I need hardly say that I was very much excited over the strange discovery I had made, as there now appeared to be a reasonable chance of clearing up the mystery of the Palazzo Morone. I had discovered the name of the unhappy young man, which gave me a most important clue to the reading of the enigma; but I had yet to find out the name of the lady who had behaved in such an extraordinary manner and committed so daring a crime. After hearing Peppino's story I fancied that she might perchance be the Contessa Morone, but had later on dismissed this idea as idle, seeing that she had been absent from Verona for many months; but now that Bianca had told me that Pallanza had come straight from Rome, I began to suspect that I had been right in my surmise. According to Peppino the Contessa had taken up her residence at the Italian capital, so what was more likely than that she had fallen in love with Guiseppe while he was singing at the Teatro Apollo, and, following him to Verona, had killed him by means of poison, in revenge for his determination to leave her?
So far everything was feasible enough, but two points of the affair perplexed me very much, one being the choosing of the deserted palace as a place of meeting, the other the visit to the burial ground by the woman. We do not live in the times of the Borgias, when noble ladies can thus rid themselves of their lovers with impunity, else I might have believed that this phantom of Donna Lucrezia had gone to the old Veronese cemetery to select a grave for the unfortunate young man she intended to murder. To think thus, however, was foolish, and although I guessed that she had used the old palace of her family as a safe place for a lovers' meeting, seeing its gruesome reputation secured it from public curiosity, yet I was quite unable to explain the cemetery mystery. One thing, however, appeared to me to be certain, that Guiseppe Pallanza had been carrying on an intrigue with the Contessa--presuming the ghoul to be her--and that he had gone to the Palazzo Morone on the night in question at her request. As to the sick friend----
Now I greatly mistrusted that sick-friend story. So many fast young Englishmen whom I knew had adopted the same lie to cover their little peccadilloes that I was quite sure Pallanza had employed the same fiction to prevent the scandal of his intrigue with this unknown woman from reaching the ears of hisfiancée. Bianca was a very proud girl, and I felt certain, from what little I had seen of her character, that if she discovered Guiseppe was playing her false, she would at once break off the engagement at any cost. Like all Italian women, when she loved she loved with her whole soul, and expected the same single-hearted return to her passion; so that the discovery of her lover's infidelity could only be punished sufficiently, according to her ideas, by an everlasting parting between them. Pallanza knew this, and therefore tried to hide his guilt by the plausible story of his dying friend, which appeared to me to be such a remarkably weak fabrication that, before going to the Palazzo Morone, I determined to find out if this mythical invalid existed.
Curiously enough, although I was studying for the musical profession and was devoted to operatic performances, I had not been to the Teatro Ezzelino since my arrival at Verona, preferring to wander about the streets of the romantic old city in the moonlight to sitting night after night in a stifling atmosphere of heat, glare, and noise. I made up my mind, however, to go on this special night, in the hope that I might hear some talk about Pallanza's disappearance, and be guided thereby in any future movements; but meantime I went to the theatre in the afternoon, and, introducing myself to the impresario as a friend of Guiseppe's, asked him if he had heard any news of the missing tenor.
The impresario, a dingy old man of doubtful cleanliness, was in despair, and raged against the absent Pallanza like a Garrick of the gutter. He had heard nothing of this birbánte--this ladrone who had thus disappeared, and left an honest impresario in the lurch. "Faust" was the success of the season; without Pallanza there could be no "Faust," and the season would be a failure. What was he to do? Cospetto! it was the luck of the devil. Why had this scellerato run away? A sick friend? Bah! there was no sick friend. It was a woman who had enticed away this pazzo. A dying friend from Rome was not a very likely story, but a lie--a large and magnificent lie. Here was the basso of his company, who had been singing with Pallanza at the Apollo; ask him, truth is on his lips, Behold this good man!
Signor Basso-profundo advanced, and though truth might have been on his lips it certainly was not apparent on his face, for a more deceitful countenance I never beheld. However, I have no doubt he spoke truth on this occasion, as there was no money to be made by telling a lie, and he confirmed the words of the wrathful impresario. The sick friend was a myth, but in Rome Pallanza had been friendly with a lady. Per Bacco! a great lady, but the name was unknown to him. It appeared that Signor Basso-profundo dressed in the same room as Pallanza, and it was just before the last act of "Faust" that Guiseppe received the note. He told the basso-profundo that it was from a dying friend, and had departed quickly when the opera was ended, in his stage-dress, with a cloak wrapped round him. The basso-profundo was sure the note was from a lady. The impresario was also sure, and devoted the lady in question to the infernal gods with a richness of expression I have never heard equalled in any language.
Having thus found out what I suspected from the first, that the dying friend was a mere invention to cloak an intrigue, I left the impresario to tear his hair and call Guiseppe names in company with Signor Basso-profundo, and went back to my hotel, where I found Peppino waiting with his fiacre to drive me to the Palazzo Morone.
He was still unwilling to take me to this place of evil reputation, and made one last effort to shake my determination by gruesome stories of people who had gone into the palazzo and never came out again; but I laughed at all these hobgoblin romances, and getting into the fiacre, told him to drive off at once, which he did, after crossing himself twice, so as to secure his own safety should the ghosts of Palazzo Morone take a fancy to carry me off as a heretic.
We speedily left the broad, modern streets, and rattled down gloomy, mediæval passages, the humid atmosphere of which chilled me to the bone, in spite of the heat of the day. The fiacre--with its jingling bells--bumped on the uneven stones, turned abruptly round unexpected corners, corkscrewed itself between narrow walls, crept under low archways, and after innumerable dodgings, twistings, hairbreadth escapes from upsettings, and perilous balancings on the edges of drains, at length emerged into that queer little piazza at the end of which I saw the great façade of the richly-decorated palace I had beheld in the moonlight of two nights before.
I had been an ardent student of Baedeker since my arrival in Italy, and from the fortified appearance of the palazzo, judged that it had been built by Michelo Sammicheli, who, according to the guide-book, was the greatest military architect of the middle ages. The building was four stories high, with long lines of narrow windows closely barred by curiously ornamented iron cages--which bulged outward,---as a protection against thieves or enemies, and the whole front was adorned with almost obliterated paintings after the style of the Genoese palaces. In addition to the brush, the chisel had done its work, and wreaths of flowers, grinning masks, nude figures of boys and girls, elaborate crests and armorial devices with fishes, birds, tritons, shells, and fruit were sculptured round the windows, along the fortified castellated top, and over the great portal. All the square in front of this splendid specimen of Renaissance art was overgrown with grass. The houses on every side were also deserted, and what with the broken windows, the empty piazza, and the closed doors, everything had a melancholy, desolate appearance, as if a curse rested upon the whole neighbourhood.
Peppino evidently was of this opinion, for although it was broad daylight, and the hot sunlight poured down on the grass-grown square, yet he kept muttering prayers in a low voice; and if by chance he looked towards the Palazza, he always crossed himself with great devoutness. I was not, however, going to be baulked of my intention by any superstitious feeling on the part of an Italian cab-driver, so I ordered Peppino to tie up his horse and come with me into the palace. This modest request, however, so horrified Peppino that he absolutely squeaked with horror, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
"I, Signore!" he whimpered, touching the relic on his breast. "Dio! not to be King of Italy would I go into that house! If you are wise, Signore, look and come away lest evil befall you. Cospetto! Signore, remember the Frate. Think of Madonna Matilda!"
"What about Madonna Matilda, Peppino?"
"Eh, Illustrious, do you not know? She was a friend of his Holiness at Canossa, and, though a woman, wanted to celebrate mass, but Il Cristo burnt her to ashes with fire from above!--and she died. Ecco! Cospetto! Signore, it is foolish to meddle with holy things."
"Well, you can't call this palace holy, Peppino?"
"No, Illustrious. It is accursed!" replied the Italian, crossing himself, "but there is fire below as well as above, and you are a heretic."
"Which means that I had better beware of the devil! eh, Peppino. Well, well; I'm not afraid, so I will enter the palace, and if you see me carried off by the ghosts, you can tell the carabinieri."
"Dio! Illustrious, do not jest; but if you will go you must go. I will wait here and pray for your soul."
Peppino was as obstinate as a mule in his fear of ghosts, so leaving him to smoke his long Italian cigar and watch the brown lizards scuttling over the hot stones in the sunshine, I advanced towards the palace with the determination to find out the secret chamber. As I knew it would be dark therein, owing to its want of windows, I had taken the precaution to provide myself with a candle and a box of matches. Feeling that these were safe in my pocket, I went to the iron gate and entered the courtyard in the same way as I had done on that night. This time, however, I examined the ironwork, and found to my surprise that the missing bar had been half filed through and then wrenched away. The marks left were quite fresh, and it had been done so recently that the bar had not had time to grow rusty. This discovery astonished me not a little, as I did not see the reason of such an entrance being made. If it were the Contessa who used the palace, she would have the key of the side door, and could thus admit herself and her lover at her pleasure, while this breach could only have been made by some one who could not enter in any other way.
I thought of the person into whose arms I had fallen, the person who had placed a handkerchief wet with some liquid over my face, and although, according to Peppino's story, this watcher at the door was the phantom of Count Mastino Morone, yet dismissing such an explanation as due to superstition, I began to think that another person had followed the lady of the sepulchre besides myself. Yes, there could be no doubt about it, some third person had tracked her to the palazzo, and, unable to enter in the ordinary way, had filed through and broken the iron bar in the gate. Gaining access to the interior of the palazzo in this way, the unknown had penetrated to the secret chamber, and doubtless had witnessed the same strange scene as I had done. My presence had been discovered, and to preserve for some unknown reason, the secret of this terrible chamber, I had been seized, rendered insensible by chloroform, and taken to the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, so that I would be unable to re-discover the Palazzo Morone.
All these thoughts flashed through my brain with the rapidity of lightning, and I wondered whom this unknown could be--a friend of Pallanza? an accomplice of the Contessa! I did not know what to think, so leaving all such conjectures to a more seasonable time, I crossed over the dreary courtyard and entered the great hall.
It was a magnificent entrance, and when thronged with courtiers, men-at-arms, pages, and ladies, must have presented a noble appearance. Of enormous size, the high walls and lofty roof were painted with glowing frescoes representing the ancient glories of the Republic, and the floor was brilliant with gorgeous mosaics of coats-of-arms and fantastic figures. The painted windows on either side of the huge portal blazed with variegated tints, and the bright sun streaming in through the glass--as many-coloured as Joseph's coat--dyed the floor with vivid lights and gaudy hues. Ancient tapestries hung here and there between the two lines of black marble columns running down the sides of the hall, and the wind, stealing in through the open door, shook the grey dust from these mouldering splendours of the loom. At the end of this immense vestibule arose a broad staircase of white marble with balustrades of elaborate bronze fretwork, and from the first landing two other flights sloped off to right and left of the main branch. All the air was filled with floating shadows, the soft wind moved the hangings without sound, and I was alone in the deserted hall, over which brooded an intense silence, which made me shiver in the chill atmosphere pervading this abode of desolation.
However, the afternoon was passing quickly, and as I had plenty to do before nightfall, I rapidly ascended the shallow stairs. Turning to the right, which was the way the unknown lady had taken the other night, I soon found myself in the long corridor with the windows looking out on to the courtyard. Many of these were broken, but others were quite whole, their colours as bright and glowing as when they had first been placed there.
At the end of the corridor I turned to the left, and found the short flight of shallow steps, which, however, led up into darkness, so that before ascending them I had to light my candle. Luckily there were no draughts, for the air was absolutely still, and the flame of my candle burned clear and steadily. Up these steps I went, entered the short corridor, and paused before the heavy door which gave admission into the ante-chamber of the fatal room. Realizing what had taken place inside on that fatal night, I dreaded to enter, lest I should find the corpse of the unfortunate Pallanza on the floor; but overcoming my emotions, with a strong effort I thrust open the door and entered.
The tapestried chamber presented exactly the same appearance, with the small table in the centre, the burnt-out torch lying on the floor, and at the end the rich folds of the gold-worked curtains veiling the entrance to the inner apartment. I stood on the threshold, half expecting to hear the shrill notes of the mandolin, and the passionate song ring through the silence, but all was still and mute, as if it were indeed the tomb of the dead I expected to find.
At last, with a thrill of dread, I parted the heavy curtains and found myself in the circular chamber. The faint light of the candle just hollowed out a gulf in the Cimmerian darkness, and I saw the dim glitter of the gold and silver on the table, the ghastly glimmer of the white cloth, and the sparks of weak fire flashing from the tarnished gold embroidery of the curtains. All was as I had seen it--the eight white pillars, the dull-red hangings with their Arabesque patterns of golden thread, the gilt table, the massive metal goblets and silver candelabra, even the half-eaten fruit, with everything on the table in disorder; but, somewhat to my relief, I found nothing else. The dead body, which I had seen lying at the feet of that terrible woman, had vanished, and although I searched over every inch of the chamber, I could find no trace of the fearful crime which had been committed. The demon who had enticed the unhappy young man to his ruin had completed her evil work by secreting his body, and I began to think that all trace of Guiseppe Pallanza had disappeared from the earth for evermore.
Who was this woman who, in this room, had so wickedly slain her lover? Who was the man--I felt sure it was a man--who had seized me at the door, and borne me insensible from the palace? I could answer neither of these questions, and had it not been for the story of Bianca, for the disappearance of Pallanza, I would have fancied the whole some hideous dream, some nightmare of medieval devilry, which had filled my brain with the phantasmagoria of delirium. Everything, however, was too real, too terrible, to admit of such an explanation; so as I could discover nothing more from examining the chamber I prepared to leave. The atmosphere yet had a faint aroma of the sandalwood perfume which emanated from the unknown woman; at my feet still lay the broken mandolin; and the rich wine-cups still glittered in the dim light. I no longer wondered at such wealth being left here undefended, for superstition, more of a safeguard than bolts and bars, protected this cave of Aladdin from thievish Italian fingers; and even if a thief had known of these riches, I doubt whether he would have had the courage to dare the unseen horrors of the palazzo.
For myself, standing there in the perfumed atmosphere, with the light just showing the intense gloom, the dim glitter of gold and silver, the absolute stillness and the horrible memories of the chamber--I felt as though I were in the presence of the dead. At the table sat the phantoms of Donna Renata and her lover, smiling at one another with hatred in their ghostly hearts; at the door watched the evil face of the outraged husband awaiting the consummation of the tragedy; and in imagination I could see the wicked smile of the woman, the scowl of the husband, the loathing look on the face of the lover. My breath, coming quick and fast, made the flame of the candle flicker and flare until, overcome by the horror of the room, and by the workings of my imagination, I turned and fled--fled from the evil gloom, from that blood-stained splendour, out into the blessed sunshine and pure air of heaven.
"Dio!" cried Peppino, as I walked quickly out into the square, "how pale you are, Illustrious! Eh, Signore, have the ghosts----"
"I have seen no ghosts, Peppino, but I have felt their presence."
"Cospetto! did I not warn the Signore against the accursed place? Come, Illustrious, jump in and we will leave this abode of devils."
"Very well, Peppino," I replied, entering the fiacre, "but drive slowly, as I want to know the way to this palazzo."
"Dio! the Signore will not come again?"
"Yes! I am coming some night this month."
"Saints! the Signore is mad and lost!" muttered Peppino with a pale face. Then, hastily gathering up the reins, he drove rapidly away from the lonely square, leaving this gruesome palace to the night and to the feast of ghosts.
From my mother I had inherited one of those highly strung organizations which are largely affected by their surroundings, and which, like an Æolian harp, to the sighing wind vibrate with every breath of passion that passes over them--organizations which take their colour, their bias, their desires from the last event which occurs, and which are entirely in sympathy with the predominating feeling of the moment. In childhood this dangerous spirit of moods and fancies had been fostered by an old Scottish nurse, who used to thrill me with wild stories of Highland superstitions, and with weird ballads of elfish fantasy; but since I had mixed in the world I had learned to control and sway my imaginative faculty, and had thus acquired a command over myself. But, as I said before, superstition is in every one, and waxes or wanes according to their surroundings; so the terrors of childish tales, which had been half-forgotten in the bustle of worldly life, now came upon my soul with full force in this haunted city of Verona. The burial-ground, the ghostly room, the accursed palace, the phantoms of evil-seeming, all these peopled the chambers of my brain, with their unreal horrors, until I became so nervous and unstrung, that every sudden noise, every unexpected sound, and every shadowy comer, made me thrill with supernatural fear as if I were again a child listening to tales of devildom.
I knew this mood was a bad one, and would have sought cheerful society to drive away the evil spirit had I known where to seek it. But there were no English at my hotel, and, in the present state of affairs, the Casa Angello was not particularly cheerful, so as I did not care about spending a lonely evening, I methought myself of my intention to go to the Teatro Ezzelino. On glancing at the paper I saw that the opera for the night was "Lucrezia Borgia;" and this name gave me a renewed sensation of horror. The lady of the sepulchre had taken in my imagination the semblance of Ferrara's Duchess, and the memory of the terrible daughter of Pope Alexander seemed never to leave me. She had come from the graveyard, she had supped in the fatal chamber, she had murdered her lover; and now, when she had vanished into thin air, I was to see her represented on the stage in all her magnificent wickedness. I had a good mind not to go, but seeing that there was a ballet after the opera, I thought I would brave this phantom of the brain, and find in the lightness of the dancing an antidote to the gloomy terrors of the lyrical drama.
The cooking at my hotel was somewhat better than the usual run of Italian culinary ideas, so I made an excellent dinner, drank some Asti Spumati, an agreeable wine of an exhilarating nature, and felt much better when I started for the Ezzelino.
It was one of those perfect Italian evenings such as one sees depicted by the glowing brush of Turner, and there yet lingered in the quiet evening sky a faint purple reflection of the sunset glories. No moon as yet, but here and there a burning star throbbing in the deep heart of the sky, and under the peaceful heavens the weather-worn red roofs and grey walls of antique Verona mellowed to warm loveliness in the twilight shadows. Beautiful as it was, however, with the memory of that eerie night still on me, I had no desire to renew my moonlight wanderings, so, without pausing to admire the enchanting scene, I hastened on to the theatre to be in time for the first notes of Donnizetti's opera.
The Teatro Ezzelino is a very charming opera-house, built in a light, airy fashion, with plenty of ventilation, a thing to be grateful for on hot summer nights. All the decorations are white and gold, so that it has a delightfully cool appearance; nevertheless, what with the warmth of the season without, and the glaring heat of the gas within, I felt unpleasantly hot. The gallery and stalls were crowded, but as it was only eight o'clock, most of the boxes were empty, and I knew would not be filled until late in the evening by those who, tired of the well-known music of "Lucrezia," wanted to see the new ballet.
Having glanced round the theatre, I bought a book of the words, hired an opera-glass from an obsequious attendant, and settled myself comfortably for the evening. The orchestra--a very excellent one, directed by Maestro Feraldi, of Milan--played the prelude in a sufficiently good style, and the pictured curtain arose on the well-known Venetian scene which I had so often beheld. The chorus, in their heterogeneous costumes of no known age, wandered about in their usual aimless fashion, shouted their approval of smiling Venice in the ordinary indifferent style; and a very good contralto who sang Orsini, having delivered her first aria with great dramatic fervour, they all vanished from the stage, leaving the sleeping Genaro to be contemplated by Lucrezia Borgia.
I was disappointed with the Duchess when she arrived, and I must say that my majestic evil lady of the sepulchre looked far more like the regal sister of Cæsar Borgia than this diminutive singer with the big voice, who raged round the stage like a spitfire, and gave one no idea of the terrible Medusa of Ferrara, whose smile was death to all, lovers and friends alike. The tenor was a long individual, and Lucrezia being so small, their duets, in point of physical appearance, were sufficiently ridiculous; but as they sang well together, their rendering of the characters, artistically speaking, was enjoyable. The chorus entered and discovered Lucrezia with Genaro; the prima-donna defied them all with the look and ways of a cross child; there was the usual dramatic chorus, and the curtain fell on the prologue with but slight applause. I did not go out, as I felt very comfortable, so amused myself with looking round the house, when, during the first act of the opera, two officers entered the theatre and took their seats in front of mine; They were two gay young men, who talked a great deal about one thing and another in such raised voices that I could hear all they said, some of which was not particularly edifying.
During the first act which succeeds the prologue they were comparatively quiet, but when Lucrezia entered in the second to sing the celebrated duet with Alfonso, they were loud in their expressions of disapproval concerning her appearance. The music of this part of the opera is particularly loud and noisy, but even through the crash of the orchestra I could hear their expressions of disapproval.
"The voice is not bad, but the appearance--the acting--oime!"
"Eh, Teodoro, what would you? Donna Lucrezia is not on the stage."
"Not on the stage!" said Teodoro in an astonished tone. "Ebbene! where is she?"
"Look at the box yonder!"
"Per Bacco! the Contessa Morone."
I started as I heard this name, and, looking in the same direction as the young men, saw a woman seated far back in the shadow of a box, the fourth or fifth from the stage. She was talking to three gentlemen, and her face was turned away so that I could not see her features; but, judging from the glimpse I caught of her head and bust, she seemed to be a very majestic woman.
The Contessa Morone! She was then in Verona after all. This discovery removed all my doubts concerning the identity of the ghoul. She was the woman who had left the vault in the burial-ground. She was the woman who had slain Guiseppe Pallanza in the secret chamber of the deserted palace, and she was the woman seated in the shadow of the box, talking idly as though she had no terrible crime to burden her conscience. If I could only see her face I would then recognise her; but, as if she had some presentiment of danger, she persistently looked everywhere but in my direction. As I gazed she moved slightly, the bright light of a lamp shone on her neck, and I saw a sudden tongue of red flame flash through the semi-twilight of the box, which at once reminded me of the necklace of rubies worn by that terrible vampire of the graveyard.
Eager to know all about this woman, whom I felt sure was the murderess of Pallanza, I listened breathlessly to the two officers who were still talking about her.
"It is a year since Morone died," said Teodoro, lowering his opera-glass, "and she has lived since at Rome, where I met her. Why has she returned here?"
"Eh, who knows! Perhaps to reside again at the Palazzo Morone."
"That tomb. Diamine! She must become a ghost to live there."
"Ebbene, Teodoro! the ghost of Lucrezia Borgia! Why does she not marry again?"
"Who knows! I wouldn't like to be her husband in spite of her money. Corpo di Bacco! a woman who sees in the dark like a cat."
"The evil eye!"
"Yes! and everything else that's wicked. I do not like that Signora at all."
"Che peccato! you might marry her."
"Or her money! Ecco!"
They both laughed, and, the act being ended, left their seats. I also went out into the corridor for a smoke and a breath of fresh air, feeling deeply sorry that this interesting conversation had been interrupted. From what one of the officers had said she was evidently a nyctalopyst, and could see in the dark, which accounted at once for the unerring way in which she had threaded the dark streets, and was also the reason that she now remained secluded in the shadow of her box, preferring the darkness to the light. Puzzling over these things, and wondering how I could get a glimpse of her face, I lighted a cigarette and strolled about in the vestibule of the theatre with the rest of the crowd.
There were a goodly number of civilians of all sizes, ages, and complexions, while the military element was represented by a fair sprinkling of officers in the picturesque uniforms of the Italian army. The air was thick with tobacco-smoke there was a clatter of vivacious voices, and the great doors of the theatre were thrown wide open to admit the fresh night air into the overpoweringly hot atmosphere. Being wrapt up in my ideas about the Contessa Morone and her extraordinary behaviour, I leaned against a pillar and took no notice of any one, when suddenly a tall officer stopped in front of me and held out his hand.
"What! Is it you, Signor Hugo? Come sta!"
"Beltrami! You here! I am surprised!"
"Ma foi," replied Beltrami, who constantly introduced French words into his conversation; "you are not so surprised as I am. I thought you were in your foggy island, and behold you appear at Verona. How did you come here? What are you doing? Eh! Hugo, tell me all."
I do not think I have mentioned Beltrami before, which is curious, considering I have been talking so much about Italy and the Italians; but the fact is, my friend the Marchese only now enters into this curious story I am relating, so thus being introduced in due season I will tell all I know about him.
During my narrative I fancy I have mentioned that I spoke and understood Italian tolerably for an Englishman. Well, I did not learn my Italian in Italy--no, indeed! Foggy London saw my maiden efforts to acquire that soft bastard Latin which Byron talks of, and the Marchese Luigi Beltrami gave me my first lessons in his melodious language. He had come to England some years before with a card of introduction to my father from a friend in Florence, and on being introduced to our household we had taken a great fancy to one another. Even in those days, perhaps as a premonitory symptom of my operatic leanings, I was mad on all things Italian, and discoursed about art, raved of Cimabue and Titian, and quoted Dante, Ariosto, and Alfieri until every one of my friends were, I am sure, heartily wearied of my enthusiasm. Beltrami appeared, and feeling flattered by my great admiration for his country, advised me to learn Italian. I did so, and with his help soon became no mean proficient in the tongue which the Marchese, being a Florentine, spoke very purely. In return I taught him English; but either I was a bad master, or Beltrami was an idle scholar, for all the English he ever learned consisted of two sentences: "You are a beautiful miss," and "I love you," but with these two he got along comparatively well, particularly with woman.
English ladies at first were indignant at this outspoken admiration, but Beltrami was so good-looking, and apparently so sincere in his use of these two English sentences, that they usually ended by pardoning him; nevertheless the Marchese found that if he wanted to get on in society he would have to moderate his transports. Ultimately, if I remember rightly, he took refuge in French, and said a great many pretty things in that very pretty tongue.
My friend Beltrami and myself were the antithesis of one another in character, as he had a great deal of the subtle craft of the old Italian despot about him; yet somehow we got on capitally together, perhaps by the law of contrast, and when he returned to Italy I was sorry to see the last of him. I promised to some day visit him at his palazzo in Florence, and fully intended to do so before leaving Italy; but here was Verona, and here, by the intervention of chance, was the Marchese, as suave, as subtle-faced, and as handsome as ever. He appeared to be delighted to see me, and as I was a stranger in a strange land, I was glad to find at least one familiar face.
In response to his request I told him about the death of my father, of my determination to study singing, and the circumstances which had led me to Verona, to all of which Beltrami listened attentively, and at the conclusion of my story shook hands with me again.
"Ebbene! my friend Hugo, I am glad to see you in our Italy. As you see, I serve the King and am stationed in his dismal palace, so while you are here I will make things pleasant. Ecco!"
"No, no! my dear Marchese, I know what you mean by making things pleasant. I have come here to work, not to play."
"Dame, mon ami! too much work is bad."
"Eh, Marchese, and too much play is worse; but tell me how have you been since I saw you last?"
"Oh, just the same; I am as poor as ever, but soon I will be rich!"
"Bravo, Beltrami! Is your uncle, the Cardinal, dead?"
"My uncle, the Cardinal, is immortal," replied the Marchese cynically. "No, he still lives in the hope to succeed to the Fisherman's Chair. I am going to be married!"
"I congratulate you."
"Eh, Hugo, I think you will when you see the future Marchesa! She is in the theatre to-night. I am engaged to marry her, and as she takes my friends for her own, come with me and I will introduce you."
I drew back, as I wanted to watch the Contessa Morone, and if I went to Beltrami's box I would perhaps lose sight of her.
"You must excuse me, Signor Luigi, because--because you see I am not in evening dress."
It was the best excuse I could think of, but, being a very weak one, Beltrami laughed, and, slipping his arm into mine, dragged me along the corridor.
"Sapristi! you talk like a child. You are my friend. Signora Morone will be delighted to see you. She adores the English."
"Madame Morone!" I exclaimed, thunderstruck.
"Yes, the Contessa! Do you know her by sight? Mon Dieu! is she not beautiful? You shall speak the English to her. She loves your foggy islanders."
I was so bewildered by the chance thrown in my way of finding out if the Contessa Morone had anything to do with the burial-ground episode, that I only replied to Beltrami's chatter by an uneasy laugh, and suffered myself to be led unresistingly along.
The Marchese did not take me into the box itself, but into one of those small ante-rooms, on the opposite side of the corridor, which are used by Italian ladies as reception saloons for their friends when at the theatre. I heard the loud chatter of many voices as Beltrami opened the door, and there, standing under the glare of the gas-lamp, with the wicked smile on her lips, the pearls in her hair, the ruby necklace round her throat, I saw the woman who had come from the vault, the woman who had poisoned Pallanza in the secret room, the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia.
I was duly introduced by the Marchese, and Signora Morone received me in the most amiable manner. She was certainly a very charming woman, and had I not known her true character, I would doubtless have been fascinated by her gracious affability; but, in spite of her courtesy, I could hardly speak to her without a feeling of repulsion. This beautiful woman, so suave, so smiling, so seductive, inspired me with that sensation of absolute dread which one experiences at the sight of a sleek, velvet-footed pantheress--a comely beast to admire, but a terrible one to caress. I replied to her polite inquiries in a somewhat mechanical fashion, which she doubtless put down to my imperfect knowledge of Italian, for in spite of all my efforts to feel at ease in her society, yet I was unable to do more than behave with strained courtesy towards this woman whose mask I had torn off, whose secret I had penetrated, and the wickedness of whose heart I knew.
There were several other gentlemen in the room, who talked gaily with the Contessa, and amused themselves by eating the bonbons and crystallised fruits provided for refreshments. The last act of the opera had not yet commenced, so Signora Morone sank gracefully into a velvet-cushioned chair, and permitted her courtiers to retail all the news of the day for her amusement. I am afraid this description sounds somewhat hyperbolical, but indeed it is the only way in which I can describe this woman, whose every movement was full of sinuous grace and feline treachery. Cat, tigeress, pantheress as she was, her claws were now sheathed in her velvet paws, but the claws were there all the same, and would doubtless scratch at the least provocation.
Some people do not believe in transmigration, but I am a true disciple of Pythagoras in that bizarre doctrine, and I firmly believe that in a former existence the soul of Giulietta Morone had animated the body of some tawny tigeress who had stolen through the jungle beneath the burning skies of Hindostan, slaying and devouring her victims in conformity with the instincts of her savage nature. Now she was a woman--a fair, majestic woman--but the instinct of the beast was there, the desire for slaughter and the lust for blood. What made me indulge still more in this fancy was the colours of the dress she wore black and yellow--all twisted in and out with a curious resemblance to the sleek fur of the beast to which I had likened her. The soft glimmer of the pearl strings twined in her magnificent red hair seemed out of place as ornaments for this woman; but the rubies suited her nature well, the red, angry rubies that shot flashes of purple fire from her neck at every heave of her white bosom. Leaning back in her deep chair with a cruel smile on her full crimson lips, the glimmer of pearls, the fire-glint of the fierce-tinted gems, and the bizarre mixture of amber and black in her dress, she slowly waved her sandalwood fan to and fro, diffusing a strange, sleepy perfume through the room, and looking what I verily believed her to be, the type of incarnate evil in repose.
While I was thinking in this fanciful fashion, the Contessa was talking to her friends in a slow, rich voice, and Beltrami--well, Beltrami was watching me closely. Do you know that strange sensation of being watched? that uneasy consciousness that some unseen eye is observing the least movement? Yes, of course you do! Every one has felt it, in a more or less degree, according to their nervous susceptibility. At the present time, with all my senses on the alert for unexpected events, it was therefore little to be wondered at that I felt the magnetism of Beltrami's gaze, and, on looking up, saw his keen black eyes fixed upon me with an enigmatical expression. For the moment I was startled, but immediately that feeling passed away for I well knew the strange nature of the Marchese, which was a peculiar mixture of good and evil, of kindness and cruelty, of hate and love, which must have proceeded from some aberration of his subtle intellect.
Beltrami's face always put me in mind of that sinister countenance of Sigismondo Malatesta, which sneers so malevolently at the curious onlooker from the walls of the Duomo at Rimini. He had the same treacherous droop of the eyelids, the same thin nose with wide, sensitive nostrils, and the same malignant smile on his thin lips. Yet he was handsome enough, this young Italian; but his face, in spite of my friendship, repelled me--in a less degree, it is true, but still it repelled me in the like manner as did that of the Contessa Morone. So he was going to marry her. Well, they were certainly well-matched in every respect, and if the man had not the active wickedness of the woman, still the capability of evil was there, and would awaken to life when necessary to be exercised. Both Beltrami and his future wife were anachronisms in this nineteenth century, and should have lived, smiled, and died in the time of the Renaissance, when they would have been fitted companions of those Italian despots of whom Machiavelli gives the typical examples in his book "The Prince."
The Marchese saw my inquiring look, and with an enigmatic smile walked across to where I was standing in the warm, yellow light.
"Ebbene! Signor Hugo," he whispered, with a swift glance at the Contessa, "tell me what you think of my choice."
"It does you credit, Marchese. You will have a beautiful wife."
"And a loving one, I hope. Tell me, mon ami, do you not envy me?"
I hesitated a moment before replying, and then blurted out the truth,--
"Honestly speaking, Signor Luigi, I do not!"
"Dame! and why?"
"Well, I can hardly tell you my reasons, but I have them, nevertheless."
Beltrami looked hard at me with an inquisitive look in his dark eyes, and a satirical smile on his thin lips.
"You are not complimentary, my friend," he said, turning away with a supercilious laugh.
I laid my hand on his shoulder and explained,--
"Pardon me, Beltrami, you do not understand----"
"Eh! do not apologise! I understand better than you think."
He was evidently not at all offended, and I felt puzzled by his manner. It was true he had candidly acknowledged that he was making this marriage for money, but surely he must also love this woman, whose ripe beauty was so attractive to the passionate nature of the Italians. Yet, judging from his mode of speech, he evidently had some mistrust--a mistrust for which I could not account. He could know nothing of the affair at the Palazzo Morone, so there certainly could be no reason for suspicion on his part. She was a beautiful woman, a rich woman, an attractive woman, so with this trinity of perfections she decidedly merited a warmer love than Beltrami appeared inclined to give her. Could it be that her evil beauty repelled him, as it did me? No! that was impossible, seeing that, according to my idea, their natures were wonderfully alike. Altogether the whole demeanour of the Marchesa perplexed me by its strangeness, and I watched him narrowly as he approached the Contessa, to see if she perceived the lack of warmth on the part of her lover.
To my surprise, as he bent over her chair to speak, she shrank away with a gesture of disdain, and the rubies shot forth a red flame, as if to warn the lover that there was danger in pressing upon this woman his unwelcome attentions. Unwelcome, I am sure they were, for as he adjusted her cloak and aided her to rise, in order to return to the box, I saw that she accepted all his politeness with forced civility and cold smiles. So then she did not love him--he had almost openly acknowledged to me that he did not love her, and yet these two people, who had no feeling of love in their hearts, were about to marry. It was most extraordinary, and I marvelled greatly at the juxtaposition of these two human beings, who evidently hated one another heartily.
At this moment the Contessa spoke of the man she had murdered, and I was horrified in the cold, callous tones in which she veiled her iniquity.
"Do you know, gentlemen, if anything has been heard of this lost tenor?"
Beltrami shot a keen glance at her, then a second at me, and I felt more bewildered than ever by this strange action.
"Nothing has been heard of him, Contessa," he said quickly, before the others could speak; "he has vanished altogether, but no doubt he will appear again."
"Ah, you think so?" observed the Contessa, with a cruel smile.
"I am sure of it!"
She winced, and looked at him in a startled manner, upon which, impelled by some mysterious impulse, I know not what, I joined in the conversation,--
"On the contrary, madame, I do not think Signor Pallanza will ever be seen again."
All present turned round in surprise, and the Contessa darted a look at me which seemed to pierce my soul. Only Beltrami was unmoved, and he, with a smile on his face, laid his hand upon my shoulder.
"Eh, Signor Hugo, and why do you think so?"
"A mere fancy, Marchese, nothing more."
"Ma foi! and a fancy that may turn out true!"
I was annoyed at having yielded to the impulse and spoken out, as, unless I told all about my adventure, I could not substantiate my statement, and I was certainly not going to reveal anything I knew, particularly in the presence of the woman so deeply implicated in the affair. Beltrami's mocking manner irritated me fearfully, the more so as it was so very unaccountable, and I was about to make some sharp reply, when the opening chorus of the last act sounded, and all the gentlemen, after making their adieux to the Contessa, left the room.
The Marchese offered his arm to Madame Morone, but she dismissed him with a haughty gesture.
"One moment, Marchese--I wish to speak with this Signor for a few minutes."
Beltrami darted one of his enigmatic looks at us both, and with a low bow to conceal the smile on his lips, left the room. As soon as he had disappeared, Madame Morone turned round on me with a quick gesture of surprise.
"Signor Hugo, why did you say the tenor Pallanza would never be seen again?"
"I have no reason, Signora," I replied, being determined to baffle her curiosity; "I merely spoke on the impulse of the moment."
"Do you know Signor Pallanza?"
"No, madame, I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance."
"Ah!"
She heaved a sigh of relief, and looked at me long and earnestly, as if to see whether I was speaking the truth. Apparently she was satisfied with her scrutiny, for she laughed softly, and placed her hand within my arm.
"Confess now, Signor Hugo, you think me most mysterious, but I will tell you why I speak thus. I heard Pallanza at Rome, when he sang at the Apollo, and I hoped to see him again here, therefore I am annoyed at his disappearance and anxious for him to be found. A selfish wish, Signor Hugo, for it is only my desire to hear him sing again. Ecco!"
"I do not think your wish at all selfish, madame, for I hear he is a charming singer."
"Oh, yes! the New Mario they call him in Milan. Will you not hear the rest of the opera in my box?"
"If you will excuse me, madame, I will say no, as I have an engagement."
This was a lie, but I was so fearful of betraying myself to this terrible woman, who had evidently a half-suspicion that I knew something of Pallanza, that I was anxious to get away as soon as possible. She, saying good-night, in a cold, polite manner, re-entered the box, and I was moving away when Beltrami suddenly appeared.
"Eh, Hugo, how cruel! the Contessa tells me you must go?"
"Yes. I will see you again, Marchese!"
"To-morrow then; if not, the next day. Here is my card, and I am always at home in the afternoon. Do not fail to come, mon ami--I wish to speak to you about--about----"
He paused, and I asked curiously,--
"About what?"
"Eh, dame! I forget. I will tell you at our next meeting' A rivederci! Signor Hugo. Don't forget your old friend, or he will quarrel with you."
He nodded, smiled, and vanished, then I took my departure from the theatre, and wandered up and down the street in the moonlight. I felt that to sit out the ballet would be more than I could bear, as I was so excited over the meeting with the Contessa Morone, therefore I strolled up and down the street, smoking and thinking. As time passed on I grew calmer, and thought I would return to the Ezzelino, not to see the ballet, but to catch a glimpse of the Contessa once more.
As I reached the portico of the theatre she was just coming down the steps to her carriage, leaning on the arm of Beltrami, and I, hidden in the crowd, could see her looking hither and thither as if searching for some one. She could not see me, and in order to satisfy myself in every way as to her identity with the creature of the night I had seen leave the graveyard, with a sudden inspiration I hummed a few bars of the strange song I had heard in the fatal chamber.
Being close to me she could hear quite plainly, and gave a kind of gasping cry as she fell back into the arms of Beltrami, just as he was helping her into the carriage.
"What is the matter, cara?" he asked quickly.
She clutched his arm with so powerful a grasp that it made him wince, and I heard her mutter with white lips,--
"Pallanza! Pallanza!"
This was all I wanted to hear, and, fearful of discovery, I threaded my way quickly among the crowd, and hastened home to my hotel.
I had recognised Guiseppe, I had found the woman who had slain him, but I had yet to discover where she had hidden the body of her victim--and then!--well, my future movements would be guided by circumstances.