CHAPTER IX.
Two days afterwards, my husband returned from his hunting party, bringing some game with him. It was now late in the fall, and the forest trees were tinted with many and various dyes, but the charms of nature had no charms for me then, it was all dark and desolate, like my soul. This strange, unlooked for event in my new married life, carried back my thoughts to the miserable days of infancy, and the lonely hours I spent as a wandering beggar girl in the streets of Vienna; the ideas the speculative mind of childhood then indulged in, again returned to me, and I began to take an inverted view of everything, and to look on nature and human beings with an abstracted gaze.
The evening of my husband’s return, I was standing on the balcony of the castle, when he rode up to the gates, followed by his grooms; he rode well, and his appearance was distinguished on horseback; seeing me, he lifted his hat, and smiled, then disappeared under the gateway.
Knowing he would expect me to meet him, I slowly dragged myself to the banqueting hall, for so entirely were my feelings toward him changed, that now I would have avoided, where formerly I should joyfully have sprung to his arms.
He stood surrounded by his dogs and servants, giving directions to the grooms: saddles and housings, and game were lying about.
“My love, excuse me a moment; I will see you in your drawing-room presently,” said Monsieur de Serval, as I came toward him. Seeing him occupied with his retainers and servants, and glad to be alone, I went to my salon, and sat down to my piano; I began a sweet air from one of the operas I had formerly performed; it was Norma’s reproach to Polileo, and, as I sang it, I felt how applicable it was to my own case. A heavy hand was laid firmly on my shoulder, and turning, I saw Pasiphae.
“My lady, Monsieur de Serval has come back; I saw him just now in the hall.’
“I know it, Pasiphae, I have just seen him; how is she, is she quiet?”
“No, my lady, rather wild and noisy this evening; oh, you had better not let him know what you have discovered.”
“I shall tell him the truth; I am not afraid to speak the truth, Pasiphae; it should at all times be spoken; no blame shall fall on you; be quieted, you are safe.”
The sudden entrance of my husband interrupted us, as I was about asking some question about the unhappy Isodore. At the sight of him, notwithstanding the injury I was satisfied he had done that poor woman, the thousand fascinating remembrances of the last six months crowded fast upon me; and, in looking on his fair face, whatever wickedness that face concealed, I felt I loved him still. It was a delusion, when I imagined I could so quickly learn to hate him. In fact, the transitions of human feelings are like the seasons of the year, so gradually do we pass from one line of feeling to the other extreme, that we are ourselves unconscious when the end is attained. Thus it was with me; I did finally consummate the climax of indifference and contempt towards my husband, but not then: I had not reached it then.
Pasiphae made a low obeisance to her stern master, and left us alone.
As usual, Rinaldo kissed me; I submitted to the caress without returning it: noticing my coldness, a cloud gathered on his brow.
“You receive me very indifferently, Genevra, on my return from a perilous bear hunt.”
“I feel indifferent at this moment, Rinaldo.’
“Pray, may I inquire, signora, the cause of this change?” said he, and drew his stately figure to its full height, and regarded me searchingly.
“I can easily explain it, monsieur: I have been in the right wing of the castle, and have seen the lunatic you keep shut up there, Lady Isodore.”
He started back, as if shot; then rage shone in his eyes, and he angrily exclaimed,
“You have been to those deserted apartments: how dared you go there, what took you there?”
“My feet, of course, were the mechanical operators on the occasion, monsieur,” answered I, derisively; “but curiosity was the only motive I had at first, till gaining access, I beheld the victim of your cruelty.”
“You, Genevra, you, to pry into my secret affairs: you, whom I have taken from a disgraceful profession, and elevated in rank to any lady in the land, to talk to me of cruelty;” and foaming with rage he tore up and down the room like a madman.
“Would, monsieur, for my peace of mind, my happiness, that you could undo what you consider so great an honor, and restore me to that ‘disgraceful profession,’ which I have every reason to regret having left for the arms of a libertine; and a home that has been desecrated by wanton violence. Yes, when the night before last I went to those rooms, and gazed with feelings of intense pity upon that forlorn being, I plainly beheld the life you have hitherto led, and to which you will of course return, after the novelty of my love has worn away. Oh, little did I think, when I pledged you my whole heart and soul at the altar, little did I dream that my affection would be thus requited by living witnesses of shame and horror like this.”
I felt excited to a terrible degree: the recollection of her injuries, and my own shame, had excited me to a point I should, ordinarily, have believed myself incapable of: with his arms folded and head depressed, my husband contemplated me.
“If you have finished, signora, I should like to take the liberty of speaking,” said he, ironically.
“No, I have not done; I never could find words sufficiently strong to express my disgust and horror of such actions. Other women, perhaps, creatures of sensual, vulgar souls, might feel jealous of the husband’s love, forgetting the villany extended to the betrayed one; but I do not. I blame you, not her—whoever she may have been, whatever she may have done.”
“Will you hear me, lady?” again demanded he, in the same cool tone as before.
“Yes, monsieur; speak on. I have expressed my thoughts: now speak yours.”
Haughtily I flung myself on a couch, and, looking him in the face, awaited his remarks.
“The unfortunate woman you have seen,” said Monsieur de Serval—endeavoring to compose his features and his voice to calmness—“that unfortunate is a Spanish woman, from Madrid—her name is Lady Isodore Dosamados—she was of a noble, but impoverished family: when I first became her lover, I never enticed her from habits of morality; she voluntarily became my companion. When I passed through Spain, on my return to Italy, she attached herself to me, and I brought her here: it was her own jealous temper, exasperating my irritable one, which brought her to her present condition. If she chose to excite me to a quarrel, and work upon my feelings until, losing all consciousness, I inflicted a blow that crazed her, it was her own fault; I did not intend to harm her; but immoral women, when enraged, are more like wild beasts than human beings: thus it was with her. I have provided for her during her insanity, and will continue to do so as long as her wretched life continues.”
“I do not believe all you wish to impress me with as truth, in regard to your moderation and kindness to her,” I replied, as he paused, evidently expecting me to say something. “I don’t believe all you say; for Pasiphae”—I stopped abruptly, remembering my promise not to implicate her.
“What of her?” cried he, sternly.
“Nothing.”
“I know what you would say: that she has told you many delightful tales of my cruelty, as you call it; well, let the old woman have her say: women and children should never be contradicted; her crazy ward will not live long; I only retain her now because she can manage her better than any other. When Isodore dies she shall go quickly: and as for you, signora, learn that I take neither reproof nor advice from my wife however much I love her: and beware how you provoke my anger thus a second time.”
He stamped out of the room, and his heavy tread re-echoed along the corridor. Amazed at his temper, I sat still, thinking over what he had said, and wondering if he had spoken the truth: which, in that case, would have been some extenuation of his fault, when Pasiphae came rushing into the room, her face expressing the greatest terror, and frantically wringing her hands, she threw herself on her knees before me, and stared, without speaking.
“What is the matter, Pasiphae? what has happened? what ails you?” I cried.
“Oh, terrible! my lady. When I went back to the rooms, an hour ago—when I left you here with master—I found Lady Isodore had got out of her room. Frightened nearly to death, I went to hunt her. It seems she had wandered along the corridor, which is dark and gloomy in the evening, and not seeing the great staircase, tripped over it, and fell from top to bottom, fracturing her skull, and bruising her body dreadfully. I found her lying senseless at the bottom of the steps, and got the men to carry her up to bed. Oh! come with me, dear lady; come quickly? she may be dead even now.”
I needed no urging to fly through the dim galleries, to the deserted apartments: Pasiphae following as fast as her legs would carry her. There, stretched on her couch, apparently lifeless, her wild face cut and gashed with wounds, blood streaming from her head, lay poor Isodore. The physician was already in attendance, bathing the blood from her face and head, and two or three of the household domestics, in astonishment, beheld what they had never dreamed of before,—that the deserted wing of the castle was tenanted by a lunatic. Her existence there, during the period of her insanity, had always been a mystery,—known but to one or two, who carefully guarded the secret,—and they now stood gaping in stupid wonder.
I assisted the physician in bandaging that poor head, and applied aromatic vinegar to her hands and nose. The esculapius eyed her with that peculiar expression physicians bestow on those whose case they consider hopeless. For an hour, perhaps, she lay insensible. I stood rubbing her hands, while tears fell fast from my face on that poor distorted one.
Presently a slight shiver ran through her frame, her eyes opened spasmodically, then closed again: she opened and shut her hands like one in intense pain, then she groaned sorrowfully. Old Pasiphae buried her weeping countenance in the pillows of the bed.
“Doctor,” said I, “tell me the real truth; will she recover from these terrible wounds?”
“My dear signora, to be candid with you, I must say, judging from the severity of the fracture on the skull, she never will. She may linger a day or two; but I scarcely think she will survive that length of time; the poor woman has killed herself.”
This announcement, delivered with the habitual coolness of gentlemen of that profession, was a thunder-bolt to me.
“Going to die, do you say? Oh, heavens! how dreadful.”
After leaving a potion to be taken at a certain hour, the physician went away, promising to call at day-break, and we were left with the sufferer alone. Monsieur de Serval had been informed of the sad event. Pasiphae said he made no remark, but strode past her to his room, and locked himself in. Probably if he felt any sentiment at all, it was one of joy at the prospect of release from his illicit tie. Oh! how selfish are men where their pride or vanity is touched, or their vices exposed.
All night I watched beside her. She remained in a state of stupor, manifesting no life, save by a feeble groan now and then, and sometimes opening those great eyes, and then relapsing into lethargy.
The physician was punctual to his promise, and the gray dawn had scarce been born ere he came. He administered something which momentarily revived her, and in the course of the day she spoke. Oh! strange problem,—spoke sanely! with that singular precision we frequently see in the insane restored to mind. Her memory reverted and dated from the fatal moment when the blow was given which shattered that fair temple of reason.
I had not seen Rinaldo since the hour of ten, the night before, and as he was acquainted with the sad disaster, I wondered at his indifference to what the physician too prophetically foresaw—her death-bed. Alas! thought I, as I leaned over her and watched the slow dawning of mental consciousness, and the confused look and air of intense agony her face showed,—alas! it seems to be my fate to be connected with the worthless and unhappy. My husband, whom I thought so perfect—so repentant of former follies and determined to amend in future—has sadly disappointed me. The world I imagined so beautiful an Elysium, I find the abode of fair deceit, and corrupt and rotten at the core. Oh, life! where are thy pleasures unmingled with the alloy of pain? or is it thus in everything? No sooner do we possess it, than we discover it to be like those lovely apples of the shores of the Red Sea, very fair to look upon; but, when tasted, bitter as wormwood—rotten as dust.
Pasiphae disturbed the sad tenor of my thoughts, by directing my attention to the door, at which stood Monsieur de Serval. Thinking his presence the indication of a better mood,—of a feeling of compassion toward his unhappy mistress,—I sprang toward him, and, forgetting our quarrel, caught his hand in mine. He looked melancholy; and I thought I could trace remorse on those delicate features.
“Oh, Rinaldo!” I cried, “you see what has happened. Last night, while the nurse was absent from the room, she left the apartment, and not seeing the great staircase, stepped off it and fractured her skull. The physician says she cannot survive. How terrible it is—is it not—to see one die who has led such a life? Come close to her; she is regaining her senses—her right mind.”
My husband started. He evidently expected to see her crazed still, and did not want to meet face to face, with reason restored, the woman he had brutalized; but as she lay there and looked at him, intellect shone in those dark oriental eyes,—not the quick, sharp, wandering stare of insanity. She recognised him, and feebly beckoned with her hands. I gently drew him to the bed-side. She made a motion as if to be raised, and I lifted her in my arms and laid her head on my breast. The blood had oozed out from the bandages, and her hair was clotted with it: her face was deadly pale, and the mists of death had already settled there; her eyes were growing languid and dim, and hands and feet very cold. My husband looked at her with that expression of self-consciousness of having inflicted wrong which alone can impress the human features, ere the heart is altogether hardened and depraved. As I have said, her memory flew back four years before, and she thought the quarrel and the deed had just occurred.
“Nevermind, dear Rinaldo, I forgive you. Don’t grieve, though I die from it. I know I am high tempered; I provoked you to do it; I did not mean to make you angry: don’t grieve. Here, Pasiphae, bandage my head; put me to bed: when I recover I will try and be a better woman—more deserving of your love.”
In agony I glanced at the physician; she had no idea of her real state; she knew not that death, in a few hours, would take her for his own. The good man eyed her with an air of interest, for this was a strange case.
He approached her, perceiving my wish; and, taking one of her hands in his, said quietly,
“My good lady, listen to me. You are not aware of your condition at present; you are only this moment regaining your mind; you have been insane for several years, till last night, escaping from the room, you fell down stairs, and that sudden concussion has been the means of restoring your mind. It is my duty to tell you that a very few hours will close your life; you cannot live longer than to-morrow.”
“Been insane,” repeated she, with a scornful, indignant air, “you are dreaming, man; it was only a moment ago Rinaldo and I were quarrelling, and, enraged, he struck me with a pistol. I am very sorry; but, oh! how strangely my head feels: oh! how painful! what ails me? why am I lying here surrounded by people? how dim everything looks. I cannot distinguish anything: why is this? Get lights: I must arise and dress. I must find Rinaldo: where is he?”
She pushed me violently away from her, and with the last effort of strength, sprung from her bed to her feet. Seeing my husband, she threw herself on his neck, and wildly sobbing, kissed him. It was an awful sight, to behold that woman, already in the embraces of death, hugging and clinging to what had once constituted her joy of existence. I felt no jealousy, for I ever possessed this peculiar trait; the moment an object of affection disappoints me, that moment affection and infatuation disappear. I felt a sentiment of bitter shame and regret that I had given myself to such a man;—that is what I experienced as I witnessed this strange scene.
He looked annoyed,—not grieved; and once or twice tried to lay her down on the bed, but her personal strength, to which was added additional power by the strong excitement under which she labored, frustrated his endeavor. Her disordered hair hung down her back; the bruised and bandaged head, covered with blood, presented a ghastly sight. Her thin hands, which clasped his neck, scratched and wounded; and the long night robe she wore dabbled with blood.
“No, no, no,” she cried; “I have you; I have you: now you shall not go till you promise to love me, and forgive me my anger.”
“Take her away, Pasiphae: rid me of the mad woman,” shouted my husband. “Why do you stand there, stupidly inactive, when you see me thus annoyed? Take her off my neck: put her in bed.”
At the sound of his loud vindictive voice she relapsed her hold, staggered back, and mournfully gazing on his enraged face, shivered, turned, if possible, more pale,—then fell flat on the floor!
“Oh, miserable man!” I exclaimed, as the nurse raised the death-stricken, inanimate form, and laid it on the bed, while the doctor darted looks of contempt at him. “Oh, apology for humanity! and have you no pity for the unhappy sufferer from your vices?”
“Why did you summon me here, madam, to witness this mummery? We all must die some day, it matters not how. Do I wish to behold the death-bed of a lunatic? Can I assist her final departure? Why have you called me?—to anger me, I suppose.”
“Well, monsieur, if you think it too great a condescension to see her die, go; leave the room,—I will attend the poor dying creature.”
Without replying, save by a look of scorn and anger, he departed. I could easily understand that he felt doubly angered when he reflected (as he must have done) that my discovery of his illicit connexion necessarily would weaken, if not wholly obliterate, my love for him. It was this that inspired his rage, and made him hate the unfortunate object of it. His love for me was still unabated;—not so mine. A bar of ice seemed placed between us. In this respect women and men differ greatly, for though a man may indulge himself in many loves, yet he generally returns to the lawful one. On the contrary, when a woman’s affections are once thoroughly alienated, they seldom return to the first object of attachment.
I cannot think of that woman’s death-bed without bitter regret, nor write this portion of my memoir without dropping tears upon the page. Recovering from the stupor into which she had fallen when he repulsed her,—her eyes roved anxiously round in search of him. Not seeing him, she closed them again, and remained motionless. An hour passed by: finding she did not stir, I felt her hands and feet,—they were growing colder and colder, and her eyes more dim. She was an hour nearer death.
“She will be dead before twilight, lady,” said the physician, having felt her pulse. “Poor thing! her death is very painful; she has suffered much.”
“Yes, I have suffered much,” was her audible reply, to our astonishment, and she uplifted her eyes and joined her hands as if praying. I remembered Monsieur de Serval’s description of his mother’s death-bed, and wondered how he could treat thus the last moments of his neglected mistress. So easy is it to express fine sentiments which one does not feel, and never practise! Fine words cost nothing, and may be equally well said by a bad as a noble soul; but fine actions must result from a good heart.
Gradually twilight drew near, and she was sinking momently. Raised on my breast, I held one hand in mine;—she seemed laboring to say something. I stooped to the level of her ear, and tried to catch the sound. Her voice was low, faint, and broken.
“Dear lady,” at last I thought I heard her say; “I thank you for your kindness, whoever you may be, and—,” she paused, as if to reflect, “tell him I forgive him the injury he has done me.”
Backward she fell from my supporting arms on her pillow: slower and slower came her breath; more fixed grew her eyes; her hands grasped convulsively at the bed clothes. I heard a rattling sound from her throat; then the eyelids remained half closed, the mouth half open; the hands released their hold, and the physician, bending over her, said,—“Madame, she is dead!”
I burst into tears, and fled from the chamber of death to my own room, and there wept long and bitterly, both for her and for myself.
Pasiphae told me, some days after, that the corpse had been buried in a cemetery two miles from the castle,—that M. de Serval had gone to the room and looked at the dead, and she saw, or fancied she saw, him shed tears. The old woman, now her insane charge was dead,—so strong is habit,—really seemed to regret the loss, and continually talked of her. For myself, I felt wretched, and wept at early dawn, at bright noon, and again when dark night came on. I thought of my husband: I regretted his behaviour; and notwithstanding all, I wished—oh, I don’t know what I wished; but one thing I know is certain, that death, had he come then, would not have found me unwilling to go.
For two weeks after Isodore’s death, I remained alone in my apartments. The communication between them and monsieur’s having been, by my order, closed, lest he might intrude upon me. I neglected my dress, and my long ringlets hung in wild disorder around my face. I wore a black dress, as if in mourning, for my soul was mourning; and thus attired, and thus lonely, I sat opposite a mirror, in which I beheld myself,—not the joyous bride of six months ago, but pale, dejected, and melancholy; and thus I sat and mused to no purpose, when my waist was clasped by a well known hand, and a mouth, whose kisses I can never forget, imprinted one on my cheek, as Rinaldo’s voice murmured in my ear:
“Genevra, I am miserable, living thus without you. Let the past be forgotten and forgiven: let us love each other as we did before this sad affair. You cannot so quickly have learned to hate me, have you?”
I hesitated a moment, I confess: then love triumphed over every other feeling, and throwing myself into his arms, we fervently kissed each other, and he promised to lead a better life. Of that, however, from what I now comprehended of my husband’s character and habits, I had little hope; for any habit, when once confirmed, be it rouéism, gambling, or drinking, obtains such fascinating influence over the mind, that it is rarely, if ever, relinquished. Still I endeavored to cherish a fondness, which I felt his outlandish behavior would soon oblige me to abandon.
The novelty of possession had now worn off, and he began to wish for other society than mine; accordingly he resumed his acquaintance with the neighboring nobility, and frequently the banqueting hall resounded with their boisterous conviviality to a late hour of night. Then my husband would be carried in the arms of his grooms in a state of drunkenness to bed, while his guests were borne off in a similar condition to theirs. At first, when I gently reproached him with his excesses, he seemed grieved, listened to me quietly, and answered sorrowfully, that he knew he did wrong; but soon this gentleness changed to roughness, and if I spoke reprovingly, he sternly bade me be silent, and not presume to admonish him, of what he was the best judge of. Thus in alternations of coldness, reproaches, quarrels, and reconciliations, a year of married life passed away.
As I became more estranged from him, I missed the gayeties and pleasures of Naples, which his affections had for a few months compensated me for the loss of. I often thought of Blanche, of my teacher, and the kind Madame Bonni. Monsieur Belmont had heard nothing of Blanche, though within the year, inquiry had often been made by him concerning her. My kind hostess had not forgotten me, and her love was often sent; my teacher’s letters I carefully treasured, and read each one with double care; they seemed like tidings of life: for the quiet chateau, the rustic neighborhood, could scarcely be designated by that name; and my regular existence, systematic as a clock, partook largely of lifeless monotony. Rinaldo, it is true, made amends to bacchus for my dullness, for night after night found him at the gaming table, playing high, or carousing with his noisy companions. When, sometimes, I saw him excited with wine, I could with difficulty realize that it was the same refined man, whose sweet voice, and gentle ways had won my virgin heart, on the beautiful shores of Parthenope. Guilo, my husband’s valet, said that although his master had always lived high and been very gay, yet, during the first months of our marriage, he had behaved much better than formerly, and the worthy domestic appeared astonished to see him return to his old habits; but he did not reflect, that the object for which this good behavior was cultivated was attained, and there was no longer any need of playing a part.
I sometimes took long walks through that fair valley, and among the lofty hills which majestically surrounded it. I amused and entertained myself with the observation of nature, in its many different, yet all beautiful modifications; I saw the birds, as they floated on the wing; I saw the waving of the foliage of the forest trees, and the clouds as they moved through the dewy atmosphere, for an eternal mist ever hung over those mountains and that valley. The shepherds tended their flocks there, and thither in harvest and vintage time came the pretty village girls, and the hardy mountaineers, to gather the fruitful grape. Sometimes sitting beneath some lofty tree, I reflected on the sottishness of the heart, which, the more it possesses, the more it wants; I wondered if there was any such thing as happiness, in what it consisted, and where to be found; and then I wondered if it was exemplified by the epicurean belief, that happiness must consist in banishing from the mind all painful thoughts, and wholly surrendering oneself, spiritually and bodily, to pleasure: or if the doctrine of the stoics was true, that happiness or misery, pleasure or pain, was a principle of the mind, and could not be affected by external objects; that if the mind was properly tutored, it would be incapable of any other feeling than that of rational, quiet contentment; it would be insensible to the cares and sorrows of life, regarding all things with the proud eyes of ethereal, idealized philosophy. I inclined towards the stoics, and resolved, if possible, so to school my mind, that no earthly disappointment should surprise or vex me; but, unfortunately, it is much easier to make resolves, than to keep them.
Sometimes I extended my rambles to Isodore’s grave,—a simple mound of earth, unmarked by tablet or tomb-stone. She had now been dead several months, and the grass and wild flowers grew luxuriantly above the mound. I often sat down on it, and fixing my eyes on the starry worlds over head, at twilight time, sought to penetrate the secrets of futurity, and read my destiny in their eternal light. I thought of the thousands and thousands of years that had passed into eternity since first they were hung there. “Why! oh, why?” I cried aloud from the fulness of my heart; “why is it that the beautiful, the great, the good, all moulder back to dust, and are forgotten, while these shine on, bright as when first placed there, coeval with the Great Spirit, from time to eternity?—while we die, and, oh, worse than all! know not what is to come hereafter!” Such gloomy thoughts occupied my mind, as I slowly returned home after twilight had deepened into sombre night, my clothes damp with dew.
“Pasiphae,” said I, as I flung myself into my fauteuil, tired and sorrowful; “get me some dry clothes, and arrange the fire. Where is Monsieur de Serval? is he at home?”
“Master was inquiring for you, my lady, this evening, and I sought for you, but could not find you, when Guilo told me he saw you go out the castle gate, and take the forest road. I told master, and he went away to his shooting gallery.”
As she spoke he entered the room, in his hunting dress, looking very pale after his night’s carouse. We kissed each other; but the salute had little of the fervor of former days.
“I was looking for you this evening, Genevra, but you were not in your apartments.”
“No; I went to take a walk in the woods.”
He began whistling as he walked up and down, evidently wishing Pasiphae gone. Anticipating his wish, after I had changed shoes and stockings, I dismissed her.
“I wished to see you,” said he, after she had gone, “to tell you that I am going away again, a hundred miles back into the country, on a hunting party, to be absent a week. When I return I shall bring a friend with me, the Count Calabrella, to spend some days.”
“Yes,” said I, mechanically.
Continuing his walk, he looked at me as I sat.
“You don’t look well of late, Genevra; your face has lost its freshness; your eyes their brightness.”
“I feel altered externally and internally.”
“I think I am something changed myself within the last year. Let me see,” said he, reflectively; “yes, this is the anniversary of our marriage:—the year has been an eventful one to me.” He seemed to expect some remark, and I determined to touch him to the quick.
“Yes,” I replied, as if unconsciously; “it is five months since Isodore died: how sad her death-bed was!”
His face flushed, and he exclaimed fiercely:
“Why do you speak of that woman? why do you remind me of her? She is dead; well, let her rest in peace, and cease to torment me with recollections of her.”
But I wished him to hear of her. I thought it only an act of justice to her injured memory, and I continued quietly:
“You feel, then, no remorse for your past conduct toward her, monsieur? no regret, yet she loved you much; and if she erred, it may have been through unhappy circumstances, or through an overweening attachment to you.”
“She sinned through nothing of the sort,” cried he sharply,—“her affair with me was not the only one she ever had. She had been a notorious woman long before I ever saw her. As for the deep regrets you talk of, I feel none. I consider I acted honorably in taking care of a lunatic, and suffering myself to be frequently annoyed by the antics of a crazy woman. She is better off where she is.”
I saw my husband was impenetrable to any feeling on the subject, and feeling misanthropic myself, I cared not to enter into a wordy war. Relapsing into silence and thought, I sat motionless. One thing I plainly perceived, that he was piqued that I pitied the dead Isodore, and manifested neither anger, contempt, nor hatred for her memory; he would rather have seen me furiously jealous, retaining the recollection of her error, and hating her name. But I had lost all hatred for anything and everything, and was sinking into a listless apathy.
“Well, farewell till we meet again,” said Monsieur de Serval, abruptly, after a moment’s pause.
“Farewell, monsieur.”
We shook hands, and he departed. I watched from my window, and saw his close travelling carriage rolled into the court-yard. Guilo placed numerous packages, boxes of cigars, and comfites on the front seat; then my husband entered it, his hat slouched over his eyes, and enveloped in his great coat. Guilo mounted behind; the postillion huzza’d, and they rattled away down the valley road.
I did not miss him; his society was no longer necessary to my very existence. We could live apart for days, weeks, months, without the same regrets and longings we should have experienced during the first months of married life. During his absence I busied myself in household affairs, rode on horseback, played and sang, and endeavored to kill time as fast as possible. I was very young, and my tastes and habits still bordered closely on girlhood—I might almost say childhood. Pasiphae, with her weird-like countenance, as she sat over the fire in the banqueting hall on those chilly autumnal nights, and told me strange ghost stories, often laughed at the childish alarm I showed at her tales. She was my confidante, and, in fact, only friend, in that wild region. To her I confided all my thoughts, my griefs, and fears, and hopes. She sympathized with, but could not advise me.
The week of his absence passed quietly away: nothing of moment occurred worth relating, and I was sitting in my salon reading a romance, when Pasiphae entered, saying Guilo had arrived in advance of his master, and announced that Monsieur de Serval would be with me within half an hour. Upon the delivery of his message I consulted my mirror. Pasiphae declared herself satisfied with my appearance. I remember with vivid distinctness the dress I wore: it was a dark, deep crimson velvet, made high in the neck, and long sleeves concealed my arms: the rich, heavy folds of the robe swept the floor; a Grecian head-dress of lama lace formed my coiffure, and my hair fell in long ringlets to my waist.
“Ah, my lady; I never saw you look so beautiful,” said the faithful creature, in an ecstacy of delight; for the slightest thing will throw an Italian into a fit of enthusiasm. “That head-dress is so charming, and the robe so handsome! Ah, if fine dress only made people happy, it would be worth wishing for.”
“Pasiphae, I think I heard monsieur’s carriage driving into the court-yard. See if it is him.”
As I spoke, I heard voices and heavy steps in the hall, and before she could reach the door, it was opened hastily, and my husband entered, followed by a figure so wrapped up in coats and shawls, that I could scarcely discern what it was. Pasiphae hastened to relieve this muffled form of its encumbrances, after disburdening my husband: and when the stranger, stepping toward me, bowed,—the first glance at his face told me that I beheld the stranger of the opera. The same beautiful eyes were bent upon me, and the low deep tones of his voice struck my ear as he said:
“Madame, I am happy to make the acquaintance of the wife of my friend.”
I felt the blood rush to my brow, my neck, my very hands, as I tremblingly replied:
“Count, you are most welcome to our home.”
Rinaldo did not notice my embarrassment; he was occupied in giving orders about the luggage, the game, and a hundred other things; and when he had completed these commands, turning to me, who had been saying some confused nothings to the visitor, he said:
“Come, count, and you, madame, let us proceed to the supper room, and after we have rendered our duties there, we will return hither for conversation.”
All my husband’s movements were abrupt and singular, otherwise I should have been astonished at this sudden interruption. Count Calabrella offered me his arm, and leaning on that strong arm, and looking on that handsome, energetic face, which afterwards became, oh! how dear to me, I followed my stern lord, who strode before, to the banqueting hall. Rinaldo sat at the head of the table, myself and his guest at each side. By the brilliant light of the lamps around us, I could more fully observe the stranger. The count was opposite in appearance to my husband; he was taller, of an athletic form, strong, and manly. His eyes, large, languid, yet sparkling, sometimes flashed fire, sometimes were the impersonation of repose. His hands, and feet were rather large, not so delicate as Monsieur de Serval’s. His whole appearance was rather massive, not feminine or soft, as was the look, the whole person of my husband.
Rinaldo’s face was flushed from wine, and he talked loudly and gayly, not to me, but to his friend. He talked most of his ill success on the bear hunt, cursing the ill attendance of the servants and grooms. He drank glass after glass of wine, and his evanescent spirits grew higher and higher under the influence. I regarded him with feelings of painful regret, but he seemed not to observe my earnest looks, save by a return glance of scorn.
The count appeared embarrassed. I saw he felt for me and for his friend, and looked relieved when the repast was over, and we returned to the salon. He must have seen the coldness existing between my husband and myself, for he also seemed infected by it, and after several efforts at a general conversation, asked me to favor him with a song. I did so with alacrity, to relieve the tedium which seemed to pervade the drawing room: yet though I sang, I did so mechanically. One idea dwelt in my mind—who was this Count Calabrella, this man, whose beautiful eyes had so long before haunted me, like a foreshadowing dream of futurity? How strange that he should so unexpectedly cross my path now, when a married woman; now, when his acquaintance could be nothing to me. Still, the same presentiment haunted me, that my destiny in future would have something to do with him; and as I glanced around at him, as he sat near my husband, listening to the song, leaning on the arm of the sofa, his strongly marked features distinctly shown by the glancing firelight, what a contrast did that manly form, so energetic, breathing, living,—speaking of nobility of soul,—what a contrast did it not present to my fair, yet dissipated, reckless husband! He had thrown himself in an attitude of ease upon a sofa, and with his eyes closed, seemed half asleep. That was scarcely polite to his guest, but Rinaldo cared not what any one thought; he cared more for his own comfort, than for fixed rules of etiquette.
The count drew his chair towards me, and remarked, “Your castle, madame, is delightfully situated here, in this beautiful ravine; I have often heard Monsieur de Serval speak of his mountain home, but never, till now, had an opportunity of seeing it.”
“Yes, the castle is a charming summer residence, though rather dreary in winter.”
“I have never,” continued he, “been so far north before; my attendance on his majesty has hitherto prevented me from travelling to any great extent; and Naples and its environs, you know, do not afford any great variety to one who has been accustomed to it a lifetime.”
“You are, then, from Naples, beautiful Naples!” Numerous recollections were recalled by that name; and I looked down, and almost unconsciously sighed. When I raised my eyes, I met those of the stranger, bent curiously on my face: he seemed endeavoring to read my thoughts; and I blushed as I met that look, though I scarce knew why myself.
“Yes,” said he, in reply to my remark, “beautiful Naples was my birth-place; and there I have lived the principal part of my life.”
Here Rinaldo, raising himself from his recumbent posture, joined us, and began turning over the music leaves on the piano.
“My wife sings one of these songs magnificently, count,” said he, as he sought among the other music for it. “Oh! here it is: oblige us madame, by singing it.”
It was the song for Ajesha: ‘We have lived and loved together in sunlight and in tears;’ and I felt the tears gush into my own eyes, as I executed it. It brought back, bright as yesterday, the night of its first representation—Blanche’s spirited acting—the presence and applause of the royal family. The tones lingered on my lips, as if they obeyed the impulse of my heart, and by remaining, could recall bygone hours more forcibly to mind.
“That is a charming melody,” said the count; “and it is needless to admire that voice, whose far-spread fame has roused all Italy.”
I felt weary, and, as it was growing late, on a look from my husband, we retired; he, accompanying his friend to a bedchamber, and I returning to my cheerful apartment; where, by the blazing fire, I sat down to dream and reflect, on what, alas! on what too many mortals while away existence in—dreams, unsubstantial, unreal dreams.