FOOTNOTES:[24]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
[24]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
[24]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
"Eidolon, or the Trial of a Soul, and other Poems," is the title of a new volume of verses from the press of Pickering, written byWalter R. Cassels, a student of the school of Shelley, and Keats, and Tennyson, and Browning. A favorable specimen of his abilities is offered in the following description of Cyprus:
Amid it riseth Olympus,Stately and grand as the throne of the gods,And the island sleeps 'neath its shadowLike a fair babe 'neath the care of its father.Streams clear as the diamondEvermore wander around it,Like the vein'd tide through our members,Quick with the blessings of beauty,And health and verdurous pleasure,Filling with yellow sheavesAnd plenty the bosom of Ceres;Calling forth flowers from the slumbering earth,Like thoughts from the dream of a poet,Till the island throughout is a garden,The child and the plaything of summer."In luscious clusters the fruit hangsIn the sunshine, melting awayFrom swetness to sweetness;The grapes clustering 'mid leaves,That give their bright hue to the eyeLike the setting of rubies;The nectarines and pomegranatesGlowing with crimson ripeness,And the orange trees with their blossomsYielding sweet odor to every breeze,As the incense flows from the censer."The air is languid with pleasure and love,Lulling the senses to dreams Elysian,Making life seem a glorious trance,Full of bright visions of heaven,Safe from the touch of reality,Toil none—woe none—pain,Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations.Time to be poured like wine from a chaliceSparking and joyous for aye,Drain'd amid mirth and music,The brows circled with ivy,And the goblets at last like a giftThrust in the bossom of slumber."Thus are the people of Cyprus;Young men and old making holiday,Decking them daintily forthIn robes of Sidonian purple;The maidens all beauteous, but wanton,Foolishly flinging youth's gifts,Its jewels—its richest adornment,Like dross on the altar of pleasure;Letting the worm of mortalityEat out their hearts till they bearOnly the semblance of angels."
Amid it riseth Olympus,Stately and grand as the throne of the gods,And the island sleeps 'neath its shadowLike a fair babe 'neath the care of its father.Streams clear as the diamondEvermore wander around it,Like the vein'd tide through our members,Quick with the blessings of beauty,And health and verdurous pleasure,Filling with yellow sheavesAnd plenty the bosom of Ceres;Calling forth flowers from the slumbering earth,Like thoughts from the dream of a poet,Till the island throughout is a garden,The child and the plaything of summer.
"In luscious clusters the fruit hangsIn the sunshine, melting awayFrom swetness to sweetness;The grapes clustering 'mid leaves,That give their bright hue to the eyeLike the setting of rubies;The nectarines and pomegranatesGlowing with crimson ripeness,And the orange trees with their blossomsYielding sweet odor to every breeze,As the incense flows from the censer.
"The air is languid with pleasure and love,Lulling the senses to dreams Elysian,Making life seem a glorious trance,Full of bright visions of heaven,Safe from the touch of reality,Toil none—woe none—pain,Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations.Time to be poured like wine from a chaliceSparking and joyous for aye,Drain'd amid mirth and music,The brows circled with ivy,And the goblets at last like a giftThrust in the bossom of slumber.
"Thus are the people of Cyprus;Young men and old making holiday,Decking them daintily forthIn robes of Sidonian purple;The maidens all beauteous, but wanton,Foolishly flinging youth's gifts,Its jewels—its richest adornment,Like dross on the altar of pleasure;Letting the worm of mortalityEat out their hearts till they bearOnly the semblance of angels."
We left young Rovero in despair, yielding to the stupefaction which overpowered him, just as the singer leaned over his bed to be assured that he was asleep. La Felina looked at him for some time in silence, with pity in her eyes. "Why does he love me?" said she; "what have I done? why should this poor lad love one who scarcely knew him?"
Rovero moved. "Heavens! is the effect of the narcotic over? Will he awaken?"
"Felina!" murmured Taddeo.
"My name ever on his lips and in his heart. Yes! I was right in avoiding another interview: this letter tells all." She took a paper from her bosom. "But if he resist my prayer, if he shrink from the duty imposed on him by honor and humanity! He alone can accomplish it—all my hope is in him!"
She approached the table, and by the pale moonlight looked at the flask of Massa wine. A single glass had been taken from it. "One glass!" said she, "only one glass?His sleep cannot be long. This torpor will terminate before any one enters his cell. But Lippiani the turnkey is devoted to me, and will see nothing."
Drawing near the bed she took out of her fine hair a long gold pin, with which to fasten the letter on his pillow, so that his eyes would rest on it when he awoke. While Felina's face was near Rovero's as she put the letter beneath his head, her warm breath hung on his lips; they pressed hers, and, terrified, she sprang from his side.
The prisoner dreamed of happiness, and doubted not that his fancy was realized. Whether this kiss had overcome his torpor, or whether, as La Felina thought, the narcotic had been taken in such small quantity that it had produced but a slight effect, Taddeo tossed on his bed. The singer, terrified at these signs, which were the precursors of his awakening, disappeared by the secret passages through which she had entered. An hour rolled by before Taddeo could triumph over his sleep. His heavy eyes shut together in spite of himself, and his eyelashes rested on each other. All sensation was lost in general lassitude. In the first disorder of his mind, he asked himself if he had not again dreamed of the appearance of La Felina. Had he not seen her approaching his bed just as he sunk to sleep, he would have been sure of it. He shuddered at the thought that he had lost the opportunity so anxiously expected. At last he recovered his strength, and attempted to rise. As he did so, his hand touched La Felina's letter on the pillow. When he drew out the diamond-headed pin which fastened it, he no longer doubted that he had actually seen her. Having been unable to rouse him, she had written to him. He felt angry with himself. He would have given ten years of his life to regain that one lost hour. He went to the tall window of the chapel to invoke a single ray of the moon to enable him to read the lines which had been traced by the hand of the woman he worshipped. This consolation was denied him. The moon was hidden by clouds, and the completest obscurity pervaded the prison. What Taddeo suffered during the time till day, which it seemed to him would never dawn, may be fancied, but not described. His fate was in his own hands, yet it was unknown. Ardently clasping to his heart and to his lips the perfumed paper on which Felina had written, his heart became intoxicated. He passionately kissed the sheet on which the singer had left her words, and a sad presentiment of misfortune took possession of him. He almost feared the coming of day, the light of which would reveal to him his fate.
Day dawned, at first feeble, then brighter, and still brighter, and finally brilliant and clear. He opened the letter, and his eyes glanced over it with tender earnestness. A livid pallor overcast his features, a nervous tremor shook him. The lines traced by La Felina he could not read; and overcome by despair, he sank to his seat. The keeper entered. "Signor," said he to Taddeo, "the person who visited you three days ago asks permission to see you again."
"Who is he?" said Taddeo—his voice choked with grief.
"The Marquis de Maulear."
The name recalled to the prisoner his mother and Aminta. This memory soothed his wounded heart. "My mother, my sister," thought he; "but for their tenderness what now would be my life! Show the Marquis in."
While the keeper was absent, he hurried to the bed, examined it anxiously as if in search for something which had escaped his observation. Seizing the letter, he read anxiously the last lines, approached the bed, and discovered the mysterious deposit La Felina had placed under the pillow. He took it and concealed it carefully in his clothing; and with an accent which betrayed the contest in his crushed heart, he said aloud, as if he wished some one to hear him, "You judged me correctly, Felina; misfortune will not make me unjust; I will do what you ask!"
A cry of joy echoed beneath the vault of the old chapel. Taddeo turned. The cry had penetrated his heart. But he was alone. Just then Henri de Maulear entered.
"Yesterday evening, Signor Rovero, confiding your promise, I informed the minister that, consulting with prudent reflections, you would accept the pardon offered by the King. You are free, and can now accompany me."
"Let us hurry to my mother, Monsieur," said Taddeo, casting one last look on the chapel walls, which had shut up so much sorrow, happiness and torment. He followed the Marquis. An hour afterwards two gentlemen on noble English steeds—the best the stables of the Marquis afforded—rode toward Sorrento. One of these riders, Rovero, was melancholy, so that even the French amiability of the Marquis could not divert him from gloomy meditations. Ever and anon a smile hung on his lips, till chased away by some painful memory. The Marquis de Maulear, satisfied that Taddeo concealed a secret from him, avoided any allusion to it, with the delicacy and good taste which above all things fears indiscretion. He feigned to attribute to the reserve of a new acquaintance his companion's coldness and absence of mind. For his own part, delighted at being able to restore this prodigal son to the parental roof, anxious to see her whom he loved (to whom, relying on Taddeo's promise, he had gone the evening before to announce her brother's return), he could scarcely repress his delight.
"Signor," said he to Taddeo, at a moment when the state of the road forced them to slacken their pace, "we have arranged all: we have left the festivities and pleasures of Naples, and have nothing to say of your suffering and captivity."
"Not one word, Monsieur, if you please, either of what I have passed through, or of the sufferings of my friends."
"I think your mother and sister know nothing of what you have undergone. Had they, their suffering and alarm would have been great. But do not flatter yourself that the arrest of Count Monte-Leone is unknown to them. One of the Neapolitan papers informed them yesterday of that fact; and I do not hide from you, that in my presence, yourmother deplored your unfortunate intimacy with one so adventurous and rash."
"And what said Aminta?" asked Rovero anxiously, as if struck by a thought, which hitherto had escaped him.
"Signorina said nothing," observed Maulear, with an air of surprise; "and he heard the news with the most perfect indifference."
"To him she is unchanged," murmured Rovero.
Low as was the tone in which this was uttered, Maulear heard it, and could not repress the question, which he put with great anxiety, "To whom is the Signorina always the same?"
"To him—to the Count," said Taddeo. "I confide to you almost a family secret. Count Monte-Leone deeply loves my sister. He never told me so, but it is the case. If he be restored to liberty, as his friends hope, it will be a good match for Aminta."
Every word of Rovero fell like a drop of boiling oil on the heart of Maulear.
"My father," said Taddeo, "left us but a moderate fortune. Perhaps some day we may be rich—richer than the Monte-Leone—for we are the only heirs of the Roman Cardinal Justiniani, my mother's brother, who, as eldest son, inherited all the property of my maternal grandfather. As yet, however, our fortune in small, though sufficient for my tastes and ideas. But my mother and sister have other notions; and the marriage of Aminta and Count Monte-Leone would assure her a magnificent and brilliant portion."
"But if your sister does not love Count Monte-Leone?"
"Her refusal would make two persons unhappy; first the Count of Monte-Leone, and in the second place——"
"And in the second place?" said Maulear.
"Myself."
"Yourself!" said Maulear, with surprise; "Are you intent on their marriage?"
"Yes," replied Taddeo, with emotion; "now, all my happiness depends on it."
Maulear was amazed at these singular words. Scarcely had they been uttered, when Taddeo spurred his horse sharply, and rode toward the house of his mother, which he saw a few hundred yards distant. Henri followed him, troubled, and for the first time, with a care-marked brow, paused at Aminta's door. A fond mother clasped her son to her bosom, with that pleasure which a mother only knows. Aminta, entirely recovered from her accident, kissed her brother affectionately.
"My son," said Madame Rovero to Taddeo, as she clasped the hand of Maulear, "beyond all doubt the Marquis has told you what we owe him."
"The Marquis has only told me how devoted he was to you."
"Well," said Aminta, "I will be less discreet." With exquisite grace she told Taddeo all that had passed.
"Ah, Monsieur," said he, opening his arms to the Marquis, "I would I could find some dearer name than friend to give you."
Aminta blushed, and looked down. Maulear saw the motion, and a gentle hope stole over him. The name which Taddeo could not think of, perhaps, suggested itself to Aminta. It was the name Maulear was so anxious to give Rovero.
Aminta's brother wished to see the courageous child who had so heroically sacrificed himself for her. All followed Signora Rovero to the room of the invalid. He was better. The great inflammation of his face had disappeared, and his eyes had returned to their orbits. Apparently he was rapidly recovering; but the cruel prediction of the physician seemed about to be verified:He will live, but will never speak again. Only harsh and broken sounds escaped the invalid's lips.
Aminta, who had become Scorpione's nurse as soon as she was able to leave her room, had already learned to discriminate between the modulations of his voice. A kind of mute groan called her to him; a hiss expressed pain or impatience; but when his violent and almost savage nature was excited, a terrible bellowing was heard, and the bravest heart might quail at the inhuman sound. Tonio was asleep when the visitors entered his room, but he awoke, and without seeming surprised at the curious faces that surrounded his bed, looked at them earnestly.
He first recognized Taddeo, and a contraction of his lips, which, bent from their deformity, might have been called a smile, testified his pleasure at the visit. Aminta's presence always produced a strange effect on Scorpione, which his inability to speak enhanced. His eyes, of pale green, became suddenly lighted up with a peculiar and gentle languor, which was so tender that they seemed almost attractive. This singular magnetism had a novel effect on the invalid. But his brow soon became contracted; a violent storm seemed to agitate his heart; and the hissing was heard.
"What is the matter?" asked Taddeo. Aminta said she did not know. He had perhaps some new suffering, or something put him out of humor. Following the direction of Tonio's eyes, she saw they rested sparkling and bright on those of Maulear. Aminta quailed, and Henri, who saw her tremble, hurried to sustain her. He thought the strength of the young convalescent needed this aid. But at the moment when the girl accepted the arm of Maulear, Scorpione rose and uttered the horrible cry by which he expressed his impotent fury. All shuddered as they heard him. Aminta let go Maulear's arm, and quickly sought, by gesture and words, to soothe the Cretin, as she would appease an angry child. He became soothed at once, and Signora Rovero left him, followed by Taddeo, Maulear, and Aminta; but Aminta did not take Maulear's arm.
A feeling of uneasiness had suddenly taken possession of Maulear while in the presence of Aminta and Tonio. But he had not remarked the smile of happiness which played on the features of the invalid when Aminta, with the most natural air in the world, took the arm of her mother instead of his own.
"Signor," said Aminta's mother to the Marquis, as they went into the hall, "do not suffer this festival in honor of the return of my son to be celebrated without your presence. Share our family meal, and be satisfied that in doing so you will gratify us all."
The offer delighted Maulear, and time flew by with the rapidity love only confers on it when passed in the presence of loved ones.
About dinner time two strangers came to the villa, the Count Brignoli and his son. The Count was an old minister of war of Murat, and had been a colleague of Taddeo's father. He was one of the best friends of Rovero's widow and daughter. A country neighbor, he often visited them. His son Gaetano had been educated and brought up with Aminta, and a close friendship had been the consequence. Gaetano was twenty years of age, and his features bore the imprint of masculine and impressive Neapolitan beauty, deficient neither in the dark locks nor black though somewhat glassy eye, which is as it were the ordinary seal of the countenances of the men of the south.
The arrival of these visitors displeased Maulear. The beauty of Gaetano struck him unpleasantly. The intimacy between Aminta and the young man, though thus explained, wounded him. During the whole day he fancied that he discovered a thousand of those little trifles which a lover treasures up so carefully, and also that Aminta seemed happy in his presence. His anxiety had begun to pass away, when a new circumstance revived it. Aminta, who was a perfect musician, went to the piano, and sang some of those charming canzonets which are so sweet and touching, like the flowers of this country of melody. The voice of Aminta found an echo in the heart of Maulear, and his ecstasy was at its height, when Gaetano joined her and sang the charming duo from Romeo é Julietta, thechef-d'œuvreof Zingarelli. The jealous Maulear, as he heard this passionate music, could not believe that art alone inspired the singer. He trembled when he thought, that as Julietta loved Romeo, Aminta might adore Gaetano.
Unable to repress the agitation which took possession of him, Maulear left the saloon at the end of the duo, to superintend the preparations for his departure. The night was dark, and pale lightning shot through the sky, foreboding a storm. The Marquis could not repress his mortification. The voices of Aminta and the young Italian, blended together, followed him wherever he went "People," thought he, "only sing thus when they are linked together by love. Art alone cannot give so passionate an expression to their tones. Indeed, what sentiment can be more natural? Educated together, always near each other, their affection cannot but have grown up with them, so that now they perceive the effect without being aware of the cause. They love each other because they were born to do so, as birds mate in the spring because it is the season of love. The spring of Gaetano and Aminta is come. How can I, a stranger to this young girl, hope to please her? Her real preserver was not I, but the unfortunate Tonio. Her gratitude to me then must be very feeble. Besides, does gratitude lead to love?"
As he indulged in these painful reflections, his eyes became fixed on the skies, already damascened with black clouds. He strode rapidly across the court of the villa until he saw in front of him Gaetano Brignoli. Maulear could not repress a sentiment of anger at seeing him, and one of those emotions inconsiderately indulged in, and which reflection often punishes, though too late, took possession of him.
"Signor," said he to the young man, "you love the Signorina Aminta Rovero." Gaetano, surprised at the sudden rencontre in the dark, and yet more amazed at the excited tone of the Marquis, looked at him, and in his dark black eyes shone neither anger nor indignation, but only astonishment at the question.
"I have the honor to ask you," said Maulear, now become more calm, having more command of himself, and blushing at his first uncivil question, "if you do not (and it is very natural) feel a deep and tender affection for your childhood's friend, the Signorina Aminta Rovero?"
"If I love Aminta?" replied Gaetano. "Ah! Monsieur, who would not love her! Do you know a more beautiful girl in Naples? Do you know any one more cultivated and refined than she?"
"Certainly not," said the Marquis, with a voice of half-stifled emotion.
"She is my childhood's friend, the companion of my sports. With her I received my first lessons in music. The divine art I adore. You all know we accord, exactly. I often sing false, my teacher tells me, but she never does."
To hear one the heart loves and adores, spoken of with qualification and familiarity by a stranger, is often an acute pain to a lover, so acute, that even the familiarity of a brother with a sister often causes distress to certain minds. Some jealous souls think this a robbery of friendship, and a profanation of their idol.
Maulear, wounded that the cherished name of Aminta should be so cavalierly treated by Gaetano, replied with ill-disguised temper,
"I understand, Signor, that there is nothing false, even musically speaking, in the sentimentsexpressed by you to Signora Rovero. Perhaps this is an exception to your usual habits, as your professor says. But were he to find fault with the correctness of your tones, he could not censure the sincerity of the passion breathed through them."
"Is not that true?" said Gaetano, really flattered at Maulear's compliment. "It is exalted, distinct, and intense. It is of a good school, and of the lofty style of Tacchinardi."
"Ah! Signor," replied Maulear impatiently, "you know as well as I do, that no artist, however skilful and great, can express love as lovers do."
"The fact is," continued Gaetano, "that Zingarelli must have loved some Julietta, when he wrote his Romeo."
"And you," answered Maulear, "must adore Signorina Aminta, to play so well the part of Romeo!"
"Certainly," said Gaetano, smiling; "and I know very few tenors in San Carlo who sing thatduoas I do. All must confess that there is no Julietta like her."
Maulear was amazed, and could make no reply. The young man either was sincere, and had not understood him, or he had affected not to do so, assuming the remarks of his companion to refer to the singer, and not to the lover. He positively refused to become Maulear's confidant, and by his adroitness and tact made himself understood. The result of all this was, that Maulear remained in a cruel state of doubt in relation to the sentiments Gaetano entertained for Aminta, and, what was yet more painful, in relation to those of Aminta for Gaetano.
"Excuse me, Marquis," said the young man to Maulear, "our conversation is so unexpected, that I, in my surprise, forgot a commission with which I was charged by Signora Rovero. I sought you to inform you of it, when our conversation was diverted to something else. Signora Rovero, fancying that you were superintending the preparations for your departure, wishes you to postpone them until to-morrow, as the night is dark and the road difficult and dangerous. Look," said he, "at these large drops of rain, which are the avant-couriers of a violent storm."
"Indeed," said Maulear, "I will then accompany you to the ladies."
When they returned to the room, they found Signora Rovero talking with the Count Brignoli, and Taddeo, with his head on his hand, lost in sad meditation. Leaning on the back of his chair, was the poetic figure of Aminta. Her long black curls fell over her brother's brow, and when he looked up to see what it was that hung over him, she leaned her face towards his until their lips met.
"Brother," said she, "I closed your eyes on purpose that I might hide what I see in them."
"What do you see there, my dear sister?"
"I see," said she, "by their sadness and languor, that my brother has three pieces of a heart. Two he keeps for my mother and myself, but the third—"
"Is for none," said Taddeo, rising.
"Very well, very well, Monsieur," said Aminta, piqued. "No one asks you for your secret. We take an interest only in those we love—and I love you no more."
"My good sister," said Taddeo, clasping her hands with emotion, "love me, love me better than ever, for I have more need of your affection." Aminta threw herself in his arms.
"What is all that?" said their mother, looking around.
"A family drama," said Gaetano, who had just come in with Maulear.
"Yes, Gaetano," said Signora Rovero, "and a happy scene of that drama; for I know of no family more fortunate than mine."
Aminta drew near to Maulear, and her manner was so kind, and she paid such attention to her guest, that Maulear felt his uneasiness pass away and his confidence return. Just then the storm burst in all its fury. The wind whistled violently among the tall trees of the park. Signora Rovero kept her three guests. A night passed beneath the same roof with Aminta, gratified every wish of the Marquis, and promised him an opportunity on the next day to declare himself to the Rose of Sorrento, and confirm or dissipate his jealous doubts.
Signora Rovero wished to discharge every duty of hospitality to her guest, and escorted him herself to the room he was to occupy. "This room," said she to Maulear, "was long occupied by my dear daughter; but after the death of her father we altered our arrangements, and Aminta is now in my own room. Since that time it has been occupied by our young friend Gaetano Brignoli. I have to-night placed him elsewhere, to be able to give you the best room."
Maulear quivered with joy at the idea of occupying the room in which she he adored had slept, and it was with a kind of veneration that he took possession of it. The room was on the first story, in the right wing of the villa, and looked on a terrace covered with flowers, and communicating with all the rooms of the first floor. It was possible to reach, in two ways, the rooms of the first story—from the interior of the building, and from the exterior by this elegant terrace. But Maulear did not observe that night the situation of his room.
The early days of March having been colder than those of February, after a strange season, which well-nigh had deposed winter from its throne, and the injury Aminta had received not having permitted her to leave her room, during his previous visits the Marquis had not examined the residence of Signora Rovero. The terrace on which his window opened was therefore completely unknown to him.
For about two hours after Maulear hadbeen conducted to the old room of Aminta by Signora Rovero, he was so agitated by the events of the evening that he could not consent to seek repose. Love, hope, and jealousy, disputed for the possession of his heart. Seated in a vast arm-chair, near the hearth, the fire on which flickered faintly, the eyes of Maulear were mechanically directed to one of the windows of his room, by the beating of the rain against it. All at once he saw, or thought he saw, a white figure on the other side of the window pause for a few instants, as if it sought to enter his room. Maulear fancied himself under the influence of a dream. He rubbed his eyes, to be sure that he was awake, and that his sight did not deceive him. He hurried towards the window and opened it hastily. But as he moved, and his steps were heard, the nocturnal visitor disappeared, and Maulear lost sight of it amid the shadows of night. For a moment he thought it some aerial being, flitting through space, and coming, like thedjinnsof the East, to watch by night over the faithful believer. But his poetry gave way to material evidence, and the sight of the terrace, of whose existence he had had no suspicion, proved that thedjinnwas really a human being, who for some unknown motive had wandered across it, and was by no means so unreal as he had supposed. The idea of crime and theft occurred to him. He was about to follow the person who fled, when he saw on the terrace, before his window, an object which he immediately picked up, and examined by the light of his lamp. It was a veil of white lace, at that time the ordinary dress of Neapolitan women, a vaporous cloud in which they framed their features, the relic of a fashion imported from France, and made illustrious by the pencil of our Irabey, the great portrayer of the grace and beauty of the empire.
"It is beyond doubt some love-scrape," thought Maulear, "interrupted by my occupying this bedroom; and the heroine of the adventure, having come to the window to ascertain whether or not I slept, has fled, losing a portion of her drapery, like a frightened sheep running through thorns." When, however, he had examined the veil more closely, Maulear observed its elegance and richness, and began to think which of the inmates of the villa was likely to wear such a one. Was this the headdress of a chambermaid? If not, who else but Aminta could wear it, unless indeed her mother did? Lost in conjectures, the Marquis was roused by hearing a door in the same corridor on which his room was, open. He listened. Two persons spoke in a low tone; and walking with such precaution that it was evident they had no disposition to be overheard. Such an occurrence, in a house usually so silent and calm, excited Maulear's curiosity so much, that he resolved to know who the mysterious personages were.
Silently leaving his room, he went down the long corridor through which those he wished to follow had preceded him. A faint light from a dark lantern, borne by one of the strangers, fell on the path in front of them, and was a guide to Maulear. Thus they descended the principal staircase of the villa, crossed the ground floor, and entered the front court. A puff of wind just then put out the lantern, as the person who bore it was attempting to brighten its flame.
"Fool!" said one of the two men to his companion. "How can I saddle my horse now?"
"It is already saddled," said the other.
"Then I have nothing to do but mount!"
"And you will not have occasion to use the spur," said the man with the lantern, "for he is wild, from having been three weeks in his stable." As the two speakers thus communed, they entered the second courtyard of the villa. Maulear had followed them thither, hidden in the deep shadow. A horse, ready saddled, was waiting there. One of the two men sprang lightly into the saddle, and the other, as he opened a gate into the fields, through which the horseman rode, said, in a voice full of fear, "May God protect you in this terrible midnight storm, Signor Taddeo. Beware of the road down the ravine, and be careful whom you meet."
Maulear, uneasy and disturbed by what he had seen, returned to his room. What could induce Taddeo thus to leave his mother's house, alone, at midnight, and in a storm? Could it be that, so recently liberated, he was about to begin again that life of plot and sedition which already had cost him his liberty? A deep interest united Maulear to Taddeo. The love he felt toward the sister, made him devoted to the brother, and the new dangers which might befall the young man seriously affected Maulear. The night passed away without his being able to sleep. In addition to fear on account of Taddeo, his heart was yet agitated by the emotions of the previous day; but above all, he thought of the woman who had stood at his window, and whose appearance he could not forget. A terrible idea then occurred to him. The room he occupied had been that of Gaetano Brignoli. Had this young girl, apparently so pure and modest, had the White Rose of Sorrento, any secret amour or intrigue? The young man who had seen the companion of her infancy might know of it. Could this charming flower be already scorched by the hot breath of passion? Maulear reproached himself as with a crime, for the mental profanation of his divinity.
The morning meal assembled together all the family and guests. Taddeo participated in it as naturally as if he had passed the whole night in the villa, and not a word was said of his nocturnal expedition. He was not so melancholy and moody as he had been on theprevious night, and a careful observer might have marked on his features the satisfaction following the performance of a painful duty. The Brignoli bade adieu to Signora Rovero immediately after breakfast, and returned to their villa. Maulear was delighted at their departure.
"Marquis," said Taddeo, "permit me to treat you as a friend, and ask a favor of you—a favor that will require you to renounce the brilliant saloons of Naples, whose chief ornaments are theattachésof the French embassy, to lead for a time a retired country-life with my mother and sister?"
"If that be the favor you ask of me," said Maulear with joy, "you confer one on me. I accept your proposition with gratitude."
"What are you thinking of, brother? How can you propose such an exile to the Marquis? Our life in the country is so sad and melancholy; what can we offer him as a compensation for the amusements he would sacrifice?"
"Where would be the merit of the service, unless its performance cost some sacrifice?" said Taddeo. "In one word, this is the state of affairs. An obligation, my honor imposes on me, requires me for at least a week to be absent from Sorrento. The trial of Count Monte-Leone will begin in a few days, and I must be present at it. It is said," added he, with hesitation and a significant glance at the Marquis, "that the Count's partisans will on that occasion be active. His enemies too are numerous, and as he is known to have come to this house, I cannot feel satisfied unless some courageous and energetic man replaces me, and deigns to watch over the two dear beings I am forced to leave. This, Marquis, is what I expect from you."
"My heart, my arm, my life, are all at the ladies' disposal. You may rely on me."
Aminta looked down, for the first consecration made by Maulear was evidently intended for her. Taddeo did not remark it, and clasped with gratitude the hand of his new friend. Signora Rovero, terrified at the idea of losing her son again, looked sadly at him.
"I do not know what is going on," said she with emotion, and with that instinct which reveals to a mother the danger of a beloved son. "I shudder, however, Taddeo, when I see you surrounded by danger. You do not like the government, I know, for by the fall of Murat a brilliant career was closed before you, for your father was one of his greatest favorites. But in your father's name I, your mother, his widow, whose hope and support you are, beseech you not to expose the life which does not belong to you alone. Remember, my child, your sister and myself have no other support in life than yourself, and that my weak and failing existence could not withstand your loss."
Taddeo grew pale, for the association with which he was affiliated might expose him to all the dangers of which his mother was apprehensive. He concealed his agitation by caresses and iterations of love, mentally resolving to turn aside in time from his sad career, as if those who involve themselves in perdition can pause in the rapid descent down the declivity to sorrow and death, whither the sturdiest champions are hurried to be entombed in the grave they have dug for themselves.
"You will go then to Naples?" said Signora Rovero to her son. "God grant that Monte-Leone recover his liberty, since he is your friend! But, Taddeo, do not trust to his adventurous mind; he is a hurricane, enveloping all in his path. Heaven grant he may not bear you away with him."
This conversation on this subject, so painful to the mother and annoying to the son, ended here.
"Will you deign, Signorina," said the Marquis to Aminta, "to accept me as a guest for a few days?"
"Certainly, if you are not afraid of our retreat. Besides," added she, with a smile, "one must have suffered as much as Leonora's lover, not to be happy in the paradise of Sorrento."
Maulear remembered the words he had written on the wall of Tasso's house. But before he could express his astonishment and joy, Aminta was gone. Just then it was announced to Maulear, that his horse waited him at the gate of the park.
"We will accompany you thither (my sister and I)," said Taddeo.
Signora Rovero called Aminta to her, and added: "The air is keen, my child: cover your head with your lace veil. It becomes you."
Maulear turned quickly toward Aminta with his mind full of fear and surprise—
"I am afraid I have lost my veil. I looked for it this morning, but could not find it." Aminta seemed annoyed. Her emotion was perceived at once by Maulear, who said to himself: "What mystery is this? why conceal it from me?" The coincidence of a veil being found by him, and of Aminta having lost one, made him keenly anxious: he was terrified, confounded, and so excited, that he could scarcely speak to Taddeo and Aminta as he crossed the park with them.
"Remember," said Rovero to him, "that my mother and sister will expect you here in a few days."
"In a few days," said Aminta, giving the Marquis her sweetest smile.
"In a few days," replied Maulear, as he mounted his horse, and cast on the young girl a look of doubting love. He then galloped off, and soon disappeared in the long road to Sorrento.
When he returned to Naples, the whole city was busy with the approaching trial of Monte-Leone, who was so beloved by one portion of the community and so unpopular with the other. The nobility of the two Sicilies deplored the errors of the Count, and regrettedthat one of the most illustrious of the great names of Naples should embrace and defend so plebeian a cause; one in their eyes so utterly without interest as that of popular rights. But it was wounded at the idea that a peer should die by the hand of the executioner. The old leaven of independence, innate in all the aristocracies of Europe; the feudal aspirations which Louis XI. and Richelieu had so completely annihilated and subdued in France, yet germinated in the minds of the nobles of Naples. They loved the king because he maintained their privileges, and had re-established the rights of their birth. They would have revolted had he touched them. From pride of birth they would have applauded the execution of a plebeian conspirator, but were prepared to cry outen masseagainst that of Monte-Leone, because he was one of themselves.
The people looked on the illustrious prisoner as a defender of their rights, and sympathized with him. To sharpen this sympathy, the adepts of the Italianventeeverywhere represented their chief as a martyr to his love of the people, and a victim of monarchy. Most injurious charges were everywhere circulated against Fernando IV. It was said that he had inherited the hatred of Carlos III. to the Monte-Leoni, and sought to follow out on the son the vengeance to which the father had fallen a victim. Nothing was omitted that could stimulate the favor of the superstitious and impressionable people of Naples. The same executioner, block and axe, which had been used at the father's death, by a strange fatality, would come in play again at the murder of the son. The imprisonment of the son at the CastleDel Uovo, where the father had died, gave something of plausibility to this story. But what most excited public curiosity was the strange incident which had taken place atTorre-del-Greco. All were impatient for its explanation. The double and impossible presence of the Count at the house of Stenio Salvatori, and within the fifty locks of the CastleDel Uovo, his contest with his enemy, the wound he was accused of having given him, his ubiquity at the same hour in different places, produced a thousand incredible versions, a thousand bets on this wonderful fact, unrivalled in the judicial annals of Naples.
The name of Monte-Leone was so closely and intimately linked with the destiny of the Marquis de Maulear, with his friendship to Taddeo, and his love of Aminta, that he partook of the general interest inspired by the Count, and as a man of honor hoped for acquittal, notwithstanding the influence it might exert on his happiness.
To lose confidence in one we love, is the greatest agony possible. The four days, therefore, which separated him from Aminta, were four centuries to Maulear. Like the majority of rich young men of our times, yielding at an early age toliaisons, he had formed an erroneous and unjust opinion of women in general. The withered myrtles he had often gathered, the passing amours in which almost all the men of his rank, fortune and appearance indulge, had distorted his mind in relation to a sex, the least respectable portion of which alone he was acquainted with. But the young Marquis had exalted sentiments, and his high spirit turned aside from vulgar, common pleasures. His first loves, or not to profane that word, his first indulgences, had for their object those women who lead astray an ardent mind or passionate natures; those women who, betrayed into marriage, seek elsewhere a recompense for their misfortunes or the deceptions practised upon them, and fancy they can find it in the inexperience and youth of young men, whom chance throws in their way. The latter proudly, and at first eagerly, accepting their conquests, soon discover, that often they are not heroes. They become themselves the accomplices of the criminal devices, the studied falsehoods, employed by married women to abuse those on whom they depend. In either case they see each other insensibly change, and in spite of themselves conceive an aversion to those pleasures, even in sharing which they blush. The idol becomes a mere woman, and the hero of these adventures fancies himself right in estimating all women by a few exceptions, and becomes an atheist in love because he has sacrificed to false gods.
This deplorable theory had taken possession of Maulear. His naturally pure sentiments, the poetry of his heart, had been dissipated in ephemeral indulgences. The Countess of Grandmesnil, the guardian of the young man, fearing lest a serious passion should contravene his father's views,—encouraged him in hisliaisons, or at least she did nothing to induce him to abandon them. Under this sad opinion, which is unfortunately too common in our days, that female virtue is but a name, and that the most prudent only need opportunity to go astray, Maulear came to Naples, where we must say much success in gallantry fortified his faith in these detestable principles.
His meeting with one so pure as Aminta had wrought a complete change in his ideas. He saw woman under a new aspect, as we dream of her at twenty, when the young soul first awakes. He suffered intensely when suspicion gnawed at his heart. "What," said he, yet under the influence of the pernicious theories of his youth, "not one woman worthy of respect! Even this young girl, apparently so modest and pure, unworthy the confidence I reposed in her." The recollection of the chaste and maidenly appearance of Aminta soon put such ideas to flight, and Maulear thenceforth had but one idea, but one desire. He sought to clear up the strange mystery of his nocturnal vision, and extricate himself from his cruel perplexity.
On the day appointed for his return to Sorrento, as the clock struck ten, he stopped hishorse at the garden gate where four days before he had left Aminta. The gate was open. He entered the orange grove which lay between it and the house. A secret hope told him he would find Aminta there. He was not mistaken. She sat beneath a rustic porch, which served as a portal to the prettiest cottage imaginable. This building, constructed of the slightest material, had windows closed with gayly-covered verandahs, and served to shelter walkers from the heat of the summer's sun. It was Aminta's favorite retreat, and thither she came in the morning to paint her sisters, the white Bengal roses, the red cactus and the graceful clematides, which surrounded her charming retreat. There in the evening, pensive and reflective, the young girl suffered her glance to stray over the vast horizon of the sea gilded by the sun's expiring rays. On the day we speak of, Maulear found her reading, or rather seeming to read, for her book rested on her knee, her ivory brow supported by her hand. Her eyes, lifted up to heaven, seemed to ask the realization of some gentle dream inspired doubtless by the author. Perhaps the nature of the dream might have been devised by the book—Tasso's Divine Poem! Maulear glided rather than walked to her, so fearful was he of destroying the beautiful tableau presented to him by chance. Then he paused some moments behind a screen of leaves, and looked at the beautiful dreamer, in mute but passionate adoration. As he scanned her girlish form, becoming intoxicated with her modest charms, Maulear blushed at his suspicions, and resolved to abandon them. God did not make such angels for men to distrust, and Aminta, beautiful as the heavenly beings, must be pure and spiritual as they.
He left his concealment, and approached Aminta. She moved when she saw him, for he had surprised her in a dream. The dreams of young girls are treasures to be concealed from the profane in the most profound sanctuary of the heart. Aminta advanced a step or two towards Maulear, thus testifying her wish to return to the villa. But the Marquis, afraid of losing this favorable opportunity to see her for a short time alone, begged her to be seated, and took his place beside her, making, as an excuse, an allusion to the fatigue of riding rapidly from Naples to Sorrento.
Aminta sat down, but with an embarrassment which Maulear could not but see. "You have kept your promise, Signor," said she, seeking to disguise her trouble by speaking first.
"How could I not keep my promise?" said Maulear. "It was to see you again."
"We know what such devotion must cost you," Aminta replied, speaking aloud, as if her words were not intended only for Maulear. "Both my mother and myself are very grateful to you."
"Signorina," said Maulear, with an effort, for he was afraid of wasting in commonplaces moments in which every word he uttered had a priceless value, "I did not think, as I wrote on the wall of Tasso's house the simple lines you deigned to read and remember, that I thus wrote out my horoscope, and divined the happiness fate marked out for me at Sorrento."
"Happiness?" said Aminta, and she trembled as she spoke. "You must refer to the service you have rendered me."
"I speak," said Maulear, unable to restrain himself, "of a new and strange feeling to me, full of pleasure and pain, of hope and fear. I speak of a love, which will be the pride and joy of my existence, if it be shared; which will bring despair and torment, if she who inspires it rejects it."
"Pray be silent," said Aminta, rising and looking with fear around her.
"Ah, you have understood me," said Maulear, attributing to his confession Aminta'a emotion.
The young girl was silent. Her eyes turned towards the door of the hut, as if she feared some one would open it.
"What I say here, Signorina, with nought near me but the passing cloud and flying bird, I wish to repeat to those who love you—before your mother and brother, whom I would look on as my own. It is for you to tell me whether I shall speak to them or be silent."
Just then a faint noise was heard in the summer-house.
Maulear did not perceive it, for Aminta, more and more disturbed by the mysterious noise, had suffered the Marquis to take her hand, and the latter, interpreting this favor as his heart wished, fell on his knees before the young girl, who, overcome with emotion, sat down.
"Aminta," said he, passionately, "since the first day I saw you, my soul, my life, have been your own. If you but will it, your life shall be my own—my own, to make every hour of your life one of joy and pleasure—mine, in adoring you as we do the saints in heaven."
Maulear, with his eyes fixed on Aminta's, sought an echo to the outpourings of his soul. His lips were on Aminta's hand, when, between the young girl and himself, he saw a hideous head, made yet more horrid by the agony it expressed. Aminta suddenly withdrew, and Maulear experienced that terror of which the bravest are sensible when they tread on a reptile.
"Scorpione!" said the Marquis.
This name, on the lips of the Marquis at such a time, made such an impression, that a stream of blood, mingled with white froth, burst from his lips, and fell at Aminta's feet.
"Help, Signor!" said she to Maulear, "help, I pray you, for this unfortunate man! This is the first time he has gone out since that cruel day. See, he dies!"
"What is the meaning of all this?" said Maulear to himself, as he hurried towardsthe villa. "Twice my being with Aminta has exercised the same effect on this unfortunate being. Can she love him? Can he be jealous?"
The trial of Count Monte-Leone, which had been so anxiously looked for, and had given rise to so many disputes about the curious story which occupied both the high and low of Naples, was about to begin.
The Duke of Palma had not been able to make good his promise to the prisoner, and bring him promptly before his judges. The incident atTorre-del-Grecomade a new inquiry necessary, and the examinations, researches, and inquiries of every kind it led to daily, retarded the trial, much to the regret of the king and his minister of police, who were aware of the extent to which the public imagination was excited, and feared its consequences. Monte-Leone began to feel grave apprehensions in relation to the dangerous game he had played. On the evening of his excursion, faithful to his word, the Count had presented himself again to the keeper of the Castle del Uovo in the costume in which he had left it, and the pious wicket-keeper, when he saw the false assistant jailer, who had gone out on the previous evening, return with a trembling and uncertain step, read a long lecture on intemperance and the results of drunkenness, deplorable faults, especially to be regretted in one of his profession, where, added the turnkey proudly, one needs morality, reason, and vigilance especially, to unravel the plots of the prisoners confided to him, and to triumph over their detestablemania for liberty.
When Pietro on that evening, palpitating as he was with fear, saw Monte-Leone, whom he waited for at the postern of the castle, return, his joy was so great that he was ready to clasp the Count's neck. The latter was not much flattered by his transports.
"Well," said the head-jailer, "you are a noble and true gentleman. A scoundrel in your place would have escaped, and put his keeper in trouble. You are of a good race, of a noble and generous blood, you have paid me well, and have been unwilling to hang the father of a family. Now," added he, "do not let us talk together, or even look at each other. Our looks may be watched and interpreted."
From that time Pietro became more brutal, more savage and stern than ever. The visit of the minister of police justly enough increased the terror of the jailer. He had from public rumor heard of the terrible episode atTorre-del-Greco, though he did not precisely understand the motives of the prisoner. He was aware that he had become an accomplice of his crime, and shuddered more and more at its probable results. Whenever, therefore, the Count sought to ask him any question, Pietro exhibited such terror, and his countenance was so complete a picture of fright, that Monte-Leone at last ceased to speak to him. No news from without, nothing enlightened the Count in relation to the consequences of his daring conduct, and for the first time he despaired of the result. One morning his door opened as usual at meal time; but instead of withdrawing, the keeper approached Monte-Leone kindly, his ugly face, on account of the complaisance which lit it up, seeming yet more horrid. He said:
"Excellence, the great day approaches, and we must arrange some little details about which the High Court will no doubt be ill-mannerly enough to question us!"
"You can speak then," replied Monte-Leone, with surprise.
"To-day is not yesterday. Then and ever since your escape, my gossip, the Headsman, who lives up there as you know, distrusts me. I learn from his assistant, who is a friend of mine, that the story of the cell undermined by the sea has made him fancy I wish to deprive him of his perquisites. I know that while he waters his flowers on the platform he keeps an eye and ear open for all that passes here. Besides, he would not be at all sorry to obtain my place for his first assistant—a promising lad who becomes his son-in-law to-day."
"Ah!" said Monte-Leone, "the executioner's daughter is to be married."
"A love match. He wished to postpone the wedding until afteryour affaire, as he calls it, for on such cases he always has large perquisites, and would be able largely to increase the bride's portion. The young girl, however, was in love, and was unwilling to wait for you. The worthy father then determined to make her happy, and I have just seen all the party set out for the church of Santa-Lucia. The executioner, his wife, the bride, and the little executioners, all in their best garb. The procession was so imposing, they might have been taken for a family of turnkeys. Lest, however, the people should disturb the ceremony by a volley of stones, they set out early, at five o'clock. As, therefore, we have no inquisitive neighbors, I am come to have an understanding with your excellency, in order that I may not be compromised in the trial."
"So be it!" said the Count, "let us have an understanding. In the first place, have they any suspicions?"
"Of whom?"
"Of you to be sure, for unless I have wings and flew out of the window toTorre-del-Greco, no one but you can have opened the prison gate to me."
"That is true, then," said Pietro, "you went toTorre-del-Grecoto stab Stenio Salvatori. I really would not have believed it, for it seems that twenty thousand piasters is too large a sum for the pleasure of a poniard thrust—in the arm too! After all, though, we Neapolitans regard nothing valuable compared with revenge!"
"It matters little to you whether it was for revenge or another purpose. All I wish is, foryou alone to know that I was away for twelve hours. As neither you or I will mention it, I am at ease."
"You are right in the main, your Excellency. But we have placed our heads in the balance, and I am determined yours shall not outweigh mine. The hand of justice weighs heavily, especially on the poor. It would be very bad if now, when I am prepared to live happily and pleasantly on the proceeds of our little operation, I were called on to dangle at the end of a rope, to the great delight of the dealers in ice-water and macaroni, whom the people of Naples on that day would enrich. Few would miss the entertainment which would be given at my expense."
"What makes you fear this?" asked the Count.
"One idea. They might take it into their heads to examine separately all the inhabitants of the castle. First your Excellency, as its principal guest, then your humble servant, the gate-keeper, and even my assistant Crespo. If all did not tell the same story the Grand Judge would see some trick."
"You think so?" said the Count, moodily.
"I know so," said Pietro. "The Grand Judge, as the child's story-book says of ogres, loves fresh meat, and would see a spot on the brow of an angel. Now, I am not exactly an angel—and if he saw a spot, your excellency's head might be safe, but for want of a chicken he might twist my neck. The jailer would be the victim, and my friend the executioner would have to do with me. I know him. He would be enthusiastic in the operation, to make a vacancy in my place. He is bound up in his family."
For an instant the Count had not heard the jailer. One single name inspired him with the greatest terror, for it recalled one of the participators in his escape. This man held in his own hands his own and his accomplice's escape. Pietro had not foreseen all. This assistant, the character and dress of whom he had assumed, this Crespo, this mole, would be summoned before the magistrate. The keeper had seen and spoken to him, had opened the gate of the castle to suffer him to pass out, or at least fancied he had. What then would the man say? With great emotion, then, Monte-Leone said,
"The danger does not come from the place you apprehend. One witness, however, may ruin all."
"Of whom do you speak?" said Pietro, trembling.
"Of Crespo," said the Count.
"Ah—what have you to fear of Crespo?"
"Have you gained him over?"
"No. I was spared the trouble. At this moment the poor fellow is probably in the other world."
"Have you killed him?" said the Count, with terror.
"For what does your excellency take me? One may yield to the prayers of a prisoner, and secure a fortune by permitting him a few hours' exercise, yet be no murderer. If Crespo dies, it is in consequence of his unfortunate passion."
"Was he in love?"
"No. He was fond of water-rats."
"Horrible appetite."
"Not at all," said the jailer. "Crespo says the animal is very savory, especially when fat as those in the ditches of the castle are. The waters bear hither all the offal of Naples, and the rats live like canons."
"And Crespo eats them?"
"He has a passion for game of that kind, and does nothing but hunt them. He makes some very ingenious traps to catch them with. I do not molest him, because the taste is so innocent, and besides, saves me the expense of several cats."
"But how came that passion to endanger Crespo's life?"
"Ah—one is not always lucky. Perhaps the last rats Crespo ate, had feasted on arsenic—rats are so whimsical. The poor devil, perhaps, was poisoned in that manner. Rather an expensive taste. Unfortunately, the lesson will do him no good."
After this touching funeral oration, the jailer took out a blue and torn handkerchief, and dried his eyes. The Count shuddered at this story. He understood the atrocious plan adopted by Pietro to get rid of a dangerous witness, and forgetful of his own safety, said,
"Perhaps, if you hurry for a physician, the poor man may yet be saved."
"Bah! do you think the Governor would let one of his officers die without assistance? The doctor, however, was too late; and when I came hither, Crespo was dying."
Notwithstanding his firmness, the horror of Monte-Leone at the wretch was so great that he hastened to terminate the conversation. The quasi complicity in a crime committed in cold blood, and with premeditation; was odious to him.
"Do not fear lest my examination should compromise you. I will be prudent. Now, one word more, or if you please to consider it so, one favor more—when will I be tried?"
"In two days. To-night they will come to take you toCastello Capuano, where the supreme court will meet."
Pietro left, and Monte-Leone relapsed into a profound reverie. The drama was about to begin. What the Count hitherto had done, was as it were but a prelude, an exposition, or rather a skilful introduction. On the eve of the event he did not quail, but like a sagacious tactician asked himself if he had been guilty of no neglect, if he had taken advantage of all the circumstances. One thing alone made him uneasy. When he returned to the Etruscan villa, to assume the clothes of the assistant-jailer, he saw with terror that he had lost the great emerald, thechef-d'œuvreof Benvenuto, the family ring, so long celebrated and so well known. He readily enough fanciedthat it had been lost during his rapid flight, and did not suspect that it had fallen into the hands of his enemies. Reassured on this point, he waited patiently for the hour when, as the jailer said, they would come to take him toCastello Capuano. It came at last, and Monte-Leone was glad of it, for it seemed to bring him nearer to liberty. It was about midnight when the Governor came to the Count's cell, accompanied by the worthy jailer and several officers.
"Excellency," said he to Monte-Leone, "I have an order from the Duke of Palma, minister of police, to take you toCastello Capuano, to be tried."
"I am ready to obey the orders of the Duke," said Monte-Leone, "late as the hour and bad as the weather are. But, Signor, the Duke treats me like those curious monsters, who travel by night to avoid the anxious eyes of the public, and to enhance the profits received from their exhibition."
"Signor, the Duke of Palma," said the Governor, piqued by this irony in relation to his patron, "has a more exalted object than exciting or allaying the curiosity of the people of Naples. He wishes to prevent any demonstration of your numerous partisans in your favor. Such conduct would certainly injure your cause."
The sarcasm of the Count had made the Governor say too much. He had revealed to Monte-Leone the interest he had excited, and the efforts which might be made to save him. To a man like Monte-Leone nothing was lost, and like a skilful geometer, he knew how to take advantage of the errors of his adversary.
"Let us go, Signor," said Monte-Leone to the Governor. "I am impatient to make an acquaintance with the new castle which the king honors me with. Let me change once or twice again, and I will be able to publish a statistical account of all the dungeons in the kingdom, for the information of his majesty's beloved subjects."
An hour after this scene the Count was in a room ofCastello Capuano, appropriated to the reception of great and distinguished criminals to be tried by the high court.
On the next day, a man of cold and ascetic air waited on Monte-Leone. This person was Felippo San Angelo, the ogre of whom Pietro had spoken, the terror of all criminals, the Grand Judge of Naples. If themoraleof the Judge had been calumniated by Pietro, his physique bore a strong analogy to that of certain beasts of prey to which carnivorous appetite is attributed. His nose was hooked like an eagle's, his brow was prominent, oblong and bald, his lips were thin and fixed as if he had never smiled, his body was long and attenuated, and he never met the glance of those with whom he spoke.
"Signor," said the Grand Judge, "I am come to announce to you, as the law requires, that you will appear before the court on the day after to-morrow. You will be allowed to choose an advocate, and, as Grand Judge of the Kingdom, I come to invite you to do so."
"I am deeply sensible of your Excellency's consideration," said Monte-Leone, "but I must say, the first act of yourjusticeisunjust. If my enemies have had two months to prepare their accusation, it is cruel to allow me but two days to prepare my defence."
"This is the provision of the laws which regulate at Naples the special courts, like the one which is to try you, Signor Comte. I do not make the law, but only administer it."
"But, Excellency, a man of your character should not administer an unjust law; nothing should compel him to do so."
"Signor," said the Grand Judge, much annoyed at finding himself unexpectedly drawn into such a discussion, "the legislator gives us the text of law, we find the interpretation. Your judges, the chief of whom I am, have carefully studied them, and if we have assumed on our honor and conscience their application, it is because we think them just. We do not permit the accused to contest their forms. When a man is unfortunately brought before a court, he must submit."
"I do, Excellency," said Monte-Leone, "I will even court their severity, and will not take advantage of the very short time allowed me to choose a defender. For humanity's sake alone I address you as I do. It seems to me, however, that it is necessary that I should know, in the first place, of what I am accused; and I wait until it please your Excellency to tell me."
"You are charged, Signor, with two capital crimes. First, of having, on the night of the 20th December, 1815, conspired against the security of the state, near the ruins of Pompeii, where you presided over a secret society, the object of which is the overthrow of royalty. You are, in the second place, accused of having attempted to assassinate Stenio Salvatori, ofTorre-del-Greco, to avenge yourself on account of his testimony."
"Is this all?" asked Monte-Leone.
"It is, Signor," said the Grand Judge; "I think such charges are important enough to induce you to remember that you must now choose your counsel."
"You are right, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "For such a cause a skilful advocate is required, one who shall be able to impress your heart with the conviction of my innocence, for on his word depends my life or death."
"Find such a one, then, Signor," said the Grand Judge. "Believe me, however, the most eloquent advocate has less influence over a conscientious judge than the facts of the case, the light which illumines them, and which it is their duty to make brilliant in our eyes, rather than seek an opportunity to display their fluency and their political opinions, or, worse yet, to produce public or private scandal—"
"You are right, Signor, but the person who will speak in my behalf is neither eloquentnor skilful, yet the most famous pleas, the most powerful defences of Naples, will not produce so much effect as the words of that man."
"You, Signor, alone," said the Grand Judge, "can choose your defender. But let me know his name—"
"That can only be revealed at the trial."
"But you do not know, Signor, you thus deprive yourself of a precious right to all who are accused, secured them by law, the right of communicating with their defenders."
"That right I waive. The man who will defend me will know his grave mission only when called on in the face of the supreme tribunal to fulfil it."
The Grand Judge looked with amazement at Monte-Leone. "Why, Signor, cannot he be informed of his grave duty?"
"God forbid he should!"
"Why?"
"Because in that case I would lose my cause." The Count laughed.
"Act then, Signor, as you please. Strange and whimsical as your conduct is, I have no authority to speak of its advantages and disadvantages."
He bowed to Monte-Leone and withdrew.
"He is mad," said he, as he was leavingCastello Capuano.
"He is a fool," said Monte-Leone, as the Grand Judge left. "He did not understand that one defends himself from the effects of a crime committed, but not when no crime has been committed."