knew the town thoroughly, and would be able to tell me better than any one if such a deserted palace as I had dreamed of really existed; besides which, he was also a very amusing companion.
The fiacre duly arrived, and on going outside I found Peppino grinning like a small black monkey as he held the door open for me to enter.
"Dio!" said Peppino in a commiserating tone, seeing how I leaned on my stick, "is the Signor not well?"
"Oh, yes! quite well, Peppino, only I fell yesterday and hurt myself, so you see I have to get you to drive me to-day."
"Bene!" replied Peppino philosophically, mounting the box, "the ill of one is the good of another. To where, Signore?"
"To the cemetery near the Porto Vittoria."
"The new or the old one, Signore?"
"The old cemetery!"
Peppino cast a queer look at me over his shoulder, and, muttering something about the "mad English," drove away towards the Via Pallone. As he was on the box-seat, and the fiacre made a good deal of noise going over the rugged stone pavement, in addition to the incessant jingling of the bells, I could not question him as I desired to do, so, making up my mind to wait until I arrived at the graveyard, I leaned back in the carriage and gave myself up to my own thoughts.
Then a curious thing occurred which made me certain that the events of the previous night had actually taken place, for without the least effort of memory on my part the strange melody sung by the young man in the palace came into my head. I could not possibly have dreamed that, and I could not possibly have composed the air, so I concluded that I had really heard the song, and, having an excellent musical ear, it had impressed itself on my memory. Of course I did not recollect the words, but only the tune, and thinking it might prove useful as a link in the chain of circumstances, I hummed it over twice or thrice so as to keep it in my mind.
I therefore concluded from this piece of evidence that I had actually been to the deserted palace and witnessed that strange feast, but if so, how had I found myself at dawn in the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele? It was no use puzzling my brains any more over this mysterious affair, so the wisest plan would be to wait until I found out the name on the tomb, and then perhaps Peppino would be able to tell me about the palace, in which case, with these two facts to go on, I might hope to discover the meaning of these extraordinary events.
Meanwhile the fiacre had left the Via Pallone, crossed over the Ponte Aleardi, and was now being driven rapidly along the left bank of the Adige, past the Campo Marzo. We speedily arrived at the old burial-ground, and Peppino, stopping his horse near the gate, assisted me to alight from the carriage.
"Peppino," I said, when this was done, "tie your horse up somewhere and come with me into the cemetery."
"Diamine!" replied Peppino, crossing himself with superstitious reverence. "I like not these fields of the dead."
"It's broad daylight, you coward; besides, I wish you to tell me about the tombs."
"But why does not the Signor go to the beautiful new cemetery?" said Peppino, leading his horse to the wall and fastening him to a heavy stone; "the statues there are beautiful. This is old, very old; no one is buried here now."
"When was the last person buried, Peppino?"
"Dio! I don't know--eh, oh, yes, Signore, last year an illustrious was buried in his own vault; but he was mad. Ecco!"
"Why did he have a vault built in such an old cemetery?"
"Oh, the vault was old--as old as the Trezza. All the signori of his family had been buried there for many days."
"Since the Republic?"
"Dio! yes, and before."
"What is the name of this family?"
"I don't know, Signore, I forget!"
"Well, come along, Peppino. As you know so much about one tomb, you will probably know something about another."
"Command me, Illustrious."
I did not enter the burial-ground by the gate, as I wanted to go the same way as on the previous night, in order to be certain of finding the tomb I was in search of, so, with some little difficulty, and the help of Peppino, I managed to climb over the broken wall, and soon found myself in my old hiding-place. Peppino looked at me with considerable curiosity, as he could not conceive my object in coming to this dreary locality; but ultimately, shrugging his shoulders, he put it down to a freak on the part of a mad Englishman, and waited for me to speak.
The tomb looked scarcely less forbidding and gloomy in the daytime than it did at night, with its massive-looking architecture, and the stern-faced angel guarding the iron door. Advancing through the long grass which grew all round it, I looked every where for a name, but could find none, then tried to open the iron door, to the great dismay of Peppino.
"Signore," he said in a faltering voice, "do not let out the ghosts."
"There are no ghosts here, Peppino. They have all departed," I replied, finding the door locked.
"Dio! I'm not so sure of that, Illustrious. Many dead are in there."
"Oh, they've been dead so long that their ghosts must have grown weary of this gloomy sepulchre."
"Yes, Signore, but the ghost of the mad Count buried last year!"
"Oh!" I cried with lively curiosity, "is this the vault where he was buried?"
"Yes, Illustrious!"
"And the name, Peppino? What was his name?"
The little Italian looked perplexed, as he could not understand the interest I took in this sepulchre; still, seeing I was in earnest, he tried to think of the name, but evidently could not recall it.
"Cospetto! Signore, I have the memory of Beppo, who forgot the mother who bore him; but the name will be here, Illustrious, for certain."
"See if you can find it, Peppino," I replied, sitting down on a stone near the iron door. "I am anxious to know to whom this tomb belongs."
Peppino, being more conversant with Italian tombs than myself, went to look for the name, and in a wonderfully short space of time came back with a satisfied smile on his face.
"Signore, the tomb is that of the Morone."
"The Morone?"
"Yes, Signore, they were a great family of Verona, as great as the cursed Medici of my beautiful Florence."
"And this Count, who died last year, was their descendant?"
"Dio! Illustrious, he was the last of them. No father, no brother, no child. He was the last. Basta, basta!"
"Had he a wife?" I asked, thinking of the woman who had emerged from this tomb.
"Yes, Signore, a beautiful wife, but when he died she left Verona for Rome I heard. She is not now here."
Well, I had found out the name of the family buried in the tomb, and that the wife was the sole representative of the race, so I naturally thought she was the only person who would have been able to enter the tomb; although why she did so, unless it was to pray beside the corpse of her late husband, I could not understand. Besides, Peppino, who was one of the greatest gossips in the town, said she had left Verona, so perhaps the midnight visitor was not the Contessa Morone at all.
"Were the Count and Countess an attached couple, Peppino?"
The Italian shrugged his shoulders.
"Dio! I know not indeed," he replied carelessly; "the Signor Conte was certainly mad. I saw him at times, and he had the evil eye. Diamine! often have I made horns for that eye, Illustrious."
"And the Countess, Peppino? Have you ever seen the Countess?"
"No, Signore! The Conte let her not out. Ah! he was jealous, that madman. He was old and the Signora was young. Per Bacco! the husband was afraid of the handsome officers. Ecco!"
A mad and jealous husband, old, too, into the bargain. With such a trinity of imperfections a young and beautiful woman could hardly be much in love with him, and, a year after his death, would certainly not have taken the trouble to pray at his tomb. No! the unknown lady could not possibly have been the Contessa. Who, then was this mysterious visitant? I had now quite got over my fancy that she was a spectre, and felt profoundly curious to find out who she was, and why she had come to this ancient burial-place at midnight.
"Is there a Palazzo Morone, Peppino?"
Peppino changed colour.
"What do you know of the Palazzo Morone, Signore?"
"Oh, there is one then!"
"Yes, Illustrious! It is haunted!"
"Haunted! Nonsense!"
"Dio! Signore, I speak the truth. No one has lived there for the last two hundred years. It is shut up for the rats and the owls and the spectres of the tomb."
"What tomb--this one?"
"Ah, Signore, do not jest, I pray you, or the illustrious Signori Morone will hear us."
Peppino looked so serious that I forebore to smile at this absurdity, lest I should offend his pride and thus lose the story.
"Well, Peppino, tell me all about this haunted palace."
"Not here, Signore, I am afraid!"
"Then help me back to the carriage."
He obeyed with great alacrity, and, when I was once more in the fiacre, prepared to loosen his horse.
"No, no! Peppino," I said, smiling; "the ghosts can't hear us here, so tell me the story of the Morone."
Peppino cast a doubtful glance in the direction of the burial-ground, and then, seating himself on the step of the carriage, began his story. His Italian, as I have said before, was very good, so, making him speak slowly, I was easily able to understand the strange legend he related.
"Signore," he began, with a solemn look on his usually merry face, "the Morone were very famous in Verona four hundred years ago. Dio! they fought with the Scaligers, and afterwards with the Visconti. They were Podestas of the city before the Della Scala, and several of them were great Cardinals. One would have been his Holiness himself, but the Borgia asked him to supper and he died of their poison. About two hundred years ago Mastino Morone wedded the Donna Renata della Moneta, who was said to have been descended on the wrong side from Donna Lucrezia herself."
"You mean that this Renata was an illegitimate descendant of Lucrezia Borgia?"
"Yes, Signore. Ah! she was a devil of a woman, that Madonna Lucrezia. Ebbene! Signore. This Donna Renata wedded with Count Mastino Morone, and a pleasant life she led him, for she loved all other men but him. Cospetto! he would have strangled her, but he was afraid of her many lovers. There was a room in the Palazzo Morone, without any windows, where Donna Renata supped with those she favoured."
"And the room is there still?" I said, thinking of that mysterious chamber.
"Of a surety, Signore! It is haunted by the ghost of the Marchese Tisio!"
"Who was he?"
"Signore, he was the last lover of Donna Renata, whom she killed with the Borgia poison because he was faithless. Eh! it is true, Illustrious. She found out by her spies that the Marchese loved another, so she asked him to a last feast in her room, and when he was going she gave him a cup of wine. Dio! he drank it, the poor young man, and died. Ecco!"
"And why was he her last lover? Did she repent?"
"No, Signore! The Count Mastino was watching at the door, and when she had killed the Marchese he went in to see her."
"And killed her, I suppose?"
"Per Bacco! Signore, no one knows. She never came out of that room again. The friends of the poor Tisio found his body, but they never found Donna Renata."
"Then what became of her?"
"Cospetto! No one ever found out. Mastino married again and said nothing, but after that last feast his first wife was never seen again. Diamine! it is strange."
"It's a curious story, Peppino, but it does not explain how the palace is haunted."
"Listen, Illustrious! I will tell," said Peppino in a subdued whisper. "The spirits of the Donna Renata, of the Conte Mastino, and of the Marchese Tisio, haunt the palace, and in the Month of May, when the crime was committed, the lovers hold a feast in that secret room while the husband watches at the door. Then the Donna Renata poisons the Marchese, the husband enters, and cries of pain and terror are heard. Then the lights go out and all is still."
It was certainly very curious, for Peppino was describing the very same I had beheld--the terrible Renata, the unhappy lover, and the poisoned cup, but the Count----
"Tell me, Peppino, has any one ever beheld this feast of ghosts?"
"Dio! Signore, the people who lived in the palace were so afraid of the ghosts, that they left altogether, and no one has lived there for two hundred years."
"Yes, yes! but this spectral banquet seems all imagination--no one has seen it?"
"Yes, Signore. A holy Frate, who did not fear the devil, went one night in May and saw the feast through the door, but just as the poisoned cup was given, the ghost of the Conte dragged him away and tried to kill him."
"Oh! and did the ghost succeed?"
"No, Illustrious! The Frate made the sign of the cross and called on the Madonna, on which the ghosts all vanished with loud cries, and the Frate fainted. Next morning he found himself----"
"In the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele?"
"No, Signore; lying on the floor of the palace."
I was somewhat disappointed at this different ending to the narrative of Peppino, but it was very extraordinary that my adventure and that of the Frate should be so similar. It was broad day, I had overcome my superstitious fancies, yet the whole affair was so strange that I could not help feeling a qualm of fear, which I tried to laugh off, a proceeding which mightily offended Peppino.
"Signore, it is the truth I tell."
"Suppose I prove it, Peppino. This is the month of May, and no doubt the feast takes place every night. You will show me the palace, and I will watch at the door of the secret room."
"Dio! do not think of it, Illustrious," cried Peppino in alarm; "the Frate himself, a holy priest, was nearly killed, and you, Signore, you are a heretic."
"And, therefore, liable to be carried off by his Satanic Majesty. You are complimentary, Peppino. Nevertheless, to-morrow you must show me the palace."
"The Illustrious must excuse me."
"And watch with me for this feast of ghosts."
"Dio? the Signore jests!"
"No, indeed, Peppino! I am in sober earnest. We will go to the Palazzo Morone to-morrow; and now drive back to my hotel, as I feel very tired. Your story has been very entertaining, nevertheless."
"Ah! the Signor does not believe me?" said Peppino, getting on the box again.
"Yes, I do, Peppino; but I believe your ghostly party can be explained away."
The bruises I had received during my nocturnal adventure turned out to be worse than I expected, especially one on the left knee-cap, which quite incapacitated me from walking; therefore I was forced to remain in the house all day. This was somewhat annoying, as I was anxious to find out the Palazzo Morone, and see the chamber of Donna Renata during daylight. I thought also that as the palace bore such an evil reputation, my lady of the sepulchre would think herself safe in leaving the dead body of the young man lying in the room, and if I discovered the corpse I intended to give notice to the authorities of the crime I had seen committed.
Unluckily, however, I had to remain in bed most of the day, and when Peppino came in to say that his fiacre was at the door I was obliged to send him away, much to his gratification, as he was by no means anxious to guide me to the haunted palace. The curious resemblance between my own experience and the legend related by Peppino had rather startled me; but, being certain that I had to deal with the natural, and not the supernatural, I was firmly resolved to unravel this mystery before leaving Verona. To do this every moment was of value, and I bitterly regretted that my stiff knee kept me confined to the house. Everything, however, is for the best, and before I saw the Palazzo Morone, fresh light was thrown upon the events of the night in a most unexpected manner.
After my one day of enforced idleness I was fully determined to seek the conclusion of my adventure the next, when on the following morning I received a note from Maestro Angello, asking me to be sure and come to my lesson. As the Maestro was always annoyed at the non-appearance of a pupil, I judged it wise to go, and arranged with Peppino to search for the Palazzo Morone in the afternoon. The lesson would only last an hour, and I would thus have plenty of time to carry out my intention, as Peppino, knowing the palazzo, would be able to take me there direct.
I felt much better this second day after my adventure, as the pain had quite left my knee, so having thus arranged my plans for the afternoon, I started in a very contented frame of mind for the Casa Angello.
It was a dreary day, for there are dreary days even in Italy, and at intervals there fell heavy showers, which made me feel somewhat depressed. Pedestrians were hurrying along with large umbrellas of the Gamp species, red being the prevailing colour; and what with the sloppy streets, the gloomy houses, and the absence of the chattering Italian populace, the whole place looked infinitely melancholy, so in order to keep up my spirits I hummed the weird air I had heard in the Palazzo Morone.
Maestro Angello lived in a narrow street more like a drain than anything else, and I entered into a damp courtyard through a dismal little tunnel barred by an iron gate. The portinaia, who lived in a glass-fronted room as if she were a unique specimen of the human race preserved in a case, nodded her head to intimate that the Maestro was at home, so I climbed up the evil-smelling stone stairs which went up the side of the courtyard, and soon arrived at Angello's door. Ringing a little bell which tinkled in a most irritating manner, I was admitted into the dingy ante-chamber by Petronella, a short, fat, good-natured woman who managed the whole household, and made a great deal of noise over doing so. She was dressed in an untidy print gown, with a bright red shawl over her shoulders, and wore wooden clogs which clattered noisily on the terra-cotta floor. Her plenteous hair was roughly twisted into a knot and stuck through with large brass pins, which gave her a spiky appearance about the head. This curious apparition saluted me with a jolly smile in a gruff voice, with the usual familiarity of Italian servants,--
"Sta bene! Signore. Ah, the Maestro! povero Maestro!"
"What's the matter with him, Petronella?"
"Eh! Signore, he cannot live much longer."
As Angello was considerably over eighty years of age I thought this highly probable, but was about to condole with Petronella over his illness, when she saved me the trouble of a reply by bursting out into a long speech delivered with much dramatic effect:--
"It is nothing but trouble, Signore. Such a fine young man, and the piccola loved him so! It will surely place the Maestro among the saints. Four masses for his soul, Signore; and those priests are such thieves. I said 'No lesson,' but the Maestro is a mule for having his own way. Let him teach, say I; it will divert his mind! There, Signore, go in with you! But I always thought it would come; four times I heard the cock crowing, a bad sign, as Saint Peter knew. There, there! the Madonna aid us!"
Not understanding in the least what Petronella was talking about, I allowed myself to be pushed mechanically into the inner room in a state of bewilderment. The Maestro, seated in his usual chair, was waiting for me, and his granddaughter, Bianca, who assisted him in his lessons, was looking out of the window at the falling rain. An atmosphere of sadness seemed to pervade the dull, grey room, and as Bianca advanced to meet me I saw that her eyes were red with crying, while old Angello stared at her in a listless, indifferent manner, being so old as to be past all sympathetic feelings.
He was a mere mummy, this old man who had been celebrated as a teacher of singing in the days of Pasta and Malibran; a faint shadow of his former self, only kept alive by the mechanical exercise of his art. Yet, in spite of his great age, his ear was wonderfully keen and true; the sense of hearing, from continuous cultivation, being the only one which had survived the wreck of his faculties, and with the assistance of Bianca, he was still enabled to teach his wonderful system in an intelligible manner. Many of his pupils had been European, celebrities on the operatic stage during the past fifty years, and his rooms in Milan were crowded with souvenirs of famous artists of undying fame. His children, and, with the exception of Bianca, his grandchildren, were all dead; his friends and acquaintances and the generation that knew him had all passed away; but this Nestor of lyrical art still survived, alone and sad, amid the ruins of his past. White-haired, wrinkled, blear-eyed, silent, he sat daily in his great armchair, taking but little notice of the life around him, save to ask childish questions or talk about some dead-and-gone singer whose fame had once filled the world; but place a baton in his hand, strike the piano, lift the voice, and this apparent corpse awoke to life. He beat time, he corrected the least false note, he explained the necessary instructions in a faltering voice, and, during the lesson, bore at least some semblance of life; but when all was finished, the baton fell from his withered hand as he relapsed into his former apathy. One would have thought that he would have been glad to rest in his old age, but such was his love for his art that he insisted upon teaching still, and it was this alone which kept him alive. His granddaughter, Bianca, trained in the family traditions, was enabled to interpret his words, and, as his system of singing was unique, in spite of his apparent uselessness, he had many pupils.
Bianca herself was a charming Italian girl of twenty, more like a graceful white lily in appearance than anything else, so fragile, so delicate, so pallid did she seem. Her mournful eyes, dark and soft as those of a gazelle, seemed too large for her pale, oval face; and her figure, small and slender, always put me in mind of that of a fairy. Indeed, in sport, I sometimes called her the Fairy of Midnight, after some poet-fancy that haunted my brain, for all her strength seemed to have gone into those glorious masses of raven-black hair, coiled so smoothly round her small head. This portraiture seems to give the idea that Bianca was a melancholy young person, yet such was not the case, for I have seen her as gay as a bird on bright days, or when she received a letter from her lover.
Yes! she had a lover to whom she was engaged to be married, but, curiously enough, I knew nothing about this lover, not being intimate enough with Bianca to be the confidant of her tender little secret. This unknown lover was always away in other parts of Italy, and when he did visit Bianca it was during my absence, so I used to joke with the Signorina about this visionary being. But she, with one delicate finger on her lip and an arch smile of glee, would tell me that he--she never mentioned his name--that he had an actual existence, and some day I would see him in person at Verona. Well, here was Verona, here was Bianca, but the lover had not appeared, so I would have jestingly asked this Fairy of Midnight the reasons of his absence, had not the real grief expressed on her face deterred me.
"Signorina, are you in trouble?"
"Yes, yes! Signore, great trouble; but you cannot help me. No one can help me."
"But perhaps I----"
"No, Signore, it is useless. Come, you must have the lesson at once. The Maestro is dull to-day, he needs amusement; so come, the lesson."
"It is very cruel of you to make a joke of my lesson, Signorina."
Bianca made no reply to my jesting remark, but heaving a little sigh, placed the ivory baton in the hand of the Maestro and sat down at the piano. The mummy, finding his services required, woke up and had a little conversation with me before beginning the lesson.
"Eh! Signor Inglése," he croaked--this being his name for me--"London is dark!"
He had a fearful prejudice against London, which he had once visited at a foggy season, and always made the above remark to his English pupils, which no one ever thought of contradicting.
"Yes, yes!" he said, nodding his old head like a Chinese mandarin; "London is always dark."
"Yes, Maestro."
"You've not been working?"
"Indeed I have, Maestro."
"Come then, Signor Inglése, we will see," and the lesson commenced.
Oh, those lessons! what agonies I suffered during them, trying to attain the impossible! To how many fits of despair have I given way in failing time after time to manage my breathing! It was all breathing--a deep drawing in, a slow letting out--the exercise of internal muscles of which I had never heard even the name--the weariness of incessantly practising notes in a still, small voice hardly audible,--it was enough to discourage the most persevering. Some of the female pupils, I believe, cried with vexation when not able to do what was required by the severe Maestro, who denied the existence of the word "impossible" in connection with singing; but I, not being a woman, was reduced to swearing, which certainly relieved my feelings after a battle with a particularly aggravating exercise.
Even now, when I am successful in my art, I often turn cold as I think of those apparently insurmountable obstacles which I had to overcome; but with these painful memories there is mixed at the same time a kindly thought of that noble old Maestro, so patient, so courteous, so painstaking, whose devotion to his art was so great, who was so severe on the least fault and so encouraging of the least success in conquering a difficulty.
Well, the lesson went on slowly with frequent interruptions from the Maestro, who was satisfied with nothing less than perfection, and I breathed according to directions, sang "ah!" "eh," "ee's" in a tiny, tiny voice, until at the end of the hour I was glad to sit down and rest before departing. I felt tired out, I felt hungry, and, as the weather was bad, I felt cross, but at the same time I felt curious to know what was the matter with Bianca.
The Maestro, having remarked encouragingly that I had the voice of a goose and would never sing in La Scala, relapsed into silence, evidently thinking of his colezione which was being prepared in the kitchen with some trouble, judging from the raised tones of Petronella's voice; and as Bianca still sat at the piano, striking random chords, there was nothing for me to do but to take my departure. She was not prepared to tell me her trouble, and indeed she had no reason to do so, but feeling anxious to aid the poor child if I could, I ventured to speak to her on the subject.
While I was wondering which was the best way to approach this somewhat delicate matter, the door was flung open to its fullest extent and Petronella stalked majestically into the room. There was a wrathful look on her strongly marked features, and Bianca trembled in expectation of a storm. Both she and the Maestro were terribly afraid of Petronella, who ruled the household and looked after them as she would a couple of children, so now that she frowned they acted like children; and were cowed by her eagle eye. Petronella surveyed the three of us grimly, and, being satisfied that her entrance had produced an effect, spoke with a dramatic gesture that Rachel herself might have envied,--
"I am enraged to-day. Let no one speak to me." Neither the Maestro nor Bianca seemed inclined to accept this tread-on-the-tail-of-my-coat challenge, so Petronella looked from one to the other to see on whom she should pour out the vials of her wrath. Ultimately she chose Bianca.
"Ah, it is you, Signorina! it is you who enrage me. And for why? you ask. Holy Saints! you ask why. Because you sit there like a statue in the Duoma. Will that bring him back? say I. No, Signora, let the bad young man go. Ecco!"
"Guiseppe is not a bad young man," cried Bianca, rising angrily to her feet.
"Are you older than I am, piccola? No! Have you been married like I was? No! Then let me speak, child that you are. All men are bad--ask the Signor there! All men are bad!"
Petronella made a comprehensive sweep of her arms so as to indicate the whole masculine portion of the human race, and I, seeing an opportunity of finding out what was the matter, did not attempt to defend masculine depravity in any way, but artfully asked a question,--
"I can hardly say. I don't know what you are talking about!"
"Eh! has the Signore no ears? I speak of Guiseppe Pallanza!"
"What, the tenor at the Teatro Ezzelino?"
"Yes, Signore, he is the engaged one of the Signorina here, and----"
"Enough, enough, Petronella!" cried Bianca, her face flushing. "Do not trouble the Signor with these chatterings."
"Oh, it's no trouble," I replied quickly. "Perhaps I can help you, Signorina, if you require help!"
"Eh, eh!" assented Petronella approvingly, "the English have long heads, piccola. Tell him all and he will find out what others cannot find out. And you, Maestro, the colezione is ready."
She tenderly led the old man into the next room, and I was thus left alone with Bianca, who had retreated to the window, where she stood twisting her handkerchief with nervous confusion.
"Do not tell me, Signorina, if you would rather not," I said gently.
"Ah, Signore, if I thought you would be my friend!"
"Certainly I will be your friend."
"The Maestro is so old. Petronella is so foolish. We know none in Verona, and I can do nothing for my poor Guiseppe!"
"Your lover, Signorina?"
"Yes. I promised you should see him at Verona, but--now--ah now!--but perhaps you have heard him singing at the Ezzelino?"
"No; I have not been to the opera since my arrival here. What is the matter with him? Is he ill?"
"I know not! I know not! He is lost!"
"Lost?"
"Yes, Signore. My Guiseppe has disappeared and no one knows where he is!"
Could there be any connection between the disappearance of Guiseppe and the death of that young man I had seen in the fatal chamber? The thought flashed across me as she spoke, but I dismissed it as idle.
"And you want some one to look for Signor Pallanza?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, I will undertake the task."
"You, Signore!" she cried joyfully; "will you search for him?"
"Certainly, Signorina; I promised to be your friend. Now sit down, and tell me all about your lover and his disappearance. I may be able to do more for you than you think."
The fact is, that by some subtle instinct I connected the disappearance of this young man with the curious events of two nights before, and, leading Bianca to a seat, I prepared to listen attentively to her recital.
"Signore," she began in her flute-like voice, "I have been engaged to marry Guiseppe Pallanza for some months. He was a pupil of the Maestro, and we loved each other when we first met; but ah! Signore, he was poor then, and we could not marry, but now he is rich and famous."
"Yes, I have heard of the tenor Pallanza, but have never seen him on the stage."
"He has the voice of a god, Signore, and at La Scala, two seasons ago--oh, Signore, it was the talk of the whole city. The papers called him the New Mario, and he is so handsome--like an angel. After La Scala he went to Florence, to Naples, and then to Rome, where he sang in 'Faust' and 'Polyeuct' at the Apollo, then he came on here a week ago for the season at the Ezzelino; but now he is lost. Dio! how unhappy I am."
She covered her face with her hands, and wept quietly for a few minutes, and, impatient as I was to hear the particulars of the affair, I did not dare to disturb her grief. After a time she dried her tears, and went on again,--
"He came to Verona on Saturday, Signore, and we were so happy together talking about our marriage; and on Monday he sang in 'Faust' at the Ezzelino. I went to the theatre with Petronella, and that was the last time I saw him."
"Oh, then he disappeared on Monday night!" I asked quickly, feeling my heart begin to beat rapidly with excitement, for it was on Monday night that my extraordinary adventure had taken place.
"Yes, Signore. He was to come here after the opera, to tell the Maestro how he had sung--you know how anxious the Maestro is over his pupils, but he never came, nor the next day either; so this morning I went to ask at the Ezzelino, and they told me he had disappeared."
"It's curious I never heard of it. The disappearance of a popular tenor is not a common thing!"
"Signore, he sang on Monday and was to sing again to-night, so nothing was thought about him not coming to the theatre yesterday; but this morning they sent to his lodgings, to find that he had not been there since he left the Ezzelino after the opera on Monday."
"The papers will be full of it to-night!"
"Ah! that will not bring him back," said poor little Bianca in a melancholy tone, shaking her small head, which drooped like a faded flower.
I was now certain that my adventure on Monday night had something to do with the disappearance of Guiseppe Pallanza, and doubtless the young man I had seen in the deserted palace was the missing tenor; but the antique dress, the amorous rendezvous--these needed some explanation.
"Was he in love with any one, Signorina?"
It was a cruel but necessary question which angered Bianca, who threw back her little head with great haughtiness.
"Signore, he loved me and no one else."
"Had he any reason for disappearing?"
"Signore!"
"Forgive me if I appear rude," I said in a deprecating tone; "but indeed, Signorina, to find out all I must know all."
"Well, Signore, I am telling you all," she replied petulantly. "It was most strange his going away from the theatre."
"How so?"
"He left the Ezzelino in his stage-dress!"
"Ah!"
I jumped to my feet in a state of uncontrollable excitement, for I saw at once that I was on the right track. The antique dress was explained now! it was the dress he wore in the last act of "Faust."
"But surely, Signorina, that was very extraordinary," I said, pausing in my walk; "no one would walk the streets of Verona in a dress like that."
"I can explain that, Signore. When Guiseppe came from Rome, a friend came with him who was very ill--a baritone singer, who was in the same company at the Apollo. I was told at the Ezzelino that just before the last act of the opera, Guiseppe received a note saying that his friend was dying, so as soon as the curtain fell, he threw on a cloak which hid his dress, and went away as quickly as possible, so as to see his friend before he died."
"Oh! and is the friend dead yet?"
"I do not know, Signore."
The story of the dying friend might be true, yet to me it seemed highly improbable, and I guessed that the people at the theatre had told this fiction to pacify the fears of Signorina Angello, to whom they knew that Pallanza was engaged. The real truth of the matter was doubtless that the letter came from the woman I had followed, asking him to meet her at the deserted Palazzo Morone, and he had gone there innocently enough to be poisoned as I had seen. This explained a great deal, but it did not explain why the meeting should have taken place at such an extraordinary spot, and why the woman should have come from a burial-ground to keep the appointment. Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was certain that it was Pallanza I had seen murdered on Monday night, but in order to be quite sure of his identity, I asked Bianca if she had any photograph of her betrothed.
"Of a surety, Signore," she replied, and going to an album on the table, brought me a cabinet portrait. "This is Guiseppe as Faust, the dress in which he left the theatre."
It was as I surmised. The portrait was coloured, and I saw an exact representation of the young man I had beheld at the Palazzo Morone. The typical Italian face with the black curly hair, dark eyes, small moustache and sallow skin; the slender figure arrayed in a doublet of blue velvet, slashed with white satin; the azure silk cloak, the poniard and the high riding-boots--nothing was wanting; the successful tenor of the portrait was the man who had taken poison from the hand of the lady of the sepulchre. Still it was no use telling Bianca of my suspicions until I had discovered the whole secret; and besides, as Guiseppe was dead, I naturally shrank from being the bearer of such bad news. I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for I saw the Signorina watching me anxiously; so to lull any fancies she might have, I made the first remark that came into my head,--
"I never saw Faust in riding-boots before!"
"Ah, Signore!" replied the girl with a fond look, "Guiseppe was an artist as well as a singer, and designed his own dresses. He said that as Faust in the last act was going to fly with Marguerite, and Mephistopheles speaks of the horses waiting, it is natural that he should wear a riding-dress."
This explanation was quite satisfactory, and having thus learned the identity of the young man whom I had seen murdered, I prepared to go, when another idea entered my head, and, going over to the piano, I began to play by ear the strange air I had heard at the Palazzo Morone. Bianca gave a cry of surprise as she heard the melody, and came over to the piano with a puzzled look on her face.
"Ah, you know it, Signorina?" I said, turning round quickly.
"Yes! in fact I gave it to Guiseppe. It is an old air by Palestrina, which I found among the music of the Maestro, to which Guiseppe set words. He is very fond of it and sings it a great deal. Ah, Signore, you must have heard him sing it, for no one else has a copy."
I turned off the matter with a careless remark, not caring to tell Bianca where I had heard it; and now being quite certain that I would be able to unravel the whole mystery, I wanted to get away as quickly as possible in order to arrange my plans.
"Addio, Signorina," I said, giving her my hand. "When I see you again I may be able to give you news."
"Good news?"
"Yes, I hope so, Signorina," I replied hurriedly as Petronella appeared at the door. "Do not anticipate evil, I beg of you. I have no doubt Guiseppe is quite well."
"Oh, I hope so! I trust so! Addio! Signor Hugo, you will come back soon?"
"To-morrow, Signorina."
"Ah! I see you have brought back the smiles," said Petronella's gruff voice as she ushered me out. "What do you think of this evil one going away, Signore? I was going to have four masses if he is dead, but those priests are such thieves. Ecco!"
"Why should you think he is dead, Petronella?"
"Eh, Signore, he loves the piccola so much that nothing but death would keep him away."
"Except----"
"I know what you would say, Signore, except a woman. Well, maybe men are all bad. I've been married, Signore--I know, I know."
"Well, I don't think I'm particularly bad, Petronella."
"Eh! then you're not a true man, Signore," retorted Petronella, closing the argument and the door at the same time.