The Morning Chronicle, June 27, 1818, published at London the following:—"There was a report at Paris, that a conspiracy had been discovered at Saint Cloud, embracing many of the ultra-royalist party. The King would abdicate, and be replaced by Monsieur."
The Times, on the 2d July, said—"The plan of the conspiracy is known. Should the King abdicate, the conspirators have resolved to treat him like Paul I. The following is the list of ministers:—General Canuel, of war; M. de Chateaubriand, of foreign affairs; M. Bruges, of the navy; M. Villele, of the interior; M. de Labourdonnaie, of the police; General Donadieu, commandant of Paris." All this was announced with an appearance of truth; for all the persons named belonged to the opposition to the King and his favorite. When, however, facts were sought for, and the proof was pointed out, all the edifice crumbled away, and there remained only a few malcontents, but no rebels were to be found. The sentence of the Royal Court of Paris, given November 3d following, declared—"Generals Canuel and Donadieu, MM. de Rieux, de Songis, de Chapdelaine, de Romilly, and Joannis, are released and declared innocent." They had been imprisoned forty days. This affair produced a most painful sensation in France, and the minister of police was reproached with great imprudence, which made many new enemies to the government, and did not add to its security. The fact was, the true criminals had been overlooked; and, like the worms which eat away the interior of a beautiful fruit without changing its form and color, they more skilfully and adroitly attacked the very heart of society when it seemed most secure and safe. The perfidious worm which was eating away at the heart of France, as it had long done those of the other European monarchies, was Carbonarism. As we said in our first chapters, the existence of this power was scarcely suspected, while in secret, by its ramifications, it ruled Europe.
A man of mind and energy, but whose mild and almost effeminate manners concealed vigor and perseverance, M. H——, at that time under the direction of M. Angles, supervised the political police of the kingdom. M. H—— was always aware of the extent of the operationsof the various factions, and probably was the only man in France really alarmed at the influence which Carbonarism exerted in France and the neighboring states. Often he had made communications to the prefect, another minister, who paid attention to known parties and attached but little importance to this new foe, which was, however, the most terrible of all, and proposed to itself the object of destroying, at any risk, and received into its bosom all the operatives of this work, whatsoever might be their opinions. M. H—— had no evidence in relation to this terrible organization, nor did he know where it met. Towards the end of February, 1819, M. H—— received a letter sealed in black, and with the impression on the wax of an auger piercing the globe. The strange seal did not escape his notice. The direction was, "M. H——, for himself alone,confidential." The superior of the political police read the letter, which was as follows:—
"Monsieur,—A man who can do the state great service wishes to have an interview with you, and requests that you will grant him a moment's conversation to-morrow evening at nine-oclock, in your cabinet. He will be masked. He begs you to permit him to keep his mask until he shall be satisfied that he is seen by no one else. Should the strangeness of this request not permit you to accept it, place a lighted taper in your window opening on thequai des Orfevresand no one will come. The writer knows that he addresses a man of courage and honor, who never is terrified by mere forms when he looks for important results. It is also known that this man, though protected by wise precautions, made necessary by the grave circumstances in which he is often placed, would be incapable of taking an advantage of those who come to him frankly and truly."
M. H—— reflected long on this letter. He hesitated not, because he was used to confidences made in terms and in manner as strange. But the conditions of the mask, so contrary to French habit, almost, in spite of himself, annoyed and troubled him. He, however, began to be inspired with the confidence which the man evidently felt himself. He therefore decided to receive him, and gave orders, that should the masked man present himself he should be admitted into his cabinet. M. H——only took a few measures of prudence, and after having examined the locks and charges of his pistols, which he always wore, and assured himself that the sound of a bell on his table would be heard at once by the attendants, waited attentively for the hour of the interview. The clock of the Palais Royal struck nine, when he was told that a masked man wished to speak to him. A few minutes after the visitor was introduced. He was tall and wrapped in a brown cloak, which he threw off when he had reached the room. He wore a costume half way between a tradesman's and prosperous workman's.
"What do you wish, Monsieur?" asked M. H——, who was sitting in his chair.
Without replying, the stranger, who was standing, pointed to two glass doors on each side of one through which he had entered, behind which were full silk curtains. M. H——understood him, and after a moment's hesitation, decided, and clapped his hands thrice. This was probably a signal well understood, for soon after a slight noise was heard in each of the rooms, and the silk curtains were slightly agitated. Then rising, M. H—— opened the two doors and shut two external ones, which doubtless communicated with two other rooms.
"Thank you, sir," said the mask, "you will not regret your confidence."
These words were pronounced with a decidedly foreign air. The man took off his mask, and M. H—— examined his features. His physiognomy was that of the south; his expression dark, and his long black hair hung over his face, and rested on his shoulders. The eyes of this man were sad and deep; and glittering beneath his dark brows, added to the ferocity of his expression. He was silent for some time, and then said, in a calm voice, to the chief of police: "I come, Monsieur, to propose a contract to you, which, when you have heard it, you can either accept or reject. An immense volcano undermines Paris; a conspiracy, or rather an immense association is about to be formed. They are not isolated enemies, scattered in small numbers, but a vast family of men, here and every where, in every man's house, and perhaps in the very bureau of the police. Among them are millions of iron-hearted and iron-nerved men, among whom are the mechanic, the day laborer, soldiers of every arm, the financier, the advocate, artist, the scholar, and the priest—every rank and condition is represented. At their head are nobles, lords, and princes; and they wish to accomplish in France what they have already done in the rest of Europe. First, they seek to abolish royalty, and to bestow on the people free and unlimited liberty. Their secret assemblies are calledVente. The association is calledCarbonarism, and its membersCarbonari."
M. H—— sprang up from his chair. Of the plot which he had been so anxious to discover, and of which he had but a vague knowledge, he was now at last to obtain a clue. In a tone exhibiting the most lively curiosity, he bade the man go on. The mask took a seat; he felt that henceforth he might treat with M. H—— as an equal.
"I am," said he, with a smile full of venom, "but an unworthy member of this important society, and come to treat with you, therefore, not in my own name—"
"In the name of whom, then, do you come?"
"There is," said the mask, "a man in Paris of high rank, of noble birth, and of great fortune, who, by means of his position and connections, which I cannot reveal, knows, and henceforth will know, all the secrets, all the plans of the Carbonari, from the obscure actsof the humblest of the brothers, to the orders given to theVenteby the supreme chiefs—"
"And this man is willing to surrender his infamous associates to us?" said M. H——.
"He will; but in consideration of this immense sacrifice, he demands certain things which I am charged to communicate to you."
"Tell me," said M. H——, "what he asks."
"We will talk of that hereafter. I, however, propose to you an honest bargain, and you will not be called on to pay the price until the service shall have been performed. I therefore come to ask you not for a reward, but for one word."
"A word?"
"A word, a promise, and an oath."
"If it be compatible with my duties."
"Certainly!" said the stranger. "We conspirators are honest people enough, but we are prudent, and used to secrecy. We never make revelations without exacting a double security."
"That of honor!"
"And displaying the dagger as the certain reward of treachery."
"Stop, sir!" said M. H——, rising, and evidently enraged at the daring of the stranger. "You forget where you are; no one but myself makes threats here; assume, therefore, another tone; for sorry as I should be not to avail myself of your offers, I must, if you persist, terminate our interview at once. But," continued he, "what is required of me?"
"I have told you—an oath. Here it is. You will swear on this," and he took a crucifix from his bosom, "that neither in person, nor otherwise, will you ever attempt to discover the person in behalf of whom I treat. You will swear that when you have been informed of the facts which I shall point out to you, when you shall have received proof of the culpability of certain men, you will cause them to be arrested and give them no clue to, and make no revelation of, the means by which you acquired your information."
"But how will the man who is to furnish this information treat with us?"
"Through me alone," said the stranger, "and I will allow you to be ignorant of nothing. In a few words—I will be his interpreter—the soul of his body, the action of his thought. Here," continued he, again presenting the crucifix to M. H——," an oath for such services is not too much to ask. You do not often get information at so cheap a rate. The form of the oath will doubtless appear strange to you, but I am a native of a land where oaths are taken on the cross alone."
"So be it," said M. H——, who, as he listened to the man, reflected on the small importance of the conditions imposed on him, which did not demand that he should act against theVenteor associations, until there was no doubt of their guilt. "So be it; I accept. I swear that I will never seek to ascertain of whom you are the agent, whether in person or through others." He placed his hand on the crucifix.
"Rely then on him—rely on me," said the stranger.
"Why do you not speak now?" said M. H——.
"Because it is necessary to give the fruit time to ripen before we gather it," said the mysterious stranger; and bowing to M. H——, he left.
"Well," said the chief of the political police, when he was alone, "the bargain I have made is not a rare one. Informers always have scruples at first, especially when they are men of rank;—when those of the man of whom the agent speaks are dissipated, or when by his wants and vices he is forced to draw directly on our chest, his shame will pass away, and his name will be enrolled on the list of our spies like those of M. X., the Baron de W——, the Advocate V——, the Ex-consul R——, and the Countess of Fu. This man is, then, taken in three words, what we call aSpy In Society."
On the twentieth of June, 1818, six months before the occurrence of the scene we have described in the preceding chapter, the greatest excitement was exhibited in a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The principal entrance of this hotel, or the Faubourg, was occupied by a crowd of workmen, who were busy in arranging a multitude of flower vases, from the court-gate to the door of the hotel. Upholsterers and florists crowded the vestibule, the stairway, and the antechambers with their flowers and carpets. The interior of the rooms on the ground floor presented a scene of a different kind of disorder. A pell-mell—a crowd of men and women were tacking down and sowing rich and sumptuous stuffs on the floors. The rooms of the lower floor of the hotel opened on one of the gardens surrounding theChamps-Elyséestowards the Faubourg St. Honoré. An immense ball-room was constructed in the garden. This ball-room was united to the house by richly dressed doors, cut into the windows, and, with the ground floor, formed one immense suite. The garden at this period of the year contributed in no small degree to the pleasures of the festival. The curtains at the doors of this hall could at any time be lifted up so as to permit access to this oasis of verdure. One might have thought a magic ring had transported to this corner of Paris, all the riches of the vegetation of southern climes, and might have, in imagination, strayed beneath the jasmin bowers, amid the roses and orange-groves of Italy, so delicious was the perfume which filled this garden. Its peculiar physiognomy and design, its form, manner, and even the statues, the majority of which werechef-d'-œuvresof Italian art, all proved some foreign taste had presided over its construction, and that this taste had been the passion of some elegant and distinguished man.
But now this paradise had passed into the possession of a charming woman and admirableartiste. This hotel belonged to the beautifulFelina, the Italian queen of song, who had deigned to descend from a throne to be the Duchess of Palma. The lofty brow which had borne so proudly the diadem of Semiramis and Junia, wore now a duchess's coronet. This was a great self-deprecation; for Europe contained a thousand duchesses, and but oneFelina. Worse still, many duchesses would not recognize La Felina as one of the number. She was a duchess by chance; a duchess not by the grace of God, but by the grace of talent and beauty. Observe, too, that this version was the most favorable, the most amiable and polite. It was the one adopted by the intelligent, philosophic and sensible duchesses of the empire. The true duchesses, those of other days, who could not understand how any one could wear a ducal coronet without having at least three centuries of nobility, made use of all the grape of their artillery to annihilate thesinging woman. It was whispered, but loudly enough to be heard by half a dozen persons, that La Felina, arming herself with that rigidity she kept for the Duke of Palma alone, displaying all her charms, and envying the title and fortune of the noble Neapolitan, had refused to surrender her heart without her hand;—that the poor Duke, entwined in the nets of this modern Circe, wearied of the many love-scrapes which he had undergone, made up his mind, as he could not become a lover, to become a husband. This delightful theme was so decorated by the rich imaginations of the ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that it could scarcely be recognized beneath the inlaying of the rich anecdotes to which it gave occasion; but which lacked only three essentials of merit—good sense, justice, and truth. As far as relates to good sense, we will say that the Duchess of Palma was far richer than her husband. Her talent had long procured her a brilliant income; and to renounce the stage, at the height of her reputation and glory, when every note she uttered was worth a doubloon, was to reject vast wealth, the source of which was her voice and talent. Good sense would not justify the reproach of cupidity; truth and justice would equally have rejected the charge.
La Felina, far from wishing to lead the Duke astray—far from wishing, as was said, to make her fortune by marrying him, had long rejected the hand of the Neapolitan minister of police when the most powerful reasons would have induced her to accept it. She married the Duke only because of the deep and irrepressible passion which animated her heart for the Count Monte-Leone. She knew the Count loved Aminta; she knew that, when at liberty, he would marry the sister of Taddeo. Anxious to contend with herself by creating new weapons to oppose the passion which devoured her, anxious to build up a new barrier between the Count and herself, and to prepare a defence for her own heart, she accepted the hand of the Duke of Palma as a rampart of duty, and, as it were, forcibly to leave a profession, the triumphs of which disgusted and offended her because she regretted having ever experienced them. These were the reasons or reasonings which led La Felina to act as she did. We shall see, at a later period, that she achieved her purpose.
The Duke of Palma having secretly marriedLa Felinain the town of Ferentino, the day Monte-Leone recognized him, took his beautiful wife to a villa he possessed on thelago di Como, and after sojourning there a few days, went to Naples and forced the King to accept his resignation as minister of police. The Duke was dissatisfied with Naples, for no one would forgive him for marrying the Prima-Donna. The two then came to Paris after a brief mission, during which the Duke had been obliged to leave her alone at thelago di Como. There they purchased the hotel of which we have spoken, and prepared to receive the court, and exhibit all the aristocratic luxury with which the Duke of Palma was so familiar. One circumstance, however, which had been entirely unforeseen, wrecked all their hopes. The best society of Paris, which is so lenient to some eccentricities, yet so rigid in its exaction of obedience to certain prejudices—the society to which, from rank and position, the Duke of Palma belonged, was rebellious. Among the nobles of the restoration there were a few exceptions, and though the persons who ventured to the Duke's were perfectly well received—though they praised in the highest degree the graces and exquisitehaut-tonof the Duchess, their example was not followed, and the hotel remained silent and empty. The Duke and Duchess lived alone, buried in a magnificent tomb. The cause of this neglect of the invitations of the ex-minister may be easily divined. The Duke had married La Felina, the singer, about whom there had been, and yet were, so many reports. The beautiful artiste was much wounded by this general neglect, not because she regretted the world and its pleasures, but on account of other impressions which had haunted her since she had lived alone at Como. The affront, however, recoiled on her husband, and her deep, resolute soul bitterly resented it. La Felina was an Italian, and those of that nation who receive affronts avenge them. She was not long at a loss. Her vengeance, however, could not easily be attained, for she had to do with a rich and powerful society, which had, as it were, formed a coalition to insult a woman, by rejecting her with disdain and contempt.
The renown ofLa Felinaas a singer had long excited the curiosity of Paris. Her admirable voice, her dramatic talent, her wonderful beauty, made the great artiste to be envied in every theatre in Europe. By a strange caprice, or an exaggerated distrust of her powers, the great artiste had always refused to sing in the capital, though well aware that there alone great artistic talent is baptized. Amazed at the national glory, she had never asked this sacrifice of Frenchcognoscenti.Great, therefore, was the emotion of the various drawing-rooms, when it was said that a great concert would be given by the Duke of Palma, and that his Duchess La Felina would sing. The concert was for the benefit of some interesting charity; and humanity was a pretext to the high Parisian society not to visit La Felina, but to perform a great duty. How though could invitations be had? There was great difficulty, for the invitations were most limited in number. It is always the case in Paris, that as obstacles increase, the desire to overcome them also is multiplied. This was exemplified in the case of the concert. It was, however, strange that the very hotels where the ducalartistehad been worst treated, where her advances had been worst received, were those to which the invitations came first. Here and there some affronts given by the noble Italians who were the intimate friends of the Duke of Palma, but they were all submitted to, so anxious was the world to enjoy the long-desired but unexpected pleasure of hearing La Felina.
This took place many months before the entertainments, the preparations for which we described at the commencement of this chapter. On the day appointed for the concert, a long file of carriages filled up the whole Faubourg St. Honoré, and stopped at the door of the hotel of the Duke of Palma. The Duchess sat in her most remote drawing-room, dressed with extreme simplicity, beautiful without adornment, and waited for the guests, whom an usher at the door of the first drawing-room announced. As each one saluted her, she arose, and thanked them for their visit. This reception, far from gratifying the majority of her guests, seemed to offend them. They fancied they had met on neutral ground, in a room appropriated to charity, and not to wait on a lady who did the honors of her own house. The latter, however, was the case. Multiplying her cares for and attention to her guests, appearing to notice neither the cold politeness of the one nor the rudeness of the other, the Duchess increased her amiability and politeness to all who approached her. The ice was broken. The men could not resist her charms, and many women followed their example. The dazzling luxury of the hotel, the admirable pictures, the majestic beauty of the Duchess, produced such an effect on this society, composed of the most illustrious persons of Paris, and of all who were famous at the epoch, that the success of La Felina was complete. The great feature of the entertainment was impatiently waited for. The concert which the Duchess had announced did not begin, and it was growing late. The artistes, it was said, had not yet come, and all were as impatient as possible, when an excellent orchestra was heard. A few young people, forgetting why they had come, and utterly reckless of the opposition they would give rise to, hurried to the great ball-room, and whiled away the timebefore the concertin dancing.
About midnight a report was circulated among the guests that the Duchess was fatigued at the reception of so many persons, and thehabituessaid that her efforts to make her guests happy had been so great that she would not sing, and the entertainment would conclude with a ball. Nothing could equal the vexation and anger which appeared on certain faces, and which were augmented by the fact that La Felina made no apology, but in the kindest terms thanked them for the pleasure she had received from them, and which she feared she could not enjoy again for a long time, her health demanding the most complete solitude. Thus Felina turned a concert into a ball, and forced all Paris to visit her.
The next day the journals said: "Yesterday the Duke and Duchess of Palma gave the most magnificent entertainment of the year. Theéliteof thefaubourgSaint-Germain and the capital were assembled, and all retired delighted with the reception extended to them by the illustrious strangers. The Duke sent ten thousand francs to the poor of his arrondissement, to make up a subscription which could not otherwise be completed."
A few months after, the Duke was appointed ambassador of Naples to the court of France, and in honor of his sovereign's birthday prepared the magnificent entertainment which created such disorder in thefaubourgSt. Honoré. The new position of the Duke of Palma, his diplomatic character, and the rumor of the beauty and elegance of the Duchess had silenced all complaints, and all now were anxious to be received at the Neapolitan Embassy.
A circumstance, however, of which the world was entirely ignorant, had within a few months made an altogether different woman of the Duchess, who had previously been gay and happy. An air of sadness reigned over her features, and her eyes assumed not unfrequently a wild glare, which could be removed only by tears. Some unknown sorrow had made great inroads even upon her beauty. Always kind and considerate to the Duke and those who surrounded her, she yet seemed to fulfil her requisitions of duty alone in complying with the observances of her rank. She seemed anxious to seclude herself from the world, and to seek to drown her grief in the solitude she had formerly avoided. Whether sorrow had assumed too deep an empire over her heart, or from some other cause, all were struck at the change so suddenly worked in her moral organization and in her beauty. Far, however, from making any opposition to this splendid entertainment, or exhibiting any indifference to its preparations, all were surprised to see the Duchess devote herself to it so fully. Nothing escaped her care; her refined taste neglected nothing which could contribute to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The Duke, delighted at the apparent revival of the Duchess's taste for the pleasures of theworld, which she had long disdained, aided her with all his power, and spared no expense to gratify her. The invitations were numerous, and on this occasion there were no refusals; for the most noble persons were anxious to be entertained by the Neapolitan minister. The Duke hesitated only in relation to one of the many persons who were to be invited. This person was the Count Monte-Leone. The secretary who had been directed to prepare the list of persons to be invited had according to custom put down his name among the noble and distinguished Neapolitans who had called at the embassy of their country in Paris. The Duchess saw the list, and said nothing. The Duke hesitated for a long time—not that he had the least suspicion of the Duchess's sentiments towards Monte-Leone: he had attributed the presence of La Felina at the etruscan house to the consequence of an abortive masked-ball pleasantry. Besides, at the time of the arrest there were three other men in the house, and the ex-minister had almost forgotten the affair. The Count, in spite of his acquittal, was known to be an enemy of the government, and he doubted if it was proper to receive him at the embassy. One consideration alone prevented the Duke from erasing his name from the list—it was that the Count would not wish to appear at the embassy, and the Duke would thus be spared the necessity of showing any rudeness to him. The day came at last. The interior of the hotel was really fairy-like, and the rooms on the ground floor joined with the garden ball-room presented one of those magical pictures of which poets dream, but which men rarely see. The arts, luxury, comfort, opulence, and taste, all were united to produce a spectacle, which, lighted by a thousand lamps, spoke both to the mind and senses, and recalled one of those splendid palaces ofThe Thousand and One Nights, of which we have read, but which none will see.
On that day the Duchess seemed to have regained all her dazzling beauty. An observer might however have asked if the animation of this lady was not derived from a kind of feverish agitation, evident in the brilliancy of her eyes and deep red of her lips, rather than from expectation of pleasure or joy at the realization of the plans she had marked out for herself. Nine o'clock struck when the first guests were introduced. A crowd soon followed them, and the most distinguished names were heard in the saloons. The Duke d'Harcourt! the Vicompte and Mlle. Marie d'Harcourt! the Prince de Maulear! the Marquis and Marquise de Maulear! Signor Taddeo Rovero!Il ConteMonte-Leone!
Corregio, the illustrious painter, is said to have been born and bred, and to have lived and died in extreme poverty. It is stated that he came to his death at the early age of forty, from the fatigue of carrying home a load of halfpence paid for one of his immortal works.
FOOTNOTES:[M]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.[N]As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render the terms of courtesy now bysignor, signora, andsignorina, and again bymonsieur,madame, andmademoiselle.[O]The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.
[M]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
[M]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
[N]As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render the terms of courtesy now bysignor, signora, andsignorina, and again bymonsieur,madame, andmademoiselle.
[N]As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render the terms of courtesy now bysignor, signora, andsignorina, and again bymonsieur,madame, andmademoiselle.
[O]The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.
[O]The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'dWith a woful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale,And then it set me free.Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns;And till my ghastly tale is toldThis heart within me burns.Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'dWith a woful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale,And then it set me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns;And till my ghastly tale is toldThis heart within me burns.
Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.
I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up, as it were, by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the church, is dead. None knows that once—
Why should it not be thus? Why tell a tale of impious tempting of Providence, and soul-subduing humiliation? Why? answer me, ye who are wise in the secrets of human nature! I only know that so it is; and in spite of strong resolves—of a pride that too much masters me—of shame, and even of fear, so to render myself odious to my species—I must speak.
Genoa! my birthplace—proud city! looking upon the blue waves of the Mediterranean sea—dost thou remember me in my boyhood, when thy cliffs and promontories, thy bright sky and gay vineyards, were my world? Happy time! when to the young heart the narrow-bounded universe, which leaves, by its very limitation, free scope to the imagination, enchains our physical energies, and, sole period in our lives, innocence and enjoyment are united. Yet, who can look back to childhood, and not remember its sorrows and its harrowing fears? I was born with the most imperious, haughty, tameless spirit, with which ever mortal was gifted. I quailed before my father only; and he, generous and noble, but capricious and tyrannical, at once fostered and checked the wild impetuosity of my character, making obedience necessary, but inspiring no respect for the motives which guided his commands. To be a man, free, independent; or, in better words, insolent and domineering, was the hope and prayer of my rebel heart.
My father had one friend, a wealthy Genoese noble, who, in a political tumult, was suddenly sentenced to banishment, and his property confiscated. The Marchese Torella went into exile alone. Like my father, he was a widower: he had one child, the almost infant Juliet, who was left under my father's guardianship. I should certainly have been an unkind master to the lovely girl, but that I was forced by my position to become her protector. A variety of childish incidents all tended to one point,—to make Juliet see in me a rock of refuge; I in her, one, who mustperish through the soft sensibility of her nature too rudely visited, but for my guardian care. We grew up together. The opening rose in May was not more sweet than this dear girl. An irradiation of beauty was spread over her face. Her form, her step, her voice—my heart weeps even now, to think of all of relying, gentle, loving, and pure, that was enshrined in that celestial tenement. When I was eleven and Juliet eight years of age, a cousin of mine, much older than either—he seemed to us a man—took great notice of my playmate; he called her his bride, and asked her to marry him. She refused, and he insisted, drawing her unwillingly towards him. With the countenance and emotions of a maniac I threw myself on him—I strove to draw his sword—I clung to his neck with the ferocious resolve to strangle him: he was obliged to call for assistance to disengage himself from me. On that night I led Juliet to the chapel of our house: I made her touch the sacred relics—I harrowed her child's heart, and profaned her child's lips with an oath, that she would be mine, and mine only.
Well, those days passed away. Torella returned in a few years, and became wealthier and more prosperous than ever. When I was seventeen, my father died; he had been magnificent to prodigality; Torella rejoiced that my minority would afford an opportunity for repairing my fortunes. Juliet and I had been affianced beside my father's deathbed—Torella was to be a second parent to me.
I desired to see the world, and I was indulged. I went to Florence, to Rome, to Naples; thence I passed to Toulon, and at length reached what had long been the bourne of my wishes, Paris. There was wild work in Paris then. The poor king, Charles the Sixth, now sane, now mad, now a monarch, now an abject slave, was the very mockery of humanity. The queen, the dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, alternately friends and foes—now meeting in prodigal feasts, now shedding blood in rivalry—were blind to the miserable state of their country, and the dangers that impended over it, and gave themselves wholly up to dissolute enjoyment or savage strife. My character still followed me. I was arrogant and self-willed; I loved display, and above all, I threw all control far from me. Who could control me in Paris? My young friends were eager to foster passions which furnished them with pleasures. I was deemed handsome—I was master of every knightly accomplishment. I was disconnected with any political party. I grew a favorite with all: my presumption and arrogance was pardoned in one so young; I became a spoiled child. Who could control me? not letters and advice of Torella—only strong necessity visiting me in the abhorred shape of an empty purse. But there were means to refill this void. Acre after acre, estate after estate, I sold. My dress, my jewels, my horses and their caparisons, were almost unrivalled in gorgeous Paris, while the lands of my inheritance passed into possession of others.
The Duke of Orleans was waylaid and murdered by the Duke of Burgundy. Fear and terror possessed all Paris. The dauphin and the queen shut themselves up; every pleasure was suspended. I grew weary of this state of things, and my heart yearned for my boyhood's haunts. I was nearly a beggar, yet still I would go there, claim my bride, and rebuild my fortunes. A few happy ventures as a merchant would make me rich again. Nevertheless, I would not return in humble guise. My last act was to dispose of my remaining estate near Albaro for half its worth, for ready money. Then I despatched all kinds of artificers, arras, furniture of regal splendor, to fit up the last relic of my inheritance, my palace in Genoa. I lingered a little longer yet, ashamed at the part of the prodigal returned, which I feared I should play. I sent my horses. One matchless Spanish jennet I despatched to my promised bride; its caparisons flamed with jewels and cloth of gold. In every part I caused to be entwined the initials of Juliet and her Guido. My present found favor in hers and in her father's eyes.
Still, to return a proclaimed spendthrift, the mark of impertinent wonder, perhaps of scorn, and to encounter singly the reproaches or taunts of my fellow-citizens, was no alluring prospect. As a shield between me and censure, I invited some few of the most reckless of my comrades to accompany me; thus I went armed against the world, hiding a rankling feeling, half fear and half penitence, by bravado and an insolent display of satisfied vanity.
I arrived in Genoa. I trod the pavement of my ancestral palace. My proud step was no interpreter of my heart, for I deeply felt that, though surrounded by every luxury, I was a beggar. The first step I took in claiming Juliet must widely declare me such. I read contempt or pity in the looks of all. I fancied, so apt is conscience to imagine what it deserves, that rich and poor, young and old, all regarded me with derision. Torella came not near me. No wonder that my second father should expect a son's deference from me in waiting first on him. But, galled and stung by a sense of my follies and demerit, I strove to throw the blame on others. We kept nightly orgies in Palazzo Carega. To sleepless, riotous nights, followed listless, supine mornings. At the Ave Maria we showed our dainty persons in the streets, scoffing at the sober citizens, casting insolent glances on the shrinking women. Juliet was not among them—no, no; if she had been there, shame would have driven me away, if love had not brought me to her feet.
I grew tired of this. Suddenly I paid the Marchese a visit. He was at his villa, one among the many which deck the suburb of San Pietro d'Arena. It was the month of May—a month of May in that garden of theworld—the blossoms of the fruit-trees were fading among thick, green foliage; the vines were shooting forth; the ground strewed with the fallen olive blooms; the firefly was in the myrtle hedge; heaven and earth wore a mantle of surpassing beauty. Torella welcomed me kindly, though seriously; and even his shade of displeasure soon wore away. Some resemblance to my father—some look and tone of youthful ingenuousness, lurking still in spite of my misdeeds, softened the good old man's heart. He sent for his daughter, he presented me to her as her betrothed. The chamber became hallowed by a holy light as she entered. Hers was that cherub look, those large, soft eyes, full dimpled cheeks, and mouth of infantine sweetness, that expresses the rare union of happiness and love. Admiration first possessed me; she is mine! was the second proud emotion, and my lips curled with haughty triumph. I had not been theenfant gâtéof the beauties of France not to have learnt the art of pleasing the soft heart of woman. If towards men I was overbearing, the deference I paid to them was the more in contrast. I commenced my courtship by the display of a thousand gallantries to Juliet, who, vowed to me from infancy, had never admitted the devotion of others; and who, though accustomed to expressions of admiration, was uninitiated in the language of lovers.
For a few days all went well. Torella never alluded to my extravagance; he treated me as a favorite son. But the time came, as we discussed the preliminaries to my union with his daughter, when this fair face of things should be overcast. A contract had been drawn up in my father's lifetime. I had rendered this, in fact, void, by having squandered the whole of the wealth which was to have been shared by Juliet and myself. Torella, in consequence, chose to consider this bond as cancelled, and proposed another, in which, though the wealth he bestowed was immeasurably increased, there were so many restrictions as to the mode of spending it, that I, who saw independence only in free career being given to my own imperious will, taunted him as taking advantage of my situation, and refused utterly to subscribe to his conditions. The old man mildly strove to recall me to reason. Roused pride became the tyrant of my thought: I listened with indignation—I repelled him with disdain.
"Juliet, thou art mine! Did we not interchange vows in our innocent childhood? are we not one in the sight of God? and shall thy cold-hearted, cold-blooded father divide us? Be generous, my love, be just; take not away a gift, last treasure of thy Guido—retract not thy vows—let us defy the world, and setting at naught the calculations of age, find in our mutual affection a refuge from every ill!"
Fiend I must have been, with such sophistry to endeavor to poison that sanctuary of holy thought and tender love. Juliet shrank from me affrighted. Her father was the best and kindest of men, and she strove to show me how, in obeying him, every good would follow. He would receive my tardy submission with warm affection, and generous pardon would follow my repentance. Profitless words for a young and gentle daughter to use to a man accustomed to make his will law, and to feel in his own heart a despot so terrible and stern, that he could yield obedience to nought save his own imperious desires! My resentment grew with resistance; my wild companions were ready to add fuel to the flame. We laid a plan to carry off Juliet. At first it appeared to be crowned with success. Midway, on our return, we were overtaken by the agonized father and his attendants. A conflict ensued. Before the city guard came to decide the victory in favor of our antagonists, two of Torella's servitors were dangerously wounded.
This portion of my history weighs most heavily with me. Changed man as I am, I abhor myself in the recollection. May none who hear this tale ever have felt as I. A horse driven to fury by a rider armed with barbed spurs, was not more a slave than I to the violent tyranny of my temper. A fiend possessed my soul, irritating it to madness. I felt the voice of conscience within me; but if I yielded to it for a brief interval, it was only to be a moment after torn, as by a whirlwind, away—borne along on the stream of desperate rage—the plaything of the storms engendered by pride. I was imprisoned, and, at the instance of Torella, set free. Again I returned to carry off both him and his child to France; which hapless country, then preyed on by freebooters and gangs of lawless soldiery, offered a grateful refuge to a criminal like me. Our plots were discovered. I was sentenced to banishment; and as my debts were already enormous, my remaining property was put in the hands of commissioners for their payment. Torella again offered his mediation, requiring only my promise not to renew my abortive attempts on himself and his daughter. I spurned his offers, and fancied that I triumphed when I was thrust out from Genoa, a solitary and penniless exile. My companions were gone: they had been dismissed the city some weeks before, and were already in France. I was alone—friendless; with nor sword at my side, nor ducat in my purse.
I wandered along the sea-shore, a whirlwind of passion possessing and tearing my soul. It was as if a live coal had been set burning in my breast. At first I meditated on whatI should do. I would join a band of freebooters. Revenge!—the word seemed balm to me:—I hugged it—caressed it—till, like a serpent, it stung me. Then again I would abjure and despise Genoa, that little corner of the world. I would return to Paris, where so many of my friends swarmed; where my services would be eagerly accepted; where Iwould carve out fortune with my sword, and might, through success, make my paltry birthplace, and the false Torella, rue the day when they drove me, a new Coriolanus, from her walls. I would return to Paris—thus, on foot—a beggar—and present myself in my poverty to those I had formerly entertained sumptuously. There was gall in the mere thought of it.
The reality of things began to dawn upon my mind, bringing despair in its train. For several months I had been a prisoner: the evils of my dungeon had whipped my soul to madness, but they had subdued my corporeal frame. I was weak and wan. Torella had used a thousand artifices to administer to my comfort; I had detected and scorned them all—and I reaped the harvest of my obduracy. What was to be done?—Should I crouch before my foe, and sue for forgiveness?—Die rather ten thousand deaths!—Never should they obtain that victory! Hate—I swore eternal hate! Hate from whom?—to whom?—From a wandering outcast—to a mighty noble. I and my feelings were nothing to them: already had they forgotten one so unworthy. And Juliet!—her angel-face and sylph-like form gleamed among the clouds of my despair with vain beauty; for I had lost her—the glory and flower of the world! Another will call her his!—that smile of paradise will bless another!
Even now my heart fails within me when I recur to this rout of grim-visaged ideas. Now subdued almost to tears, now raving in my agony, still I wandered along the rocky shore, which grew at each step wilder and more desolate. Hanging rocks and hoar precipices overlooked the tideless ocean; black caverns yawned; and for ever, among the sea-worn recesses, murmured and dashed the unfruitful waters. Now my way was almost barred by an abrupt promontory, now rendered nearly impracticable by fragments fallen from the cliff. Evening was at hand, when, seaward, arose, as if on the waving of a wizard's wand, a murky web of clouds, blotting the late azure sky, and darkening and disturbing the till now placid deep. The clouds had strange fantastic shapes; and they changed, and mingled, and seemed to be driven about by a mighty spell. The waves raised their white crests; the thunder first muttered, then roared from across the waste of waters, which took a deep purple dye, flecked with foam. The spot where I stood, looked, on one side, to the wide-spread ocean; on the other, it was barred by a rugged promontory. Round this cape suddenly came, driven by the wind, a vessel. In vain the mariners tried to force a path for her to the open sea—the gale drove her on the rocks. It will perish!—all on board will perish!—would I were among them! And to my young heart the idea of death came for the first time blended with that of joy. It was an awful sight to behold that vessel struggling with her fate. Hardly could I discern the sailors, but I heard them. It was soon all over!—A rock, just covered by the tossing waves, and so unperceived, lay in wait for its prey. A crash of thunder broke over my head at the moment that, with a frightful shock, the skiff dashed upon her unseen enemy. In a brief space of time she went to pieces. There I stood in safety; and there were my fellow-creatures, battling, now hopelessly, with annihilation. Methought I saw them struggling—too truly did I hear their shrieks, conquering the barking surges in their shrill agony. The dark breakers threw hither and thither the fragments of the wreck; soon it disappeared. I had been fascinated to gaze till the end: at last I sank on my knees—I covered my face with my hands: I again looked up; something was floating on the billows towards the shore. It neared and neared. Was that a human form?—it grew more distinct; and at last a mighty wave, lifting the whole freight, lodged it upon a rock. A human being bestriding a sea-chest!—A human being!—Yet was it one? Surely never such had existed before—a misshapen dwarf, with squinting eyes, distorted features, and body deformed, till it became a horror to behold. My blood, lately warming towards a fellow-being so snatched from a watery tomb, froze in my heart. The dwarf got off his chest; he tossed his straight, straggling hair from his odious visage.
"By St. Beelzebub!" he exclaimed, "I have been well bested." He looked round, and saw me, "Oh, by the fiend! here is another ally of the mighty one. To what saint did you offer prayers, friend—if not to mine? Yet I remember you not on board."
I shrank from the monster and his blasphemy. Again he questioned me, and I muttered some inaudible reply. He continued:——
"Your voice is drowned by this dissonant roar. What a noise the big ocean makes! Schoolboys bursting from their prison are not louder than these waves set free to play. They disturb me. I will no more of their ill-timed brawling.—Silence, hoary One!—Winds, avaunt!—to your homes!—Clouds, fly to the antipodes, and leave our heaven clear!"
As he spoke, he stretched out his two long lank arms, that looked like spiders' claws, and seemed to embrace with them the expanse before him. Was it a miracle? The clouds became broken, and fled; the azure sky first peeped out, and then was spread a calm field of blue above us; the stormy gale was exchanged to the softly breathing west; the sea grew calm; the waves dwindled to riplets.
"I like obedience even in these stupid elements," said the dwarf, "How much more in the tameless mind of man! It was a well got up storm, you must allow—and all of my own making."
It was tempting Providence to interchange talk with this magician. ButPower, in all its shapes, is venerable to man. Awe, curiosity, a clinging fascination, drew me towards him.
"Come, don't be frightened, friend," said the wretch: "I am good-humored when pleased; and something does please me in your well-proportioned body and handsome face, though you look a little woe-begone. You have suffered a land—I, a sea wreck. Perhaps I can allay the tempest of your fortunes as I did my own. Shall we be friends?"—And he held out his hand; I could not touch it. "Well, then, companions—that will do as well. And now, while I rest after the buffeting I underwent just now, tell me why, young and gallant as you seem, you wander thus alone and downcast on this wild sea-shore."
The voice of the wretch was screeching and horrid, and his contortions as he spoke were frightful to behold. Yet he did gain a kind of influence over me, which I could not master, and I told him my tale. When it was ended, he laughed long and loud; the rocks echoed back the sound; hell seemed yelling around me.
"Oh, thou cousin of Lucifer!" said he; "so thou too hast fallen through thy pride; and, though bright as the son of Morning, thou art ready to give up thy good looks, thy bride, and thy well-being, rather than submit thee to the tyranny of good. I honor thy choice, by my soul! So thou hast fled, and yield the day; and mean to starve on these rocks, and to let the birds peck out thy dead eyes, while thy enemy and thy betrothed rejoice in thy ruin. Thy pride is strangely akin to humility, methinks."
As he spoke, a thousand fanged thoughts stung me to the heart.
"What would you that I should do?" I cried.
"I!—Oh, nothing, but lie down and say your prayers before you die. But, were I you, I know the deed that should be done."
I drew near him. His supernatural powers made him an oracle in my eyes; yet a strange unearthly thrill quivered through my frame as I said—"Speak!—teach me—what act do you advise?"
"Revenge thyself, man!—humble thy enemies!—set thy foot on the old man's neck, and possess thyself of his daughter!"
"To the east and west I turn," cried I, "and see no means! Had I gold, much could I achieve; but, poor and single, I am powerless."
The dwarf had been seated on his chest as he listened to my story. Now he got off; he touched a spring; it flew open!—What a mine of wealth—of blazing jewels, beaming gold, and pale silver—was displayed therein. A mad desire to possess this treasure was born within me.
"Doubtless," I said, "one so powerful as you could do all things."
"Nay," said the monster, humbly, "I am less omnipotent than I seem. Some things I possess which you may covet; but I would give them all for a small share, or even for a loan of what is yours."
"My possessions are at your service," I replied, bitterly—"my poverty, my exile, my disgrace—I make a free gift of them all."
"Good! I thank you. Add one other thing to your gift, and my treasure is yours."
"As nothing is my sole inheritance, what besides nothing would you have?"
"Your comely face and well-made limbs."
I shivered. Would this all-powerful monster murder me? I had no dagger. I forgot to pray—but I grew pale.
"I ask for a loan, not a gift," said the frightful thing: "lend me your body for three days—you shall have mine to cage your soul the while, and, in payment, my chest. What say you to the bargain?—Three short days."
We are told that it is dangerous to hold unlawful talk; and well do I prove the same. Tamely written down, it may seem incredible that I should lend any ear to this proposition; but, in spite of his unnatural ugliness, there was something fascinating in a being whose voice could govern earth, air, and sea. I felt a keen desire to comply; for with that chest I could command the world. My only hesitation resulted from a fear that he would not be true to his bargain. Then, I thought, I shall soon die here on these lonely sands, and the limbs he covets will be mine no more:—it is worth the chance. And, besides, I knew that, by all the rules of art-magic, there were formula and oaths which none of its practisers dared break. I hesitated to reply; and he went on, now displaying his wealth, now speaking of the petty price he demanded, till it seemed madness to refuse. Thus is it; place our bark in the current of the stream, and down, over fall and cataract it is hurried; give up our conduct to the wild torrent of passion, and we are away, we know not whither.
He swore many an oath, and I adjured him by many a sacred name; till I saw this wonder of power, this ruler of the elements, shiver like an autumn leaf before my words; and as if the spirit spake unwillingly and per force within him, at last, he, with broken voice, revealed the spell whereby he might be obliged, did he wish to play me false, to render up the unlawful spoil. Our warm life-blood must mingle to make and to mar the charm.
Enough of this unholy theme. I was persuaded—the thing was done. The morrow dawned upon me as I lay upon the shingles, and I knew not my own shadow as it fell from me. I felt myself changed to a shape of horror, and cursed my easy faith and blind credulity. The chest was there—there the gold and precious stones for which I had sold the frame of flesh which nature had given me. The sight a little stilled my emotions; three days would soon be gone.
They did pass. The dwarf had supplied me with a plenteous store of food. At first I could hardly walk, so strange and out of joint were all my limbs; and my voice—it was that of the fiend. But I kept silent, and turned my face to the sun, that I might not see my shadow, and counted the hours, and ruminated on my future conduct. To bring Torella to my feet—to possess my Juliet in spite of him—allthis my wealth could easily achieve. During dark night I slept, and dreamt of the accomplishment of my desires. Two suns had set—the third dawned. I was agitated, fearful. Oh, expectation, what a frightful thing art thou, when kindled more by fear than hope! How dost thou twist thyself round the heart, torturing its pulsations! How dost thou dart unknown pangs all through our feeble mechanism, now seeming to shiver us like broken glass, to nothingness—now giving us a fresh strength, which candonothing, and so torments us by a sensation, such as the strong man must feel who cannot break his fetters, though they bend in his grasp. Slowly paced the bright, bright orb up the eastern sky; long it lingered in the zenith, and still more slowly wandered down the west; it touched the horizon's verge—it was lost! Its glories were on the summits of the cliff—they grew dun and gray. The evening star shone bright. He will soon be here.
He came not!—By the living heavens, he came not!—and night dragged out its weary length, and, in its decaying age, "day began to grizzle its dark hair;" and the sun rose again on the most miserable wretch that ever upbraided its light. Three days thus I passed. The jewels and the gold—oh, how I abhorred them!
Well, well—I will not blacken these pages with demoniac ravings. All too terrible were the thoughts, the raging tumult of ideas that filled my soul. At the end of that time I slept; I had not before since the third sunset; and I dreamt that I was at Juliet's feet, and she smiled, and then she shrieked—for she saw my transformation—and again she smiled, for still her beautiful lover knelt before her. But it was not I—it was he, the fiend, arrayed in my limbs, speaking with my voice, winning her with my looks of love. I strove to warn her, but my tongue refused its office; I strove to tear him from her, but I was rooted to the ground—I awoke with the agony. There were the solitary hoar precipices—there the plashing sea, the quiet strand, and the blue sky over all. What did it mean? was my dream but a mirror of the truth? was he wooing and winning my betrothed? I would on the instant back to Genoa—but I was banished. I laughed—the dwarfs yell burst from my lips—Ibanished! Oh, no! they had not exiled the foul limbs I wore; I might with these enter, without fear of incurring the threatened penalty of death, my own, my native city.
I began to walk towards Genoa. I was somewhat accustomed to my distorted limbs; none were ever so ill-adapted for a straightforward movement; it was with infinite difficulty that I proceeded. Then, too, I desired to avoid all the hamlets strewed here and there on the sea-beach, for I was unwilling to make a display of my hideousness. I was not quite sure that, if seen, the mere boys would not stone me to death as I passed, for a monster: some ungentle salutations I did receive from the few peasants or fishermen I chanced to meet. But it was dark night before I approached Genoa. The weather was so balmy and sweet that it struck me that the Marchese and his daughter would very probably have quitted the city for their country retreat. It was from Villa Torella that I had attempted to carry off Juliet; I had spent many an hour reconnoitring the spot, and knew each inch of ground in its vicinity. It was beautifully situated, embosomed in trees, on the margin of a stream. As I drew near, it became evident that my conjecture was right; nay, moreover, that the hours were being then devoted to feasting and merriment. For the house was lighted up; strains of soft and gay music were wafted towards me by the breeze. My heart sank within me. Such was the generous kindness of Torella's heart that I felt sure that he would not have indulged in public manifestations of rejoicing just after my unfortunate banishment, but for a cause I dared not dwell upon.
The country people were all alive and flocking about; it became necessary that I should study to conceal myself; and yet I longed to address some one, or to hear others discourse, or in any way to gain intelligence of what was really going on. At length, entering the walks that were in immediate vicinity to the mansion, I found one dark enough to veil my excessive frightfulness; and yet others as well as I were loitering in its shade. I soon gathered all I wanted to know—all that first made my very heart die with horror, and then boil with indignation. To-morrow Juliet was to be given to the penitent, reformed, beloved Guido—to-morrow my bride was to pledge her vows to a fiend from hell! And I did this!—my accursed pride—my demoniac violence and wicked self-idolatry had caused this act. For if I had acted as the wretch who had stolen my form had acted—if, with a mien at once yielding and dignified, I had presented myself to Torella, saying, I have done wrong, forgive me; I am unworthy of your angel-child, but permit me to claim her hereafter, when my altered conduct shall manifest that I abjure my vices, and endeavor to become in some sort worthy of her; I go to serve against the infidels; and when my zeal for religion and my true penitence for the past shall appear to you to cancel my crimes, permit me again to call myself your son. Thus had he spoken; and the penitent was welcomed even as the prodigal son of scripture: the fatted calf was killed for him; and he, still pursuing the same path, displayed such open-hearted regret for his follies, so humble a concession of all his rights, and so ardent a resolve to reacquire them by a life of contrition and virtue, that he quickly conquered the kind old man; and full pardon, and the gift of his lovely child, followed in swift succession.
Oh! had an angel from paradise whisperedto me to act thus! But now, what would be the innocent Juliet's fate? Would God permit the foul union—or, some prodigy destroying it, link the dishonored name of Carega with the worst of crimes? To-morrow, at dawn, they were to be married: there was but one way to prevent this—to meet mine enemy, and to enforce the ratification of our agreement. I felt that this could only be done by a mortal struggle. I had no sword—if indeed my distorted arms could wield a soldier's weapon—but I had a dagger, and in that lay my every hope. There was no time for pondering or balancing nicely the question: I might die in the attempt; but besides the burning jealousy and despair of my own heart, honor, mere humanity, demanded that I should fall rather than not destroy the machinations of the fiend.
The guests departed—the lights began to disappear; it was evident that the inhabitants of the villa were seeking repose. I hid myself among the trees—the garden grew desert—the gates were closed—I wandered round and came under a window—ah! well did I know the same!—a soft twilight glimmered in the room—the curtains were half withdrawn. It was the temple of innocence and beauty. Its magnificence was tempered, as it were, by the slight disarrangements occasioned by its being dwelt in, and all the objects scattered around displayed the taste of her who hallowed it by her presence. I saw her enter with a quick light step—I saw her approach the window—she drew back the curtain yet further, and looked out into the night. Its breezy freshness played among her ringlets, and wafted them from the transparent marble of her brow. She clasped her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven. I heard her voice. Guido! she softly murmured, Mine own Guido! and then, as if overcome by the fulness of her own heart, she sank on her knees:—her upraised eyes—her negligent but graceful attitude—the beaming thankfulness that lighted up her face—oh, these are tame words! Heart of mine, thou imagest ever, though thou canst not portray, the celestial beauty of that child of light and love.
I heard a step—a quick firm step along the shady avenue. Soon I saw a cavalier, richly dressed, young, and, methought, graceful to look on, advance. I hid myself yet closer. The youth approached; he paused beneath the window. She arose, and again looking out she saw him, and said—I cannot, no, at this distant time I cannot record her terms of soft silver tenderness; to me they were spoken, but they were replied to by him.
"I will not go," he cried: "here where you have been, where your memory glides like some heaven-visiting ghost, I will pass the long hours till we meet, never, my Juliet, again, day or night, to part. But do thou, my love, retire; the cold morn and fitful breeze will make thy cheek pale, and fill with languor thy love-lighted eyes. Ah, sweetest! could I press one kiss upon them, I could, methinks, repose."
And then he approached still nearer, and methought he was about to clamber into her chamber. I had hesitated, not to terrify her; now I was no longer master of myself. I rushed forward—I threw myself on him—I tore him away—I cried, "O loathsome and foul-shaped wretch!"
I need not repeat epithets, all tending, as it appeared, to rail at a person I at present feel some partiality for. A shriek rose from Juliet's lips. I neither heard nor saw—Ifeltonly mine enemy, whose throat I grasped, and my dagger's hilt; he struggled, but could not escape; at length hoarsely he breathed these words: "Do!—strike home! destroy this body—you will still live; may your life be long and merry!"
The descending dagger was arrested at the word, and he, feeling my hold relax, extricated himself and drew his sword, while the uproar in the house, and flying of torches from one room to the other, showed that soon we should be separated—and I—oh! far better die; so that he did not survive, I cared not. In the midst of my frenzy there was much calculation:—fall I might, and so that he did not survive, I cared not for the death-blow I might deal against myself. While still, therefore, he thought I paused, and while I saw the villanous resolve to take advantage of my hesitation, in the sudden thrust he made at me, I threw myself on his sword, and at the same moment plunged my dagger, with a true desperate aim, in his side. We fell together, rolling over each other, and the tide of blood that flowed from the gaping wound of each mingled on the grass. More I know not—I fainted.
Again I returned to life: weak almost to death, I found myself stretched upon a bed—Juliet was kneeling beside it. Strange! my first broken request was for a mirror. I was so wan and ghastly, that my poor girl hesitated, as she told me afterwards; but, by the mass! I thought myself a right proper youth when I saw the dear reflection of my own well-known features. I confess it is a weakness, but I avow it, I do entertain a considerable affection for the countenance and limbs I behold, whenever I look at a glass; and have more mirrors in my house, and consult them oftener than any beauty in Venice. Before you too much condemn me, permit me to say that no one better knows than I the value of his own body; no one, probably, except myself, ever having had it stolen from him.
Incoherently I at first talked of the dwarf and his crimes, and reproached Juliet for her too easy admission of his love. She thought me raving, as well she might, and yet it was some time before I could prevail on myself to admit that the Guido whose penitence had won her back for me was myself; and while I cursed bitterly the monstrous dwarf, and blest the well-directed blow that had deprived him of life, I suddenly checked myself when I heardher say—Amen! knowing that him whom she reviled was my very self. A little reflection taught me silence—a little practice enabled me to speak of that frightful night without any very excessive blunder. The wound I had given myself was no mockery of one—it was long before I recovered—and as the benevolent and generous Torella sat beside me talking such wisdom as might win friends to repentance, and mine own dear Juliet hovered near me, administering to my wants, and cheering me by her smiles, the work of my bodily cure and mental reform went on together. I have never, indeed, wholly, recovered my strength—my cheek is paler since—my person a little bent. Juliet sometimes ventures to allude bitterly to the malice that caused this change, but I kiss her on the moment, and tell her all is for the best. I am a fonder and more faithful husband—and true is this—but for that wound, never had I called her mine.
I did not revisit the sea-shore, nor seek for the fiend's treasure; yet, while I ponder on the past, I often think, and my confessor was not backward in favoring the idea, that it might be a good rather than an evil spirit, sent by my guardian angel, to show me the folly and misery of pride. So well at least did I learn this lesson, roughly taught as I was, that I am known now by all my friends and fellow-citizens by the name of Guido il Cortese.