V.—THE VISIT.
Thestory of the Duke of Palma was concluded by the last question. All seemed wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular incident. The night was far advanced, and the company separated.
The Duke escorted La Felina to her carriage. Just however as the door was about to close on him, he said: "Would you not like, beautiful Felina, to know the name of the woman at Count Monte-Leone's on the night of the ball?"
"Why ask that question?" said she.
"Because," he said, "I know no one more beautiful or more attractive."
"Her name?" said the singer, with emotion.
"Is La Felina!" said the Duke. "What surprises you?" he added; "a minister of police, from his very office, knows everything." La Felina said to herself, "But he does not!"
The spirited horses bore the carriage rapidly away.
In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Taddeo Rovero had especially arrested the attention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation or connection of Aminta? During the few minutes he had passed at Sorrento he had learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked no questions of Aminta. Allied however by the heart to this family already, he naturally enough took interest in the dangers its members incurred. He therefore determined to return at once and ascertain this fact from the minister, when a note handed to him drove the matter completely from his mind. Thus ran the note:
"Monsieur: My daughter now knows how much she is indebted to you, and the efforts you made to rescue her from the fearful danger which menaced her. The heroic remedy employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. Aminta is entirely recovered and is unwilling to delay any longer the tribute of gratitude. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. If you will deign to receive them in our poor villa, we will be delighted to see you there to-day.
Your grateful,Antonia Rovero."
The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at these words. He would in the course of a few hours see Aminta, the impression of whose beauty had so deeply impressed his heart, and from whom he had fancied he would yet be separated for days. He mounted his best horse and rapidly crossed the distance which separated him from Sorrento. Two hours after the receipt of the letter he knocked at the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant again admitted him.
"The Signorina is in no danger," said he to Maulear, as soon as he saw him. Nothing is more graceful than this familiarity of old servants, who as it were are become from devotion a portion of the family of their masters. "We know," added the good man taking and kissing Maulear's hand respectfully, "that we owe all to your Excellency, who drove away the vipers which otherwise had stung her on the heart, and allowed Tonio no time to rescue her."
There was such an expression of gratitude in the features of the old man, that Maulear was deeply moved.
"The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Count, to thank you." The old man let tears drop on the hand of the Marquis.
"What noble hearts must the mistresses of such servants have," thought Maulear as he stood in waiting.
Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but not with a cold ceremony. The stranger who had contributed to the salvation of her daughter henceforth was a friend to her. "Come, come," said Signora Rovero, "she expects you."
The door was opened, and they were in the presence of Aminta. The White Rose ofSorrentonever vindicated more distinctly her right to the name.
Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, Aminta was wrapped in a large dressing-gown, the vaporous folds of which hung around her. Her face, become yet more pale from suffering, was, as it were, enframed in light clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her a beautiful alabaster statue, but for the two beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous hair which were drawn around her charming face.
"My child," said Signora Rovero, as she led Henri forward, "the Marquis of Maulear proves that he is not insensible of the value of our thanks, since he has come so promptly to receive them."
"Alas! Signora," said Henri to the mother of Aminta, "the true savior of your daughter is not myself, but the generous lad who risked his own life for hers. God, however, is my witness, that had I been aware I could have thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to employ the means."
The chivalric and impassioned tone with which these words were pronounced, made both mother and daughter look at Henri. The latter, however, immediately cast down her eyes, confused by the passionate expression of his.
"Monsieur," said Aminta, with emotion, "I might doubt such devotion from you, to a person who was a stranger, were I not aware of the nobility and generosity of the French character."
For the first time Maulear heard Aminta speak. She had one of those fresh and sweet voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that every word she spoke had the air of a caress—one of those delicious voices with which a few chosen natures alone are endowed, which are never heard without emotion, and are always remembered with pleasure. If the head and imagination of the Marquis were excited by her charms, his heart submitted to the influence of her angelic voice, for it emanated from her soul; and Maulear, as he heard her delicious notes, thought there was in this young girl something to love besides beauty.
The physician had ordered the patient to repose. He feared the wound made by Tonio's dagger would re-open if she walked. By the side of her sofa, therefore, the hours of Maulear rolled by like seconds.
The father, an educated and dignified man, had superintended, in person, the education of his two children. Wishing neither to separate nor to leave them, for he loved them both alike, his cares were equally divided between them, so that Aminta, profiting by the lessons given to her brother, shared in his masculine and profound education, and acquired information far surpassing that ordinarily received by her sex. The seeds of science had fallen on fertile ground. A studious mind had developed them in meditationand solitude, and this beautiful child concealed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled and amazed.
A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulear's visit. He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversation, one thought was ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom the minister had spoken? The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy, might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy himself.
"Signora," said he to the mother, "there is in Naples a young man named Taddeo Rovero."
"My son—the brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant."
The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her son's pleasures.
"My brother is the soul of honor and courage," said Aminta, "but his head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his best friends."
"My daughter means his best friends," said Signora Rovero, gaily, "the brilliant Count Monte-Leone, one of the proudest nobles of Naples. Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him."
The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Rovero speak thus—and he admired the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition, foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo.
The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blushed to see one of her sentiments thus displayed before a stranger. In the impenetrable sanctuary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affections. Besides, by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason, of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for Taddeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison.
"I am astonished," said the Signora, "that my son is so long absent without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fifteen days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible."
"I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you."
As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out, "It is he—it is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go!"
As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of agony. "It is nothing," said she, immediately. "I thought myself strong enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio." Signora Rovero passed into the next room.
"It is he," said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. "It is my savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair did he think we forgot him."
Signora Rovero returned. "The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible," said she; "his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die."
The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appearance, however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and gave him her pretty hand with an expression of deep gratitude.
"Thank you, Monsieur," said she, "for your compassion for Tonio. A heart like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you have shed." These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfully on the hand offered to him, he bade adieu to Signora Rovero, and set out for Naples, bearing with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, anticipation, and wishes—of everything, in fine, which composes the first and most adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charming preface to the yet unread book.
On the next day Maulear visited the Dukeof Palma. "Monsignore," said he to the minister, "I am about to ask you a favor to which I attach immense value. The pardon of young Rovero, who has been, your Excellency tells me, rather imprudent than guilty." The Duke laughed. "His liberty! On my word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if he would accept it."
"What does this mean, Monsignore?" said Maulear.
"That Rovero refuses liberty. The king, fancying that mildness would cure his folly, ordered me to dismiss thenoviceto his family. I told Rovero. He replied, 'I refuse a pardon—I ask for justice: I am innocent or guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if innocent, let them acquit me. I will not leave this prison except by force, as I entered it.' Thus I have a prisoner in spite of my wish to release him."
"I will see him," said the Marquis, "and will speak to him of his mother."
VI.—THE PRISONER.
TheHotel of the Minister of Police at Naples had been constructed on the site and on the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes of Palma, ancestors of the present Duke. Amid the vestiges of the old palace, which still existed, was an ancient chapel, connected with the new edifice. This chapel, abandoned long before, had been changed into a prison, for the reception of persons arrested secretly by the Minister of Police, into the offences of whom he wished to inquire personally, before he turned them over to justice. Of this kind was young Rovero. King Fernando wearied of foolish and ephemeral conspiracies which disturbed, without endangering his monarchy, combated with all his power the disposition of his ministers to be rigorous, and the Duke of Palma to please his master suppressed the various plots which arose everywhere. This indulgent and pacific system did not all comport with the revolutionary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the deposition of the brothers Salvatori, united to public rumor, made the arrest of the Count unavoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to the annoyance of Fernando IV. and his minister. An example was needed. One criminal must be severely punished to terrify all the apostles of dark sedition. The more exalted the rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing his pardon, subjected the Duke of Palma to a new annoyance. His refusal made a trial necessary, or he would be forced to release him, contrary to his own protestations, and therefore subject the government to the odium of arbitrary injustice and a criminal attack on the liberties of the people. This would be a new theme of declamation for malcontents. The motives assigned by Taddeo for insisting on a trial were specious and dignified. We will however, soon see that they had no reality, and only masked the plans of the prisoner. A strange event had taken place in the old chapel we have mentioned, and in which Rovero was shut up.
Before we relate what follows, we must acquaint the reader with the secret sentiments of young Rovero. All had done justice to the seductive grace, which attracted so many adorers to the feet of the singer. Rovero, the youngest of the band of four, felt far more than admiration for the prima donna. His soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became aware of an emotion of which it had not been cognisant, at the sight of the great artist, the fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so powerful expression to her glances. Rovero had hitherto thought of women only under ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid modesty and grace which seem to call on the ruder sex for protection,—as charming creatures whom God has formed to command in obeying, to triumph by weakness. The young and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers of twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The native nobility of Felina, her elegant habits, the ardent imagination which had expanded the love of her art, the very practice of her profession which ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of the great masters, with the royal sovereigns she represented, had enhanced her natural dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, which so perfectly harmonized with her person, so entirely consorted with her habits, form and queenly bearing, that she might have been fancied a Juno or a Semiramis disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather than the reverse, which really was the case. Glittering with these attractions to which Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she appeared to him: like an enchantress and the modern Circe, dragging an enthusiastic people in her train, and ruling in the morning in her boudoir, which glittered with velvet and gold, and in the evening making three thousand people fanatical with her voice and magic talent, it was not unnatural that she subdued him. The impression produced on Taddeo by La Felina on the evening they were at the Etruscan house, was so keen, so new, so full of surprise and passion, that the young man left the room, less to ascertain what had become of the two friends who had preceded him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on him by the eyes of La Felina. He had not seen her since.
Like Von Apsberg and d'Harcourt, taken in the snare which had been set for him by the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured after a brief but violent contest. It seemed to him that his soul was torn from his body when he was separated from La Felina. He had however previously heard her at San Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and wonderful beauty, the illusion was so perfect that he fancied he saw the Juliet of Zingarelli or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a woman to be herself adored,—in one word, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the Neapolitan was enkindled by the eyes of theNeapolitan. He did not love, but was consumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days, he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero thought only of his love. Concentrating all power in his devotion, he evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In his fancy he ran over all the perfections of this beautiful being. It seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the impotence of which he cursed. Religious exaltation, like the enthusiasm of love, assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man and most devoted lover living in the world. Long days and endless nights occupied with one idea, fixed and immutable, rising before us like the ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais.
Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occupied his mind. Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he could scarcely distinguish fiction from reality, and after a troubled sleep he asked if he had addressed his burning declarations to the phantom of the singer or to La Felina herself.
Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with which Monte-Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to complain of their fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is true only by means of a doubtful light which reached him through the stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through thegloryof the Virgin. Still it was the light of day, which is half the sustenance of a prisoner.
On the fourth night after Rovero's arrest, he reposed rather than rested on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, "It is either he, or I am mistaken."
The shadow moved on.
After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero, who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night.
"It is a woman!" said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and delicate hand was placed on his lips.
"If you are heard, I am lost!" said his visitor, in a trembling voice.
"Who are you? and what do you want?" said Taddeo, suffering his voice to escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips.
"I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to penetrate it." Then by a rapid movement, the visitor pulled the vail again over her face.
Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly, lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe form of her who held him captive.
One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La Felina to render it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not the singer's hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to think. "Lift up your vail, Felina," said he. But at the evidence of terror which she exhibited, he resumed. "Do not attempt to deceive me. In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it meditates by day and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided you hither, in pity of the torment I have endured since I left you. An hour, Felina, in your presence, has sufficed to enslave my soul forever. Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void in my heart been completely filled."
"He loves me!" murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep pity. This however was uttered in so low a tone that the prisoner did not hear her.
"Hear me," said Rovero. "You told us at Monte-Leone's that you loved one of the four."
"True," said the singer, in a feeble voice.
"You said that for him you would sacrifice your life."
"True."
"That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life."
"I also said," Felina answered, "that my love would ever be unknown, and that the secret would die with me."
"Well," said Rovero, "I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you, is at your feet."
"How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your friends?"
Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul.
"Hear me," said she; "time is precious. Watched, and the object everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy myself that you were really the person I sought for, and, hidden beneath this vail, and by a yet greater concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my purpose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. I was ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would have kept my secret."
"Why fear my love?" said Rovero; "think you I sell my devotion? A love which hesitates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying you. But let your requests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that you may estimate me by my deeds."
"You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant your capacity fall not below your courage. In four days you will know what I expect from you."
"And will you," said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, "tell me which of the four you love?"
"You will then know. To you alone will I reveal the secret."
"How can I live until then!" said Rovero, with a sigh.
The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It was growing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to the door to listen to what was passing, she disappeared like a shadow behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the walls, attempting to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible, there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to be informed of his pardon.
The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria, Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of theMuseo Borbonico, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been pressed by the feet of La Felina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the prints of her footsteps.
Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. "Excuse me, sir," said he to the prisoner, "that I have thus intruded without an introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have learned it."
Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police agent.
"I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and are inconsolable in your absence."
"Two ladies!" said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of passion, he added—"Signor, I love but one." He paused and was much confused by the avowal he had made.
"At least," said the stranger, "you love three; for in a heart like yours family affections and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies of whom I speak, Signor, are your mother and sister."
The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were exiled from his memory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty. "Signor," said he, "you have thought correctly. Notwithstanding the forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what they expect from me."
"They expect you to return," said the stranger. "A service I rendered them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf."
"Signor," said Rovero, "tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may know to whom I must utter it."
"Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your strange rejection of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly grasp at. The minister has informed me of your motives, and, though honorable, permit me to suggest that you do not forget your duty. Did your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice."
Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of discussion nor of reply.
"Signor," continued Maulear, "what principle, what opinions can combat your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the logic of passion and political hatred be still, and hearken only to duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget every scruple which now retains you."
Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes on those of Maulear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts.
"Marquis," said he, "I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it. Swear on your honor not to betray me, and I will tell you all."
"I swear."
"Well," said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that he might be sure he was not overheard; "I accept theliberty offered me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and before sunset on the third,I will have returned with you to Sorrento."
Henri, surprised, could not help looking at Rovero.
"Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I can, and not one other word shall leave my mouth."
"I may then tell Signora Rovero, that you will return."
"Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in three days,you will place me in her arms."
Taking Maulear's hand he clasped it firmly.
"Thanks, Signor," said Maulear, "I accept your friendship. With people like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover that it has not on that account less flavor and value."
Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection on Taddeo.
Never did time appear so long to Aminta's brother as that which intervened between Maulear's departure and the night he was so anxious for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal. He did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her precious visit. Remembering that his preceding nights had been agitated and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be overcome by weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself. Like most of the Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which the people of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed something to keep him awake, and asked for wine.
He approached the table on which his evening meal was placed, he took a flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his veins.
He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded, he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid gradually made his eyelids grow heavy—and that though he sought to overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he was forced to sit down.
I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those situations when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor, rapidly took possession of the young man. Then commenced a painful contest between mind and body,—the latter succumbed. He felt his body powerless, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy which sought to make him senseless, inert and powerless. His head fell upon his bosom and he sank to sleep.
Just then, he heard a light noise, the rustling of a silk dress, and a timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Rovero's face to assure herself that he was in reality asleep.
END OF PART II.
[From the Gem.]"THE TWICKENHAM GHOST."
COME to the casement to-night,And look out at the bright lady-moon;Come to the casement to-night,And I'll sing you your favorite tune!Where the stream glides beside the old tower,My boat shall be under the wall,—Oh, dear one! be there in your bower,With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl.
Oh! come where no troublesome eyeCan look on the vigil love keeps;When there is not a cloud in the sky,What maid,but an old maiden, sleeps?And you know not how sweet is the toneOf a song from a lip we have press'd,When it breathes it "by moonlight alone,"To the ear ofthe oneit loves best.Oh! daylight love's music but mars,(As it breaks up the dance of the elves!)The moon and the stream and the stars,Should hear it alone with ourselves:And who'd be content with "I may,"If they only would think of "I might?"Orwho'dlisten to music by day,That had listened to music by night?The Opera's over by one,Lady Jersey's grows stupid at two;I'll dance just one waltz, and have done,Then be off, on the pony, for Kew!My boat holds a cloak—a guitar,And it waits by that dark bridge for me:And I'll row, by the light of one star,Love's own, to the old tower, by three!I'll bring you that sweet canzonette,That we practiced together last year;And my own little miniature setRound with emeralds—tissucha dear!You promised you'd love me as longAs your heart felt me close to it, there;And, dear one! for that and the song,Won'tyou give me the locket of hair?Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright,Should your grandmamma bid you bewareOf a youth, who was murdered one night,And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there:Foryouknow, ever since his decease,Of a harmless young ghost that's allow'dTo go, by the River Police,Serenading about in his shroud!
Oh! come where no troublesome eyeCan look on the vigil love keeps;When there is not a cloud in the sky,What maid,but an old maiden, sleeps?And you know not how sweet is the toneOf a song from a lip we have press'd,When it breathes it "by moonlight alone,"To the ear ofthe oneit loves best.
Oh! daylight love's music but mars,(As it breaks up the dance of the elves!)The moon and the stream and the stars,Should hear it alone with ourselves:And who'd be content with "I may,"If they only would think of "I might?"Orwho'dlisten to music by day,That had listened to music by night?
The Opera's over by one,Lady Jersey's grows stupid at two;I'll dance just one waltz, and have done,Then be off, on the pony, for Kew!My boat holds a cloak—a guitar,And it waits by that dark bridge for me:And I'll row, by the light of one star,Love's own, to the old tower, by three!
I'll bring you that sweet canzonette,That we practiced together last year;And my own little miniature setRound with emeralds—tissucha dear!You promised you'd love me as longAs your heart felt me close to it, there;And, dear one! for that and the song,Won'tyou give me the locket of hair?
Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright,Should your grandmamma bid you bewareOf a youth, who was murdered one night,And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there:Foryouknow, ever since his decease,Of a harmless young ghost that's allow'dTo go, by the River Police,Serenading about in his shroud!
[From the Dublin University Magazine.]
THE MYSTIC VIAL:OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG.I.—THE GAME OF BOWLS.
MORE than a century ago—we know not whether the revolution has left a vestige of it—there stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and funereal forest, and approached through an interminable straight avenue of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and visible from the great high road to Rouen.
The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a princely scale; extensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit-trees, fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover for all manner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach.
But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal dependency of the seignorial domain, seemed to have sunk with the fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melancholy the village of Charrebourg that was decaying beneath it.
The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient seigneurs, was still living, and though not under the ancestral roof of his chateau, within sight of its progressive ruin, and what was harder still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a measure or two of the other badly enough.
Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the enjoyment of tolerable health, and of a pension of nine hundred francs (£36) per annum, paid by the Crown. His creditors permitted him to occupy, besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were attached two or three Lilliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an English acre altogether. Part of it, before the door, a scanty bit we allow, was laid a little parterre of flowers, and behind the dwelling was a small bowling-green surrounded by cherry-trees. The rest was cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of three individuals—the Visconte himself, his daughter Lucille (scarcely seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her nurse—now cook, housemaid, and all the rest.
Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most splendid among the satellites of a splendid court. He had married rather late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his dear and sainted helpmate, "who never could resist play and jewelry." The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had himself poured into the laps of mistresses, and squandered among the harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely beggared.
Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who, together with Lucille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both fallen, one in a duel, the other in a madcap adventure in Naples.
And thus of course ended any hope of seeing his fortunes even moderately reconstructed.
We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five o'clock in the afternoon of a summer's day. Dame Marguerite has already her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the warren to shoot rabbits for to-morrow's dinner. Two village lads, who take a pleasure in obliging poor old Marguerite—of course neither ever thinks of Lucille—have just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook, he carries to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought mulberries for "the family," from a like motive. The old woman has pronounced Jacque's mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes the other; each understands what his rival is about perfectly well; neither chooses to go while the other remains.
Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well favored, sallow, flat-faced, with lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequally matched.
Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue, the hues of the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong to her. When first he appears before her inthese tell-tale ribbons, the guilty knees that wear them tremble beneath him. He thinks that now she must indeed understand him—that the murder will out at last. But, alas! she, and all the stupid world beside, see nothing in them but some draggled ribbons. He might as well have worn buckles—nay,better; for he suspects that cursed Jacque understands them. But in this, indeed, he wrongs him; the mystery of the ribbons is comprehended by himself alone.
He and Jacque passed round the corner of the quaint little cottage; they were crossing the bowling-green.
"And so," sighed poor Gabriel, "I shall not see her to-day."
"Hey! Gabriel! Jacque! has good Marguerite done with you?—then play a game of bowls together to amuse me."
The silvery voice that spoke these words came from the coral lips of Lucille. Through the open casement, clustered round with wreaths of vine in the transparent shade, she was looking out like a portrait of Flora in a bowering frame of foliage. Could anything be prettier?
Gabriel's heart beat so fast that he could hardly stammer forth a dutiful answer; he could scarcely see the bowls. The beautiful face among the vine-leaves seemed everywhere.
It would have been worth one's while to look at that game of bowls. There was something in the scene at once comical and melancholy. Jacque was cool, but very clumsy. Gabriel, a better player, but all bewildered, agitated, trembling. While the little daughter of nobility, in drugget petticoat, her arms resting on the window-sill, looked out upon the combatants with such an air of unaffected and immense superiority as the queen of beauty in the gallery of a tilting-yard might wear while she watched the feats of humble yeomen and villein archers. Sometimes leaning forward with a grave and haughty interest; sometimes again showing her teeth, like little coronels of pearl, in ringing laughter, in its very unrestrainedness as haughty as her gravity. The spirit of the noblesse, along with its blood, was undoubtedly under that slender drugget bodice. Small suspicion had that commanding little damsel that the bipeds who were amusing her with their blunders were playing for love of her. Audacity like that was not indeed to be contemplated.
"Well, Gabriel has won, and I am glad of it, for I think he is the better lad of the two," she said, with the prettiest dogmatism conceivable. "What shall we give you, Gabriel, now that you have won the game? let me see."
"Nothing, Mademoiselle—nothing, I entreat," faltered poor Gabriel, trembling in a delightful panic.
"Well, but you are hot and tired, and have won the game beside. Marguerite shall give you some pears and a piece of bread."
"I wish nothing, Mademoiselle," said poor Gabriel, with a melancholy gush of courage, "but to die in your service."
"Say you so?" she replied, with one of those provokingly unembarrassed smiles of good-nature which your true lovers find far more killing than the cruelest frown; "it is the speech of a good villager of Charrebourg. Well, then, you shall have them another time."
"But, as your excellence is so good as to observe, I have won the game," said Gabriel, reassured by the sound of his own voice, "and to say I should have something as—as a token of victory, I would ask, if Mademoiselle will permit, for my poor old aunt at home, who is so very fond of those flowers, just one of the white roses which Mademoiselle has in her hand; it will give her so much pleasure."
"The poor old woman! Surely you may pluck some fresh from the bush; but tell Marguerite, or she will be vexed."
"But, Mademoiselle, pardon me, I have not time: one is enough, and I think there are none so fine upon the tree as that; besides, I know she would like it better for having been in Mademoiselle's hand."
"Then let her have it by all means," said Lucille; and so saying, she placed the flower in Gabriel's trembling fingers. Had he yielded to his impulse, he would have received it kneeling. He was intoxicated with adoration and pride; he felt as if at that moment he was the sultan of the universe, but her slave.
The unconscious author of all this tumult meanwhile had left the window. The rivals weretête-à-têteupon the stage of their recent contest. Jacque stood with his hand in his breast, eyeing Gabriel with a sullen sneer.Heheld the precious rose in his hand, and still gazed at the vacant window.
"And so your aunt loves a white rose better than a slice of bread?" ejaculated Jacque. "Heaven! what a lie—ha, ha, ha!"
"Well, I won the game and I won the rose," said Gabriel, tranquilly. "I can't wonder you are a little vexed."
"Vexed?—bah! I thought she would have offered you a piece of money," retorted Jacque; "and if shehad, I venture to say we should have heard very little about that nice old aunt with thepenchantfor white roses."
"I'm not sordid, Jacque," retorted his rival; "and I did not want to put Mademoiselle to any trouble."
"How she laughed at you, Gabriel, your clumsiness and your ridiculous grimaces; but then you do make—ha, ha, ha!—such very comical faces while the bowls are rolling, I could not blame her."
"She laughed more at you than at me," retorted Gabriel, evidently nettled. "Youtalk of clumsiness and grimaces—upon my faith, a pretty notion."
"Tut, man, you must have been deaf. You amused her so with your writhing, andogling, and grinning, and sticking your tongue first in this cheek and then in that, according as the bowl rolled to one side or the other, that she laughed till the very tears came; and after all that, forsooth, she wanted to feed you like a pig on rotten pears; and then—ha, ha, ha!—the airs, the command, the magnificence. Ah, la! it was enough to make a cow laugh."
"You are spited and jealous; but don't dare to speak disrespectfully of Mademoiselle in my presence, sirrah," said Gabriel, fiercely.
"Sirrah me no sirrahs," cried Jacque giving way at last to an irrepressible explosion of rage and jealousy. "I'll say what I think, and call things by their names. You're an ass, I tell you—an ass; and as for her, she's a saucy, impertinent little minx, and you and she, and your precious white rose, may go in a bunch to the devil together."
And so saying, he dealt a blow with his hat at the precious relic. A quick movement of Gabriel's, however, arrested the unspeakable sacrilege. In an instant Jacque was half frightened at his own audacity; for he knew of old that in some matters Gabriel was not to be trifled with, and more than made up in spirit for his disparity in strength. Snatching up a piece of fire-wood in one hand, and with the other holding the sacred flower behind him, Gabriel rushed at the miscreant Jacque, who, making a hideous grimace and a gesture of ridicule, did not choose to await the assault, but jumped over the low fence, and ran like a Paynim coward before a crusader of old. The stick flew whizzing by his ear. Gabriel, it was plain, was in earnest; so down the woody slope toward the stream the chase swept headlong; Jacque exerting his utmost speed, and Gabriel hurling stones, clods, and curses after him. When, however, he had reached the brook, it was plain the fugitive had distanced him. Pursuing his retreat with shouts of defiance, he here halted, hot, dusty, and breathless, inflamed with holy rage and chivalric love, like a Paladin after a victory.
Jacque meanwhile pursued his retreat at a slackened pace, and now and then throwing a glance behind him.
"The fiend catch him!" he prayed. "I'll break his bird-traps and smash his nets, and I'll get my big cousin, the blacksmith, to drub him to a jelly."
But Gabriel was happy: he was sitting under a bush, lulled by the trickling of the stream, and alone with his visions and his rose.
The noble demoiselle in the mean time took her little basket, intending to go into the wood and gather some wild strawberries, which the old Visconte liked; and as she never took a walk without first saluting her dear old Marguerite—
"Adieu, ma bonne petite maman," she said, running up to that lean and mahogany-complexioned dame, and kissing her heartily on both cheeks; "I am going to pick strawberries."
"Ah, ma chere mignonne, I wish I could again see the time when the lackeys in the Charrebourg blue and salmon, and covered all over with silver lace, would have marched behind Mademoiselle whenever she walked into the park. Parbleu, that was magnificence!"
"Eh bien, nurse," said the little lady, decisively and gravely, "we shall have all that again."
"I hope so, my little pet—why not?" she replied, with a dreary shrug, as she prepared to skewer one of the eternal rabbits.
"Ay, why not?" repeated the demoiselle, serenely. "You tell me, nurse, that I am beautiful, and I think I am."
"Beautiful—indeed you are, my little princess," she replied, turning from the rabbit, and smiling upon the pretty questioner until her five thin fangs were all revealed. "They said your mother was the greatest beauty at court; but,ma foi! she was never like you."
"Well, then, if that be true, some great man will surely fall in love with me, you know, and I will marry none that is not richer than ever my father, the Visconte, was—rely upon that, good Marguerite."
"Well, my little pet, bear that in mind, and don't allow any one to steal your heart away, unless you know him to be worthy."
At these words Lucille blushed—and what a brilliant vermilion—averted her eyes for a moment, and then looked full in her old nurse's face.
"Why do you say that, Marguerite?"
"Because I feel it, my pretty little child," she replied.
"No, no, no, no," cried Lucille, still with a heightened color, and looking with her fine eyes full into the dim optics of the old woman; "you had some reason for saying that—you know you had!"
"By my word of honor, no," retorted the old woman, in her turn surprised—"no, my dear; but what is the matter—why do you blush so?"
"Well, I shall return in about an hour," said Lucille, abstractedly, and not heeding the question; and then with a gay air she tripped singing from the door, and so went gaily down the bosky slope to the edge of the wood.