Genevra; or, the history of a portrait / by an American lady. A resident of Washington City.

by G. G. Fairfield

CHAPTER VII.

“My father was descended from an ancient and noble family; one of the most aristocratic in France. Our family chateau was in Normandy; there we spent the principal part of the year, with the exception of visits to Paris at distant intervals of time.

“Our chateau was beautifully and romantically situated on a gentle plain. From its fine grounds I have often watched the sun decline behind the distant mountains, which bordered on the east our valley-home; on the west a gentle river glided by: along its flowery banks, oft, when a child, have I, my two brothers, and little sister, played. I shall never see its quiet waters more,—nor would I: they would revive too many painful associations. Yet sometimes in fancy I transport myself back to its loved shores; and again I see Francois, Pierre, myself, and Lelia, all animated by the same childish love of fun, playing hide and seek, or running races.

“Francois was the eldest, myself next, then Pierre, then our sweet sister Lelia. My beloved mother, to whose memory I have ever retained, through all my dissipations and frivolities, so great a veneration, was in declining health. She was a tall, beautiful blonde; her gentle face was the index to her soul,—all purity, sweetness and sincerity; were I to live a thousand years, never could I forget my mother’s amiability, her true nobility of soul. I was her favorite child, her ‘dear Rinaldo.’ At my birth, in a fit of romantic admiration of the fabulous Rinaldo, of Italian story, she named me after him, and with woman’s romance, fondly pictured to herself the great deeds I should one day perform. In emulation of this poetical demi-god, what would not children become were they to realize their parents’ wishes and expectations.

“My father and mother lived together in the greatest love and unanimity of feeling, until the advent of a governess, when Lelia was eight years old, to superintend her education. This woman, as sly and insinuating, as she was bold and unprincipled, soon sowed the seeds of contention between my parents, and alienated from the forsaken wife the lawful affections of her husband. She was not handsome, but she succeeded by art, in acquiring over my father’s mind an almost unlimited control. He forsook my mother’s society, and surrendered himself to the fatal influence of Mademoiselle Desportes. My mother was left to linger on and die alone, in her own solitary apartments of the chateau.

“Little Lelia became fonder of her governess than of her mother, and preferred at all times being with Mademoiselle, than with the desolate and despairing Madame de Serval. Francois and Pierre, seduced by presents and unlimited indulgence, grew to love her. I alone, of the whole family, remained firm in my allegiance to my best parent. I alone spent hour after hour, day after day, by her lone bedside, endeavoring to soothe the saddened spirit, and calm its approach to eternity. My unfailing devotion to her, gained me the bitter enmity of our governess; but I defied and despised her malice. My father from that time henceforward, till his death, regarded me with an eye of distrust; but for that too I did not care: I felt convinced that he had forfeited all claim to the title of husband or father; that he had debased himself by a vulgar, dishonorable connection; disgraceful alike to himself and the ancient name he bore. I owed my first duty to the deserted, not to the deserter; I saw that this disgrace to her sex, aimed at my father’s hand; that she wished to establish herself firmly in a high position; who the man was mattered little to her, so long as he possessed rank and wealth; and, unfortunately, for my opinion of women, I have seen but too many others like unto her. My mother was a stumbling block to her ambition; I saw all the manœuvring that was constantly going on through this woman’s influence; yet what could I do, a young boy, without money or influence in society? If a man chooses to turn against his own wife, the mother of his children; abuse, neglect her, and take instead, a bad, intriguing woman, as confidant and companion, what can the world say or do? nothing, it is their own affair: every one says, let them settle it between them: the public have nothing to do with family quarrels.

“Thus defenceless and unprotected, her parents dead, her relations far away, my mother became a victim to this vile creature. Her health declined with amazing rapidity during the first year of this woman’s arrival; her hectic cough increased daily; her pale and hollow cheeks, glassy eyes, and shrunken form, like a scroll of shriveled parchment, showed the ravages of disease and gloom, preying upon both mind and body. A little incident first gave me a horrid suspicion of the secret cause of this decay.

“A physician from the village, and a mysterious looking monk from a neighboring convent, regularly visited my mother twice a week; the one to attend to her spiritual welfare, the other to administer to her wreck of mortal frame. Father Ignatius I never liked; no love was lost between us; my sentiments were freely returned; his step, gliding and noiseless; his large eyes, always downcast with mock humility, and hands clasped upon his breast, always inspired me with a presentiment of the vicinage of some evil genius. Mystery, I have observed, is generally the cloak of ignorant or knavish minds; in this case it was the latter. I felt relieved when I saw his draperied form leave the chateau, as if some evil influence had been withdrawn. Notwithstanding my dislike, he seemed to be a favorite of my mother’s, and to please her I forbore saying any thing to his disparagement. His conversation seemed to amuse and momentarily enliven her; his voice was soft and low, and manner insinuating and jesuitical. I said nothing against him to her or any one else, though secretly distrustful, for I would not have added to her gloom, around whose soul were gathering fast the shadows of the tomb.

“I was retiring to my mother’s room one evening at dusk, when as I neared the anti-chamber, I heard voices within conversing, and my own name mentioned; pausing at the door, and concealed by its deep shadow, I listened; the speakers were Doctor Theodori, and Father Ignatius; they appeared to have met accidentally.

“‘Well, Doctor,’ was the jocose salutation of Ignatius, ‘how fares thy patient?’

“‘And may I not ask the same question of thee, oh, physician of the soul?’ was the laughing reply of the fat, shrewd-looking Theodori.

“‘Between us two,’ said the monk, glancing round the anti-chamber, as if to observe they were free from notice; the dusk of twilight far advanced, reigned, and they could not see me; ‘between us, I say, she is failing fast: the last few months have wrought a great change.’

“‘I plainly perceive it,’ was the cool reply of his worthy colleague; ‘she will not cumber the earth long, nor be in the way of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Desportes.’

“‘You should be careful not to give the powders too often,—their effect will excite suspicion,’ was the next remark of the holy father.

“‘Trust me, I know what I am doing; this is not the first case of the kind I have managed; there will be no outward sign except the usual appearance of disease; what has been promised you as reward, may I ask?’

“‘His influence at Rome with the college of cardinals, to obtain me the position of the nuncio to the court of Vienna, and yours, worthy Theodori?’

“‘When all is over, I shall accompany the naval expedition to Algiers; in truth I scarcely feel safe in this affair; I sometimes catch myself feeling my head, to ascertain if that important member still performs its functions.’

“‘No matter, ejaculated the man of prayer, penance and fasting, so long as we are rewarded for our services, and get safe out of the country, which I am very desirous of leaving. But does not his infatuation appear strange to you?—to me it is a riddle.’

“‘A problem, in my opinion, which I could never solve; but these sly women do sometimes, you know, obtain great influence; he is weak and infatuated; but men have been fooled before his time, and will be so for ages yet unborn.’

“‘How long do you think she will live?’ asked the monk; and he drew his cowl over his dark visage, and took a step forward toward the door, where I stood concealed.

“‘Not longer than three months, if I am anything of a physician.’ They both laughed, as two fiends may be supposed to laugh over a captured soul, and withdrew through a side door, leading to my father’s part of the mansion.

“The last echo of their footsteps died upon my ear, ere I tremblingly emerged from my concealment; pale as a ghost from the tomb, and quivering like an aspen, I comprehended perfectly well that some dark plot was hatching to expedite my mother’s mortal doom. I tried to think of some means to counter-work this devilish intention; but at that time almost a child, my mind was not fertile in expedients, and even had I equaled Mephistopheles at planning, what is the use of invention without the power to execute. I determined to watch and endeavor to detect any attempt this triumvirate of wickedness should make upon her life. I childishly supposed I should see something to expose; I did not know their secret wiles, though I watched constantly, and was always with my mother; yet I saw no powders given, nothing visible indicated their secret malice, and her onward progress to the grave.

“Mademoiselle Desportes, with cunning hypocrisy, came often with professions of regard, to see Madame de Serval. Could I have had my way, I would have kicked her out the room; but perhaps she chose the better part, in treating with contempt so unworthy a creature; for that pure soul, which was all harmony and love, could surely feel no rivalry with one so immeasurably beneath her.

“My father seldom came to our apartment. I should have thought shame would have deterred him from brazenly insulting the deserted wife with his presence. I forgot that the man who could act thus, would of necessity be incapable of shame. Thus lingered for three months longer my gentle, lovely mother, and then she died, devoutly hoping to be reunited to her loved ones in a future state of being. She died at midnight; we, her children, and the nurse, her only attendants; it was in the autumn time, and the wind blew in fitful gusts around the isolated chateau; the mournful sound, as the blast rose and fell, and whistled through the forest trees, and through the cracks and crevices of the wainscotting, seemed in harmony with the sad departing soul.

“She sat upright in bed, supported by pillows: her hands convulsively clasped on her sunken chest, her sad blue eyes fixed on vacancy, as if seeking to penetrate the impenetrable mysteries of eternity; her long hair, escaped from its confinement, strayed wildly around her shoulders: thus she sat, motionless and silent, for several hours, though not speechless; she retained her voice and senses to the last.

“Little Lelia sat on the bed by my mother’s side, and with tearful eyes gazed wonderingly on her parent; my brothers and I stood by the bedside; I, speechless, tearless, from intense grief: they, sobbing in loud lamentation; and the old nurse sat in the chimney corner, an uninterested, yet sympathizing spectator of the death bed. My father had made an excuse of going on a hunting party, some days previous, to avoid witnessing his wife’s last sufferings; and his wicked favorite had shut herself in her own rooms: we, therefore, were the sole attendants. And the priest and his delightful friend had gone, I know not where—probably departed for their respective places of destination—apprehensive of discovery.

“The old brass clock in the anti-chamber struck the midnight hour, and its hoarse, reverberating tone, had scarcely ceased, ere Madame de Serval aroused herself from her stupor; decaying life appeared to resuscitate, momentarily, in that attenuated form, like the spasmodic flicker of a lamp, whose flame is about to be extinguished. She extended her arms, as if beckoning to the shades—uplifted her eyes, as if praying for grace—then, suddenly breaking the portentous silence which had hung over us so long, she said, ‘Dear children, beloved little ones, come close to me.’ We gathered close around her. ‘Your poor mother is going the way of all the earth—she is going to leave you—and her memory will be as though she never had been. I entreat you to be kind to each other; to love and cherish each other’s friendship, practice virtue and good works, that ye may become worthy of heavenly rewards, and meet your mother above.’

“Her face was animated with almost supernatural energy for an instant; she pointed upwards with her finger for an instant, then her clay-cold fingers shrank from my clasp: she fell backward on her pillow; her eyes were glazed in the mists of death; and they, hardened in their expression, became fixed and cold; her arms stiffened, and fell rigid to her side: her whole form collapsed and changed. Death had claimed its own; all was over: the wrongs she had endured, her joys, her sorrows, were like a tale that is told; they were lost in the womb of time—past and forgotten.

“Petrified with fear to the spot—horror struck—we gazed upon the inanimate clay; then, after the first spasm of terror was past, we rushed to the nurse, and gathered round her, seeking consolation for that loss, which no power—mortal, or immortal—could restore to us.

“We wept ourselves to sleep that night, in our respective chambers. I, more than all the rest, felt wretched. God alone knows how miserable I was. And when I recalled my mother’s gentleness, her forbearance, her enduring love for a worthless man, and its reward, oh! that added the last bitter drop in the cup of wo!

“My father returned next day; he seemed neither surprised nor grieved when told of her death: how should he be, when he had planned, and premeditated it: ‘her health had been so feeble within the last two years,’ he said, ‘the event was not an unexpected one.’ Mademoiselle came not near us, and, absorbed in grief, I had forgotten her very existence.

“When the corpse was laid out, we all went to take a last fond look of that loved form, and bid it a temporary, perhaps eternal, adieu.

“She lay in state upon a costly bier, dressed as for a bridal. The white satin robe she was attired in, was not whiter than her marble face and hands: the wreath upon her hair scarcely outvied them in purity of color; and her face bore that expression of almost unearthly beauty, which rests upon the faces of the dead the first few hours after death. So calm, so pure and beautiful did she look, I almost thought her sleeping, and imagined I saw the grave-clothes rise and fall, with the respiration of life, upon that dead bosom. Oh, my mother! wert thou conscious of the tears I shed, thou wouldst have pitied me!”

Monsieur de Serval paused; his voice was inarticulate from emotion. Dropping my hand, he covered his face with both his, and trembled with grief. A man is generally ashamed to show such feelings before a woman; but the recollections of his youth had completely unmanned him. I thought it indelicate to proffer words of condolence, and, therefore, waited till he became quieted, and went on.

“The grief of my two brothers and sister partook more of wonder and fear than sorrow; but my soul was literally devoured with despair, and at that moment I most sincerely wished myself dead and buried with her. I had lost my best friend: the only one who could console my boyish vexations and advise my actions.

“A splendid marble tomb was erected over the broken heart it enshrined, in the cemetery of the church belonging to the chateau, and an epitaph inscribed, testifying to the virtues of the departed, and the inconsolability of the bereaved widower. How I despised the man, even though my own father, who could thus add hypocrisy to villany!

“Within three months after her death, he outraged even the usual conventional forms of mourning, and espoused the governess. From that time henceforth, completely throwing off the mask of affection she had previously worn, my brothers and sister, as well as myself, felt her iron rule. We were aliens and strangers in our own home: all obeyed the imperious will of the new Madame de Serval;—we were neglected and left alone.

“Through her influence on the mind of her husband, he decided on sending me away to college. Me she most particularly disliked, and on all occasions treated me with studied contempt. There was a tacit understanding between us that we mutually understood each other. She knew me to possess penetration: I felt that she was a vile intriguante. She saw it would be far better for her control over my brothers and sister, that I should be away. My elder brother, Francois, was never very bright. Pierre (younger than myself) was no more so than need be: he was extremely amiable and easily influenced; and Lelia, any one could manage. Of the whole four I was most capable of resistance; consequently it was most desirable to get me out of the way.

“A celebrated college, in a distant district, was selected as my destination, and the day appointed for my departure. I asked if Francois could not be sent to the same college for the completion of his education, that we might be companions to each other in our studies. My request was sternly refused by my father, and I was bade attend to my own business, and not trouble myself about Francois’s movements. Thus silenced, I made a merit of necessity, and obeyed, because I could not help myself, resolving mentally, however, that, when grown to man’s estate, I would shake off the underhand tyranny of this woman, and enlist in the army as a foot soldier, sooner than submit to her petty malice. She planned this merely to annoy me, knowing the society of my brother would be pleasing to me. What my father intended doing with either him or Pierre, neither they nor I knew: Lelia would remain under the guardianship of her former governess.

“Thus were we separated. I bade them farewell and departed, glad to be removed from the evil atmosphere of a depraved woman.

“I soon became a favorite with my preceptors at the institution. Francois corresponded with me regularly the first year. Little Lelia, he said, was in delicate health; her stepmother treated her with harshness and severity; Pierre drooped in listless languor. He was in daily expectation of being ordered off to join his regiment,—father having bought him a commission in the 49th hussars. Of his own feelings, or the state of affairs between Monsieur de Serval and his wife, he never spoke; perhaps, I thought, he had forgotten our mother’s wrongs, grown politic, conciliated the kindness of his stepmother, and consequently was more tolerated; but I hoped not. I trusted the remembrance of the injuries of that angel-woman were too deeply impressed on his mind, to allow him to be so easily seduced into love or kindness to her betrayer. The tone of his letters was reckless and gloomy: these feelings I regretted seeing in one so young, and wished he were within the sphere of my influence, that I might win him to better things.

“Subsequently I heard from him after his arrival in the Barbary States, whither he had been ordered. He described the climate as being insupportably hot, and a soldier’s life a hard one; yet, having entered the service, was determined to remain and fight his way to distinction.

“The large patrimony my mother brought my father, had, upon her ill-starred marriage, been exclusively settled on herself (subject to her control alone), and, at her death, she bequeathed it to her children, divided equally amongst us. Upon the completion of my education, I paid a short visit home, to claim my share of the patrimony, and see my brother and sister. Lelia, grown tall and graceful, welcomed me with joy; my father, with cold civility; the ex-governess, with haughty coldness. When I inquired for Pierre, they directed me to the church-yard where my mother reposed, and where her youngest son now slumbered by her side, in the blessed sleep of forgetfulness. I did not weep over his grave with the same wild lamentation with which I had bewailed her loss: on the contrary, as I stood over the little mound which held the human earth, I almost felt a secret satisfaction that the boy had been taken away from the evils to come; that his pure young mind had not remained here to become contaminated by mingling with inferior, less elevated souls.

“Lelia told me how he died of a fever, and how he had wished to see me; but was ungratified in the wish in his dying hour. Father had commanded that no word should be sent me of his illness or death; thus I had remained in ignorance of either. When she told me this, a suspicion flashed across me, that, perhaps, he had been dealt with like his poor mother; but reflection convinced me that his stepmother could have had no object in putting him out of the world. He was an amiable, inoffensive boy; he interfered with her in no way; and as she was a woman of strong mind and good reasoning faculties, it was not probable she would have committed a deed, the execution of which could in no way have benefited her. At any rate he was dead; and as I looked on Lelia, her youth, her beauty, and the atmosphere of innocence and grace which seemed to hover round and adorn her, I wondered what destiny had in store for her, and I prayed that the angel-shade of our mutual parent—or some other invisible inhabitant of a better land—might preside over her future years, and shield them from all evil.

“But the halls of my ancestors were no longer a home for me, and I felt it strongly during the few days I spent there. The absurd spectacle of the blind infatuation of a man, already on the decline of life, who fed and cherished his vanity into the ridiculous belief that he was still loveable and beloved by a young and artful woman, was—had I been an uninterested spectator of the farce—more laughable than anything else; but, as it was, indignation, instead of merriment, stirred my feelings, and I wished to be out of sight of so disgraceful an exhibition of superannuated folly; and my father, while doting upon his minion, and squandering his fortune upon her in every description of extravagance, actually believed himself to be as attractive and fascinating as any young man of twenty-five. When I recurred to this portion of my father’s life in after years, I always thought of what a young Parisian girl once said to me: ‘Are not those two words, man and vanity, synonymous?’ That young and handsome men should be vain of conquest is not astonishing; but that old men, hackneyed and worn, from misuse of the senses, possessing all the vices of the young, without their personal attractions or their virtues,—that such men should be candidates for the affections of young women, or dare to suppose they can obtain or possess them, is scarcely more reprehensible than ridiculous. The world has always seemed to me a perfect farce—a play: a stage on which all act, and those who play the best are thought the best in the eyes of the undiscriminating world. What part my father and his favorite would have taken in the drama, I am unable to say; but my own opinion is, that a fool’s cap for him, and the symbol of knavery for her, would have suited to a charm.

“Lelia was liberally provided with many attendants, teachers for various languages, and every thing the child could wish in the way of dress or equipage. Being satisfied that her welfare and comfort was attended to, I arranged with father to draw upon his banker in Paris for my means; and, bidding Lelia farewell—who sobbed and wept grievously at my departure—I glanced good-bye to the turreted towers, the lofty archways and imposing battlements of the homes of my forefathers, and took my way to the capital of France, intending to pursue the study of the law.

“But, alas! for the self-promised virtue of youth and inexperience! I had not been in the gay city many weeks before the giddy vortex of Parisian society had enthralled me, and overcame many of my stoical resolves: so little do we know what we shall do until tasked by practice. I at first wondered at the wild and unrestrained dissipations of the youth of the metropolis; but, insensibly, by degrees this wonderment ceased, as I became accustomed to, and shared in these frivolities.

“An old lawyer—in former years a devoted friend of my father—now, in turn, performed the offices of friend to me; i. e. gave me good advice on the temptations and snares of life; the dangers of love affairs, particularly illicit ones; the beauty of propriety of demeanor; the respectability of religion—at least its external appearance, no matter about the sincerity of the heart; and, lastly, the propriety of placing myself under his guidance, and steadfastly following his counsels. Fortunately, I did not take advantage of the kindness extended me; for, had I followed his counsels—or, rather, what one might suppose would have been his counsels, twenty years before—I should have been engulphed in ruin long ago. I followed the dictates of a young, and, at that time, pure heart; and pursued my own way, naturally enough concluding, that every man has a right to his own way of thinking, and his own rule of action, provided he interfered with no one else.

“I studied law with my moral friend for some time; and might at this moment, perhaps, have been an advocate, had not unforeseen events changed the current of my life otherwise.

“While in Paris I became acquainted with a lady of noble rank and ancient family; and, since I am giving you a faithful chronicle of my days, Genevra, I will not conceal from you, that once, and once only, have I loved, in by gone years, a lady, as beautiful, though not as virtuous, or talented, as yourself—loved, I say, as fondly, as blindly, as I now love you.

“Her name was Madame Anacharsis Valliere; and she was the youthful wife of an old banker; she was then one of the most fashionable and admired of any in Paris. I first met her at a ball, and afterwards visited her at her house constantly. I cannot describe the artlessness and playful witchery of her ways, nor that light and play of feature which allured and captivated me—even though I saw the risk I ran, both for myself and her: the remembrance of her haunted me for years after the love had died away, and both passion, and the reciprocity it had met with from her confiding fondness, had faded from my mind.

“That was my first ‘grande passion!’ The woman who pleased me then, would not please me now: so do our tastes and habits change as we go onward: but then, young and warm, yet shy, I required to be led on to love: now, I would rather seek it myself: consequently, I prefer one who rather shrinks from than advances to me.

“Her husband, absorbed in business, and money speculations could not find time to devote much attention to his fair wife; and, trusting to her honor, her sense of duty, and shrinking modesty, to preserve her in the right way, he allowed her to do as she pleased, and go with whom she pleased; it often pleased her then to go with me. He had great confidence in me; I am sorry to say it was misplaced; but undesignedly, at least, I can with conscience say that, I did not intend to love the wife, or injure the husband. When I first became acquainted with them, little by little she grew to love me; if I did not come at the appointed hour, Madame Anacharsis, forgetting her embroidery, music, flowers, visitors, everything, would sit at the window facing the street, whence she regularly expected me, and muse and watch for me; then the sudden start, the smile of welcome when I came, the tears which suffused her eyes when I departed, by all these tokens, and a hundred others, I knew as well as words could speak it, that she loved me; what man is virtuous enough to slight the manifest love of a beautiful woman? I saw my triumph and I felt happy, for my feelings echoed hers.

“I then became her constant visitor, her devoted admirer; I was with her continually, at her morning concerts, her evening soirees: I was ever at her side. The old husband, infatuated in his idolatry of his young wife, saw nothing, suspected nothing; thus we went on till passion crowned the whole; nothing was left for me to wish for. Was I happy then? In the possession of all that I had thought so admirable, so angelic, I have often asked myself that question, and never have been able to answer it satisfactorily. I lost myself then in the mysteries of love, and forgot everything but her.

“We had been wrapt up, bound up in each other for the space of three months, and the old man still blundered on in confidence, though I was ever at his wife’s side like her shadow. He frequently consulted me on business matters, and both in public and private, expressed the highest opinion of me. I could not but regret the moment when he would be undeceived, and perceive the real state of things; yet the whole affair had been involuntarily on both sides. Society, which always decides so arbitrarily in these matters, would at once have pronounced that either I was a rake, or she a bold, frail woman. Neither was the case, a woman possessed of more true modesty and integrity than Madame Anacharsis I have never seen; her fault was over self-confidence, and reliance on me; and I, not dreaming of love, cherished to maturity the germ of a passion with which I had already inspired her.

“We had been planning a fête champêtre, and one evening I bent my steps to her house, with a portfolio of beautiful costumes; one, handsomer than the others, I had chosen, and wished to induce her to adopt it for the occasion.

“The attendants were absent from the anti-chamber, and I entered the salon de reception unannounced; Madame was there, alone. She sat upon a low ottoman, her profile toward me; she wore a blue satin dress, made so low in the neck that half her fair bosom was exposed; but it was the fashion then, and when fashion countenances an impropriety, it no longer seems one. She seemed absorbed in thought, for she had slid half off the stool, her small hands clasped, and brown eyes upward fixed in thought, or absentness.

“She started, and rose up on hearing my step, and I now saw that her cheeks were wet with tears; surprised at these unwonted tokens of sadness in one usually so gay, I asked the cause.

“She wiped the tears from her eyes, and seating herself by my side, placed her little hands in mine, (where they had often been before,) and looking me straight in the face, suddenly addressed me thus,

“‘Rinaldo, my husband has discovered our love: he knows all.’

“‘Good heavens, how could he, how should he?’ I cried.

“‘Indeed he has: this very afternoon he told me that he has watched you and me for sometime past, without our knowing it. He spoke so gently, so kindly to me of my fault, that his very leniency made me feel a hundred times more miserable than all the reproaches in the world could have done; he said he knew I was young enough to be his child,—that so great a disparity of years must preclude much happiness; but when he reminded me of the unlimited indulgence with which I had been treated, the tenderness with which all my wants, and even my most fantastic whims had been anticipated; then, indeed, I felt how unjustly I had served him. He told me too, how much confidence he had ever reposed in me, allowing me to go with whom I liked, and where I liked, without question; and turning my eyes inward, I saw how far I had fallen from my own high standard of female virtue.

“‘I said nothing in extenuation of my fault, and in silence acquiesced to guilt; but when my husband took me to his arms again, and told me he would forgive me, even though he became the laughing stock of Paris, on condition I would solemnly swear never to commit the same offence again; and also to send you away, and never more to see your face; then I saw how magnanimous he was in his love, how infatuated in his devotion to me, unworthy me.

“‘And now we must part, dear Rinaldo, I mean to say, Monsieur de Serval, we must never meet again, or if we do meet in public, as strangers. It will be a very hard task for me to tear your image from my heart, but I must; I ought to love my husband: has he not been so kind to me? Oh, yes, I must forget you, and of course you will forget me: very soon some other will usurp my place. Oh, I wish I were dead and buried.’

“She fell down upon her knees and wept: it seemed to be so difficult for her to surrender me; and it was equally severe for me, for I was tenderly attached to her. The husband’s discovery had been startling news: I had not dreamt that Valliere had suspected us; it only remained for us now to say farewell,—a sad word to be spoken at any time, but most particularly in an affair of the heart: it was some minutes before I could calm her sufficiently to speak, and then she only spoke of her fault, her unhappiness, and her jealous dread of my loving some other better than herself.

“‘Oh, you will not entirely forget me, will you, Rinaldo? Although hereafter we shall never see each other, you will sometimes think of me; think how unhappy I am; how unwise I have been; but do not despise my weakness; do not think of me with contempt, perhaps, at some future day, when you may love a woman of sterner virtue than myself.’

“‘Dear lady, I can never think of you with any other sentiment than admiration. What is there to contemn in one so beautiful and amiable? We have erred unwittingly; if any is to blame, it is myself, not you. May God, who sees all things, forgive me if I have caused you a moment’s pain.’

“‘It is very hard to say farewell forever,’ she kept repeating, as she hung upon my hand; ‘but it must be said,’—and after mutual sighs, regrets, tears, and kisses, I sorrowfully tore myself away. She fell fainting on a sofa as I left the saloon, and I brushed tears from my own cheeks as I rushed down the marble terrace steps of her elegant abode.

“My feelings were wild, incoherent, and bitter,—yes, bitter as wormwood, for none but honorable loves yield satisfaction and repose to the soul. I regretted ever having come to Paris, or ever having crossed the bright pathway of so young and innocent a creature; but her husband would still countenance and love her. She was not abandoned or cast away to neglect or shame; that was a great consolation to me; and trusting that her gay and child-like disposition would interest itself in the world, and that new associations would obliterate me from her memory, I became calmed, and returned to my ordinary pursuits.

“Not long after, I received news of my brother’s death, at Tunis. He had been shot in a duel. The cause of the encounter was not explained. My two brothers were both dead, and I became heir to my father’s estate.

“Francois and myself had never been sufficiently alike in disposition to become tenderly attached. Nevertheless, I regretted his death, as one is in duty to the laws of nature bound to do. Rumor said the charming Madame Anacharsis Valliere had withdrawn from all gay society, and lived entirely in the country. Her health was said to be declining. This was some months after our separation; and possessing the clue to her new love of solitude, I was vain enough to attribute her ennui to sad reminiscences of me.

“I had now been in Paris two years, when I suddenly resolved, one day, to go home, and if my father treated me with such incivility as to render a long residence disagreeable, I could, in that case, return to Paris. I had lost much of the wildness I had brought to the city, and had sobered down. My old friend, the lawyer, had proved himself to be a real friend to me, notwithstanding some lingering traces of youthful vanity. Small foibles are, however, forgiveable when counterbalanced by other good qualities; and I was grateful to him for his kindness. He advised me to stay and pursue the practice of the law. But yielding to some strange presentiment, which bade me go, I promised him soon to return, and set off.

“I arrived at the castle after twilight had deepened into sombre night. A dense forest of lindens surrounded the old homestead of my childhood, on one side of the building, for more than a mile; and riding through the thicket of trees had, perhaps, pre-disposed me to sadness, for I certainly felt so, when I arrived. No porter was, as usual, at the lodge, and the gardens bore evidence of neglect. I rode on; passed the drawbridge, and dismounting, left the horse to find his way alone to the stables. I went into the inner court of the castle, through the massive gateway, and after traversing that, into the servants’ hall. None of the domestics were there. I was amazed at this; for among the numerous attendants my father was want to keep around him, surely some of them would be at their posts. Everything looked so familiar, that even the old wainscotting seemed to welcome me back.

“I went up stairs into the enormous banquetting hall, where in the olden time, had often been heard sounds of uproarious conviviality, the coarse jest, and loud song, and shone beauty’s gentle presence; but it was now silent and deserted; cobwebs wandered unmolested on its walls; and the rich crimson drapery of the window curtains was thick with dust,—the result of years of neglect. No one was here either; and I began to conclude that I had in truth come to the abode of death, when suddenly recollecting the day of the month, I remembered that it was the annual holiday, on which servants had permission to visit the village for the day. This explained their absence; but where was Lelia, my father, and step-mother? Had they deserted the house; or were they all dead? I began to feel infected with superstitious gloom. I went up the grand staircase, and sought the different bed chambers of the family. They were tenantless. In Lelia’s, several articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and a miniature of our mother—an exquisite painting set in gold, and adorned with pearls and emeralds—was lying on her toilet table, entangled with other trinkets, as if thrown down in haste; but the presiding nymph of the boudoir was not there.

“As I stood in the centre of the room staring around me, and wondering what had become of them all;—as I stood thus, a wild shriek of fear, revenge, agony, despair,—it sounded like a compendium of all these emotions—burst startlingly upon my ears. Amazed, I listened intently. I heard no more: all was still, save the flapping of the venetian blinds, as they swung to and fro in the wind, and the mournful cooing of the doves. A curse seemed to have come and laid its blight and ban upon this unhappy domicile. The living appeared to have deserted it;—perhaps celestials, mayhap demons, had substituted themselves in their place. I determined to ascertain what that strange sound meant, and directed my steps to the quarter whence I thought it proceeded.

“I had forgotten to look in my step-mother’s drawing room. It was on the same floor with Lelia’s room. The scream seemed to have come from there. Thither I went. As I neared the door, I heard a low hissing laugh. The house must be haunted. Surely devils were here. Three steps brought me full before the open door, and, oh, great God! I saw a sight that froze my heart with horror!”

Monsieur de Serval here started to his feet, as if he still beheld what he described. He stared wildly before him a moment; then recovering himself sat down, and continued:

“Yes, there, in the middle of the room, stood the accursed priest, Father Ignatius; his arms folded, and sinister features expanded into a demoniacal smile. Yes, he who hastened my mother’s death, was there; and he now contemplated with the eyes of cold contempt, the death agonies of two other unhappy beings.”

“Who were they?” I suddenly demanded, breaking in upon the thread of the narrative.

“My miserable father and his wife. She lay stretched upon the floor, the red life-blood gushing in torrents from a deep wound in her neck; and she shook her clenched fists in impotent revenge at her husband and murderer. Her face, hands, and hair were smeared with blood, and with the energy of death and despair, she muttered curses on his head.

“And he, unhappy being, I could not help feeling some pity for him;—he was my father. In him life seemed quite extinct. He had fallen on a sofa, and lay to all appearance dead: his gray hair fallen back from his death-pale countenance, and his arms hanging listlessly down from his side; marks of blood were also on his person.

“Horror-struck I gazed. This was my welcome home. Then animated by a strange desire to add a third to this goblin group, and kill that vile priest, I strode up to him, and seized him by the arms.

“‘Vile, degraded wretch,’ I cried, ‘and is it you who has done this? Have you added downright murder to the indirect means you used to accomplish my mother’s death? Say, say!’ I gasped, ‘is it your deed?’

“The monk turned black with rage; but he controlled himself, and said quietly:—

“‘My son, I am as innocent of their deaths as yourself. Only a few minutes ago I arrived here, having just returned from Vienna. Finding no one about the castle, I came in here seeking for your father and madame. Approaching, I heard loud words, and on entering, saw your father stab your step-mother, then turn the weapon against himself, when they both fell as you see them now. The cause of his conduct I am unacquainted with.’

“I did not credit him, and was about to inflict summary vengeance upon him, or compel him to tell me the truth, when the dying woman, raising herself half way on her elbow, after several attempts at speech, feebly articulated:

“‘Not he, but he,’ pointing to my father; ‘he did it.’

“A frightful convulsion of pain distorted her face. She pressed her hand to her neck, whence the blood issued, and falling back on the floor, after a slight spasm, expired. All this happened in a much shorter space of time than it requires to tell it you. It seemed as if the invisible hand of fate had conducted me there to behold this horrible spectacle. What insanity could have urged my father to such a deed?

“This abandoned woman was dead—stone dead. Her career of deceit and extravagance was ended, and my martyred mother’s manes appeased. After looking attentively at the corpse, to see if life was entirely extinct, I turned my attention to my father; but he was already dead. Her features retained in death their expression of lowering darkness, and his the same look of concentrated iron will they had worn in life.

“‘Oh, most gracious God!’ I ejaculated, sinking on my knees in earnest prayer;—‘Oh, vouchsafe to have mercy on their souls; grant them thy grace.’

“‘Amen,’ said the monk; and he had glided from the apartment before I could arrest his departure. I wished to detain him, at least till I had procured a physician and coroner, and had an inquest on the bodies; but he was gone. Had the devil sent him there also to witness the death of his accomplice? or accident, or what? There was none to answer my questions, but the solitary castle itself;—but could walls have spoken, I presume they would have told me many a strange tale, of strange scenes that had happened since I had left them.

“Assistance must be had, and as none of the servants had yet returned, I mounted my horse and rode to the village, whence I soon returned with a physician and magistrate.

“Their unaccountable deaths puzzled the man of law much; but when I had explained all the circumstances to the sensible, quiet physician, he appeared perfectly satisfied that they had come to their deaths as I surmised,—she from his hand, and he from self-infliction.

“‘And you have no clue, no idea of the cause of this terrible event?’ he said, after I had told him all.

“‘None whatever. I found them as you see them now,’

“‘It is most unaccountable,’ said the magistrate. ‘I cannot imagine of anything so despicable, as a man to commit suicide. This is not only suicide, but murder, too; perfectly atrocious. I never could have thought your father capable of such a deed.’

“‘We know not what we shall do till we are tried. Let us pray God to preserve us from temptation,’ said the wise physician; and we left the room, locking the door, until some one should come to lay out the bodies.

“The physician and magistrate stayed an hour with me in the banquetting hall, discussing the strange affair. At least they discussed it, with professional indifference. For myself, I was stupified, satiated with horror, and said almost nothing. Then some of the domestics returned, and the gray-haired butler, the male nurse and companion of my childhood, listened with stupid surprise to my account of his master’s death.

“‘Why, sir,’ stammered he, as if in doubt of his own identity, ‘I left them both well, and together in madame’s parlor. How could master so suddenly have taken it into his head to kill her, and then kill himself?’

“‘Have there ever been any violent quarrels between your master and mistress, that you have been aware of?’ I inquired.

“‘Oh! yes, sir, a great many: for the last two years they have scarcely done any thing but fight. I’ve often heard him tell her he would send her off, and call you back, and make you master here. Miss Lelia fretted much about you; she wished to see you; and madame always abused her. Master seemed to take a great dislike to his wife in the last two years; whenever he spoke of you, she always got into a perfect fever; she really seemed wild; and she would dare him to do something which he said he would do, if she did not do as he told her. Oh! we’ve had a deal of trouble since you went away.’

“‘I see the whole affair plainly now,’ said the magistrate; ‘they had become involved in one of these quarrels; words ran high; he probably struck her; and then, becoming infuriated as his anger rose, murdered her; and, either from dread of discovery, or disgust of life, killed himself: thus it must have been; and a most deplorable affair it is, too.’

“‘Where is my sister Lelia?’ I asked of Juan.

“‘She went some days ago to spend a week with some lady friend of hers.’

“‘How far is she from here?’

“‘Some six miles, sir.’

“‘Take one of the fastest horses and go after her: say only her brother has arrived, and wishes to see her—nothing more.’

“‘Yes, sir:’ the servant departed.

“Some lay sisters were sent for, and came from the neighboring convent to lay out the bodies. Scarcely was their mournful task completed, when Juan returned with Lelia. The beautiful girl burst into tears as she rushed to embrace me; and her grief redoubled when I told her of that day’s sad events.’

“‘My brother, dear, you little know the many lonely days I’ve passed since you left us, and how often I have wished for you; that bad woman always treated me with contempt, and father never cared for me; I have passed my days alone, always alone, dreaming and regretting: father changed much, however, in his opinion of you, and would have had you back again, but madame always opposed it; but I little thought, when I left here a week ago, that I should find them both dead on returning.

“I consoled poor Lelia as much as possible, and promised her many future years of happiness; and so far as that happiness depended on myself, I kept my promise. When shown the dead body of her father, she burst into torrents of tears, and fell fainting over the corpse. We removed her to her own room, and the bodies were consigned to mother earth without her again seeing them. With pious care my sister had tended on her mother’s grave: and flowers of all hues, all species, grew there in wild luxuriance: and a spirit of holiness seemed breathed around it, as if the pure soul that had animated that mortal clay, still hallowed, still guarded the casket the immortal gem had once inhabited, and preserved it from evil influence.

“They were then all gathered together in death: my legitimate father and mother, the bold usurper of her just rights, and my gentle brother. The governess I buried without a tombstone; she was not worthy of any; the common earth I could not refuse her, but even that I thought too good for her: but I will no longer speak of her, nor trouble you with my personal animosities, but will hasten to the conclusion of my tale.

“I took possession, as sole and natural heir, of the remnant of fortune and estate left me; but finding the castle so deeply mortgaged, that it was more trouble to keep than it was worth, I sold it; I was partly induced to do so from Lelia’s nervous dread of remaining in the house where so terrible a murder had been committed, and partly from my incapacity to sustain so expensive an establishment with such small means. I felt much regret at parting with the halls of my ancestors, but the desolate castle would have made a gloomy home for so young a creature as Lelia; she was now at an age when society and gay life would please and captivate; and I determined to take her to Paris with me. The prospect of leaving the solitude and isolation, to which her whole lifetime had been alone devoted, charmed her.

“The home of my childhood passed into stranger-hands. Previous to our departure I caused diligent search to be made in the vicinity for the wicked father Ignatius; but he had disappeared as strangely as he came, and left no trace of his coming or exit. I was convinced, however, from numerous circumstances, traced to their cause, that he was not concerned in or any way accessory to my father’s and stepmother’s death. Judging from what the domestics told me, and from what I gathered from the neighboring gentry whom my father visited, I surmised that remorse had at last seized upon that man of iron nerve: becoming tired of the governess, or else conceiving a hatred to her, from recollection of the evil deed she had induced him to commit, violent quarrels, crimination and recrimination, was the natural result of alienation of affection; when under the influence of anger we lose our self-consciousness, and know not what we do: in a fit of rage he killed her; and, dreading the consequences, and disgrace, added the last act to this tragedy of sin, and committed suicide. That death scene I shall never forget; no, not if I were to live a thousand years: it haunts me yet with frightful vividness.

“I took Lelia with me to Paris, where she afterwards married, well and happily, the man of her choice, and lives there still.

“I resumed the practice of the law, and became distinguished in that profession. From association with the gayeties of the metropolis, I confess I contracted habits I regret having acquired: my disposition was ardent and excitable, and it carried me too far. I played high, and was seldom fortunate,—almost invariably losing. From mixing with society of a certain class, I acquired the reputation of a roué in many instances; that, also, was undeserved; although at that time young and vain, I was more easily caught in love snares than at present. Thus, for some three years longer, I led a gay, wild, yet unhappy life. Then I began to weary of this futile way of spending time. My health had become impaired by excess, and satiety had taken the place of levity. I wished to find some woman in whose integrity I could confide, and marry her, and become a better man; but among all the gay, the rich, the talented, the beautiful women with whom I was acquainted, none suited me, none equalled my expectations. Sometimes I saw a woman whose personelle pleased me; but, on acquaintance, I always discovered something wanting in the mind,—something I could wish added or taken away. I could no where find my Psyche. I gave up my profession, although it yielded me a fine income, and came here to Naples.

“Here I have been living since, unhappy and listless amid pleasures, longing for something I have never yet found, and have thought, till I saw you, I never should find; but at the countess’ ball, where first I saw your gentle face, I felt irresistibly attracted toward you: nor has acquaintance disappointed the illusion of fancy; but, on the contrary, strengthened it, and I now love, where first I admired: your upright principles, your beauty, your unblemished reputation and pure heart, have won my love and esteem. Nature evidently designed you for private life, cultivated and elegant society. Let me then be that faithful friend, lover, and husband,—three principles in one person—who shall guard and guide your steps through the quick-sands of life. Consent to redeem me from past errors: teach me to shape my course more worthily in future. Woman’s influence, when she exerts it in the right way, is great; do you then become my Mentor, and I will be as docile and obedient as Telemachus.”

Monsieur ceased. Meanwhile the bougie was extinguished, and the rays of moonlight, as they tremblingly broke through the clouds, alone illumed the room. I did not like to be sitting there so late at night, and with a gentleman alone.

“It is late: I know I am intruding upon you,” said he, and he rose upon his feet; “yet, before I go, say that I may hope—say, dearest Genevra, that you accept me.” He pressed my hands in his. I heard him; but did not take the sense of what he said. I was in a dream: one of those delightful waking dreams of fairy land, in which I have so often indulged.

“No answer still, Genevra. Are you angry?”

“Oh, no! Monsieur, not with you.”

“With others?”

“I don’t know.”

“A woman’s answer, which means you do: give me the legitimate right to be your champion? Ah! let me be your husband and defender?”

“I am afraid that, if I marry you, you will some day regret your condescension and your love, which induces you to descend below your rank to marry an actress.”

“No, never!” cried he, in an indignant tone, “do you take me for a child—a fool, who knows not his own mind; for none but fools act without pre-consideration.”

“You have my consent then, Monsieur: may I prove worthy of you and your expectations.”

Joyously he kissed me. “Now, at last, I hope to realize my dreams of domestic happiness and love. Good night then, my pet; to-morrow I shall see you again, before I leave on my journey to the north of Italy, where business demands my presence.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“One or two weeks only: I shall hasten to rejoin you. Good night.”

Reluctantly he departed. I withdrew to my own room, and, when in bed, endeavored to analyze his memoir. I tried to be impartial, and judge by reason alone, if he were worthy of my affection; but love confused reason, or rather the mischievous god construed everything in his own favor, and demanded blind faith, which, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. Inexperienced, too, in the ways of men, I knew not of that seductive eloquence which dazzles the mind through the heart; besides, I was so young and confiding—it was so charming a thing to be loved—that I did not care to inquire too closely into cause and effect, and crediting all, and happy in the belief, I fell asleep.

---

The next day my lover came and spent two hours with me. He brought me a beautiful diamond ring, the token of our engagement—the gems set in the form of a star,—and a miniature of himself, which he placed around my neck.

“This will serve to recall me to your memory sometimes, while I am gone,” he remarked, playfully.

“If a woman loves a man, she needs nothing to recall him to mind, and if she does not, where is the use of a portrait?”

“Ah! you little logician;—little philosopher, you confute me at all points.”

“Am I not right, though?”

“Yes; you are always right, at least in my opinion.”

“I shall sing in the Opera of Somnambula to-morrow night; will you be there to hear me? but I forget, you will leave this evening, and of course cannot come.”

“Yes, I go this afternoon. The time will seem tiresome and tedious until re-united to you. If it were possible, I would excuse myself from this journey: it must absolutely be performed, and I must tear myself away from you and happiness for the present.”

“And I shall feel lonely, too, until your return: it is so new, so strange and delightful to be loved, I hardly can realize its truth.”

“I trust many bright years to come, we shall experience its happiness, and time will convince you of its reality.”

After he was gone, I hastened to Blanche, to confide my secret to her—for a woman must have a confidant of some sort. I found her sitting musingly at an open window, her fair face pillowed on her hand. She listened with kindness and interest to my relation of Monsieur de Serval’s sudden and unexpected offer, and appeared gratified at the seeming good fortune which awaited me, when I asked her if she thought him an honorable man and serious in his intentions. She replied:

“It is difficult to tell, my dear Genevra, who is really honorable and who is not, for many possess the outward semblance to perfection, without the quality; but that he wishes and intends to marry you, I question not. What object could he have in formally proposing and making these presents, if he did not intend it? The first time I saw him in your society, I discovered that he loved you. It is a fortunate event which enables you, thus early in your professional career, to marry, and leave this disagreeable business.”

“Don’t you wish to marry and leave it also, dear Blanche?”

“I don’t know what I wish, my dear: I wish I was dead sometimes,” sighed my friend.

“Come, cheer up, dearest,” said I, kissing her; “don’t give way to melancholy. You who are so young, so admired and beautiful,—what have you to grieve about? Let me persuade you to be gay: you know we are to sing together to-morrow; is your costume ready?”

“Oh, yes! I always have everything prepared in advance.”

“What can I do to amuse you? Oh, Blanche!” I exclaimed, a thought suddenly striking me, “there is an old fortune-telling witch living out on the Posillippo road, let us take a walk out there this evening and hear our destiny; it will be at least amusing, if not instructive. Will you go with me?”

“Yes, certainly, if it will oblige you; but I have no faith in fortune-tellers.”

She quickly dressed, and we set out. After ascending the steep hill of the Castle of San Elmo, we took the shady road—bordered on each side by linden trees—which led to the pretty village of Posillippo. I had been told that old Acte inhabited, sybil-like, a cavern in the rock of a steep hill, about half way to the village. We examined all the rocks as we went along; but no traces of fairies’ haunts, or witches’ caverns did we see. After walking on some distance, we reached the brow of a rising hill, and as I gazed staringly up its steep sides, endeavoring to discover the celebrated abode of the prophetess, I saw a deep cavity in the rock—the opening half overgrown with ivy and wild flowers; a small foot-path wound up to it amid the grass. It had a wild, mysterious appearance, and conjecturing that must be the place, we ascended to it.

“Dear Genevra!” cried Blanche, tremblingly, as I stooped at the small aperture on entering, “pray be careful. Are you sure this is old woman’s abode? you may be mistaken;—this may be a wild beast’s den.”

“This is the place, I know, from description. Don’t be afraid: give me your hand; I will assist you in.” Grasping my hand from fear, Blanche was dragged by me through the opening. When fairly through, we rose upright upon our feet, and looked at our localities.

We stood in a large chamber, excavated from the solid rock;—no light of day penetrated this haunted dungeon home; but in the far corner, opposite me, an immense chimney and fire-place illumined with a blaze of fire light the singular apartment; and, sitting before the fire, her back toward us, was a strange form crouching on the floor of the cavern: its gray hair was matted, and hung straggling down its back,—and it wore a long black garment, something like the gown of a priest; every instant one of its thin, skeleton-like hands, or rather claws, was projected from its lap, depositing something (I could not tell what) in a large vessel hanging over the flame,—so gathered up and misshapen was the form, I could not distinguish whether it was man, woman, or beast;—the appearance of the place, and this outré figure, forcibly reminded me of my childhood, and the old woman I called Granny. Blanche had turned pale as a ghost from fear, and I regretted having come.

The figure did not at first perceive us; and we had stood some minutes unobserved spectators of its singular operations, when, pausing, it turned its head, and I beheld a human face,—but so wild, so wizard-like, it scarcely resembled a woman’s countenance. She rose to her feet, and confronted us. She was tall in stature, and the long, straight robe added to her height. She regarded us with a piercing glance, and then beckoned our approach.

“Be seated,” said she, pointing to two stools near her; “you have come to consult me. I knew I should have visiters this evening; the signs said it.”

“We had some difficulty in finding you,” I observed; “your home is so secluded.”

“So much the better,—it keeps fools from troubling me,” was the sharp reply. As she spoke, she stepped toward a dark corner of the cave, and after stooping, and apparently feeling about a moment, came back with a bottle, filled with water, in her hand. She resumed her position on the floor before the fire, and then abruptly demanded,—

“Which will learn their fate first?”

“Blanche, do you.”

“Oh, no, dear; let her tell you first, and then I will try,” answered Blanche, falteringly.

“Well, then, good mother, tell mine.”

She turned the bottle of water slowly head downwards; then raising it, apparently contemplating something she saw in the liquid, shook her head, and said,—

“A short lived happiness; then clouds, darkness, and sadness await you; yet out of this sadness shall come a lasting, quiet joy; durable, because it shall be based on proper feelings; and love shall crown all, in future years.”

“But, mother, your words are mysterious, incomprehensible to me. Pray tell me in plain language what awaits me. I cannot understand your symbols.”

“I have said all I can say; recollect my words,—their meaning will be clear as sunlight, when they shall be verified in times to come. Now you,” to Blanche. Again the bottle was reversed, and she pored over its hidden meaning.

“A short but bright career; an ill-fated love; a sudden and violent death, and a solitary grave;—this your fate,” and she glared at Blanche with those wild eyes.

I noticed the sudden start of surprise, and glowing blush which overspread the face of my friend at these words. Had she in secret conceived an “ill-fated love?” or was it the unexpectedness of the prophecy caused that start?

“Is my destiny then so sad;—is there nothing brighter in store for me;—are none of my fair visions to be realized?” said she, pensively.

I placed but little reliance on what she said, considering it the mummery and trick of her trade; but Blanche, although she had expressed incredulity on the subject of fortune-telling, for the moment seemed saddened by the prophecy. Wishing to divert her mind from the subject, I began talking to the old woman.

“Have you lived here long, mother?”

“Eighteen summers have been and gone since I first came here.”

“You have seen, then, many changes in the city during that time.”

“Yes, many have been born, and many have died since eighteen years ago.”

“And do you like to live in this old damp cavern? could you not find a better home?”

“No; I desire no better home than a cave among the rocks nature made, and it is not for me or any other mortal to disdain her works. I have been as happy here as I should have been in a fine house.”

“Have you many visiters?”

“Not as many as I used to have. I am growing old and dull, and those who have their fortunes told generally go for amusement and ridicule; and now that age and disease have made me severe and grave, they seek others who can entertain them better.”

I was about to propose other questions, but observing that Blanche had gone to the entrance, and was beckoning me, I placed a gold piece in the woman’s hand, and joined her. Acte followed me to the door of the rock.

“I shall see you again, I feel I shall. At some future day you will find me a true prophet, although now you disbelieve my words. Farewell to both of you.”

We descended the hill whence we came; Blanche thoughtful and depressed, and I somewhat influenced by Acte’s mysterious predictions. The shadows of evening gathered round us as we entered the fashionable street, Toledo, now thronged with the beauty and fashion of Naples, enjoying their daily rides, drives, and promenades, along the beautiful shores of the bay.

As we walked along the street toward our own home, ourselves observing and observed, an elegant English phæton, driven by a footman, in blue and orange, and occupied by a young man, lovely as an angel, indolently lolling against its cushions, came gliding by. As it passed us, the gentleman stared long at Blanche, and then bowed; her face flushed to crimson, as she returned the salutation. I noticed also he leaned out of the carriage, and looked after her.

“What a splendid looking man,” I involuntarily exclaimed; “who is he?”

“The Lord of Glenfells; a Scottish nobleman. I saw him at Munich,” answered she, hesitatingly.

“Are you well acquainted with him?”

“Yes, he has visited me.”

“Oh, is he not handsome!”

“Yes, very; I always thought him fine looking.”

Blanche evidently did not wish to speak further about him; and with that strange intuition with which woman divines woman, I surmised that it was from something of a secret partiality.

Madame Bonni was waiting tea when we reached home.

“My two nightingales, where have you been to? I have been waiting an hour for you; and the French manager has called to see you. He stayed sometime, but finding you did not come, went away, saying he should call in the morning. He has something particular to say to you.”

“We have been taking a long walk toward Posillippo and Virgil’s tomb, which detained us longer than we had intended,” said I, not wishing to tell her our real adventure.

“Ah! have you? Did you go within it?—is it not an interesting sight?”

“No, we did not extend our walk so far as to reach it; but some day, soon, I intend visiting it for that purpose.”

My thoughts reverted to Monsieur de Serval, and wondering and wishing he were back again with me, I spent the evening in my room, leaving Blanche to entertain our kind hostess.

When alone, I always thought of my lover, as lovers generally do, I believe. I admired and loved him, but this love was so sudden, so incomprehensible;—men seldom court women on the instant of acquaintance, propose and marry them, especially actresses. Then I recalled what Madame Bonni and rumor had said of his character; his extravagance and bad conduct: but then had he not frankly, and with sincere contrition, admitted his faults, and promised amendment in future? What could be sadder, more touching than that history itself? related so charmingly, in his graceful way. His childhood had been soured by a bold, bad woman, and subsequently thrown upon the sea of life, like a bark without a pilot or rudder to steer it. Temptations, in their most attractive forms, had beset him, and he had done only as other men would have done, not even as bad as that. Much allowance should be made for his youth and beauty, and lonely position in life. But my excuses for my lover were endless. I cannot follow them all. When love amounts to infatuation, it is useless to reason; and it was foolish for me to attempt it. I wished he were with me;—I counted the hours and days as they passed.

The other gentlemen who visited me, no longer pleased me. I did not want to see them;—their society only bored me. I usually deserted the parlor, leaving Blanche to do the honors, while I nursed my reveries alone; and she, so gentle and amiable, was willing to do anything to oblige another, and always anticipated and gratified my wishes,—even my strangest whims.

The next morning after our visit to Acte, we were summoned to the parlor to see the manager. We found that worthy individual intently engaged in self-admiration of his own person, reflected in one of the long mirrors. He started on perceiving that we had discovered him in this interesting employment, which might seem to indicate, perhaps, some slight vanity, (a foolish quality, however, never possessed by the sterner and wiser sex!) Advancing toward us on tip-toe, he smilingly paid the salutations of the day, and then said:

“Mesdemoiselles, the object of my visit is to inform you, that a new opera has been written by a distinguished musician of this city, and I wish to secure your services for its representation. I wish to produce it within a fortnight; new scenery and costumes have been added to the Opera house, and everything which can add to the splendor of effect, I intend shall be done; may I hope to have the co-operation of the two nightingales?” he bowed and chasseed before us.

“What is the name of the new opera, Monsieur?” I inquired.

“It is called Ajesha, or the Maid of Kars, a magnificent production of genius; the plot is romantic and beautiful, the music divine; some of the songs are exquisite. Stay, I will sing you one of the men’s, that you may form something of an opinion about it.”

He seated himself at the piano and sang a spirited, sweet thing, beginning with, ‘My home is on the storm-bound deep.’ We listened intently, and admired it.

“That is one of the gems of the opera, and there are many others equally beautiful; some of the women’s songs are exquisite, and you, fair ladies, I know will do them justice. I wish to bring it out within two weeks. In the course of that time the royal family return to the city, and will grace the theatre with their presence; may I consider your services engaged, Mesdemoiselles?”

“Blanche is free to decide for herself, Monsieur,” I replied; “but for me, my guardian must decide.”

“Ah, yes, but Belmont of course will be perfectly willing. I shall see him this morning and ask him, but you Mademoiselle Ricorsi, you are independent and can choose for yourself,—will you be the Ajesha?”

“I have never yet played in Naples; you know my terms, monsieur; are you willing to pay me what I have been in the habit of receiving at Munich?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, your price is my price.”

“Then I shall be happy to sing, monsieur.”

“All is agreed then, and I shall be happy to see you at rehearsal to morrow, ladies, when we will run through the opera, and cast your parts,” and the polite Frenchman bowed himself out of our presence.

I omit the rehearsals, the confusion of preparation, and getting ready the costumes for the occasion, and pass to the night when this beautiful opera was produced for the first time on the Neapolitan boards.

It was a tragedy; the plot is a singular one: Ajesha, the Maid of Kars, is a Circassian, as her name denotes; she is sold into slavery from her native land, and carried to the town of Kars, where she becomes the property of a Turkish Emir; he loves her intensely, and of course is most intensely jealous. She, a beautiful, spiritual creature, does not love this illiterate Turk, distinguished for nothing, but his immense wealth and brutality.

A noble and handsome Englishman is taken prisoner by this Turkish commander, the English and Turks then being at war; he is imprisoned in a house opposite the harem of Ajesha; news of his youth and beauty is brought to the lady; he becomes ill from the severity of his treatment, and Ajesha, in the disguise of a page, visits, and nurses him. The consequence is, they conceive a mutual and desperate love for each other.

At first their meetings are undetected by the jealous Mussulman, but Ajesha dreading future discovery, appoints the cemetery, the city of the silent, as their rendezvous. A treacherous slave betrays her confidence to the Emir; he surprises them one evening, and stabs her in the arms of her lover; then attempting to punish the Englishman, he himself is killed by the enraged lover, and dies by the side of his fair slave.

This is the outline, as well as I remember it, of one of the most exquisite things I ever saw performed. The character of Nina I was cast for, voluntarily resigning the principal character in favor of my friend; and oh, how beautiful, beyond the power of description, did she look the night she played it.

She first makes her appearance in the Circassian costume, when she is sold from the home of infancy, and carried to a strange land; and the dress Blanche wore, was of white silk, ornamented with gold lama lace; a turban of tissue, spangled with gold stars, surmounted her flaxen curls waving on her shoulders; the graceful trousers gathered into a gold bandelette at the ancle, exposed fully to view her tiny feet, encased in their little Circassian slippers. The affectionate, sad farewell to her parents and young acquaintances, and the song she sings, ‘My native land, farewell,’ shook the house with applause. Every one had heard of, but none had yet seen the Munich nightingale; curiosity had been on the alert for some time, to witness our combined appearance, and glancing out from the side scenes I observed the royal box occupied, and the queen leaning forward with an air of rapt attention.

I personated the friend and companion of Ajesha. Nina accompanies her into captivity, but is finally redeemed by her friends, and returns home. The music of the farewell scene between Ajesha and Nina, was very sweet; when they bid each other adieu, and sing, ‘We have been friends together in sunlight and in tears;’ and we mutually felt indeed we had been friends together. The queen enthusiastically applauded, clapping her hands like a girl; and bouquets were promiscuously showered upon us from all parts of the house: two wreaths were cast at our feet by the king and queen. The coincidence struck me, it was on a similar occasion, the night of my debut in that theatre, that the wreath had been thrown me; not by royalty, but by one whose gemmed, singular face had strangely haunted me since, and as we both uplifted our eyes to the royal box, who should I see gazing on me behind their majesties, but the same face, the same large liquid eyes that had magnetised mine two months before. My astonishment was so great, I could scarcely recollect myself enough to step backward as the heavy drop curtain fell.

Who could that man be accompanying the royal family? and apparently on familiar terms with them. I could not doubt it was the very same one, the donor of the diamonded wreath, those beautiful flowers I had preserved for so many days with so much care, who seemed to regard me with an air of so much interest.

I had no time for reflection, Monsieur Belmont hurried us to our dressing-rooms, to dress for the palace scene, when Ajesha and Nina are first presented to the Emir.

I could not help mentally contrasting the absurd difference between the acting on the stage, and the motley confusion behind the scenes; the heaps of stage furniture, costume, old scenery, the scene shifters running hither and thither, black mutes, soldiers, noblemen, the women of the harem, in the most charming stage of negligee, nearly approaching to that of genuine nature, and above all other tones, I heard those of the worthy manager, who was directing the men how to arrange the grand salon de reception, into which we were to be carried in close litters.

“Here,” shouted he, “make haste; what are you all about? where’s the dias for the salon? place it here, spread out the carpet; now, is that done? arrange yourselves in a row behind the throne, to the guards; light the lamps; get the instruments of music.”

I entered the little room, where I dressed amid his reiterated injunctions and commands to the assembled court.

What an empty show, thought I, as I hastily attired myself in the rose colored satin petticoat, and black velvet boddice, and placed a waving plume of white feathers in my hair.

The Count Godolpho, an old roué and habitué of the “scenes” for years back, stopped me with a fine compliment, as I was getting into the veiled litter by the side of Blanche.

“What! Mademoiselle Sfonza, is it you? fair as a star-lit nymph of air!” This was a poetical fancy of his own: I never met with the like expression in print. “Our pet child of song, stay a moment, let me look at you.”

“I cannot now, Marquis, indeed, see they wait our entry.”

“Where then can I see you, wilful fay? one never gets a sight of you except at the play: then only for an instant, and you are gone; where do you live?”

“On earth now, in heaven I hope some day,” I smartly answered,—making a faint attempt at wit, to rid myself of this worn out old coxcomb, as I had no wish or intention to receive his visits; and the black mutes raising the litter, we were borne past him on the stage.

Although conscious it was a mere show, still in the last act, the death scene of Ajesha and her lover, the touching pathos of Blanche’s acting, her dreamy, etherial tones, melted me to tears; and I almost cheated myself into the delusion that it was reality. Her death song, ‘Beloved, I die,’ seemed indeed like the last breathings of a dying spirit, and oh, merciful heaven, was it not prophetic of her future fate?

When the curtain fell on the last act, we were loudly called for, and our teacher, proudly elated at this great triumph, led us before the curtain, where we made our curtesies, kissed hands to the audience and passed off.

The morning papers were filled with praises of our performance, and the plot, music, and libretto of the new opera. I laughed myself to sleep that night when I thought of the discomfiture of the count, and his absurd manner; then again, unconsciously and mysteriously, my thoughts reverted to the gentleman I had seen in the royal box—you will think, perhaps, I did not love my affianced lover, since my attention and thoughts could be so easily distracted to another, but in truth I did; I loved him with my whole soul; every wish, every thought was his; this interest in a stranger, a casual spectator of my performance, was not love, nor curiosity; it was a prophetic, a magnetic attraction, a feeling that seemed to tell that in future—but no matter, I will no longer digress; let me strictly adhere to the tenor of my tale.

Blanche had long before fully compensated monsieur for his care of her childhood, and presented him beside with a handsome sum of money. Her industry had accumulated quite a small fortune, within the four years she had been performing for herself; the receipts of our joint acting each night were enormous, and Monsieur Belmont had no reason to regret his patronage of the Viennese beggar girl.

He often said, himself, that we three poor girls had gained him more money and celebrity than any pupils he ever had. As I said in the beginning of my memoir, there is always a motive in these apparently beneficent actions. His motive was to feed, clothe, and educate us brilliantly for the stage; for this purpose it was much better to select girls from the lowest walks of life, friendless, uncared-for ones, unprotected and unprovided for, over whom he could have absolute control. True, he had saved us from starvation, but then he had realized a fortune from our exertions, and I was anxious to absolve myself from my debt of gratitude and obligation, and become mistress of my own actions, which every sensible rational being desires and ought to be.

My teacher knew nothing of my secret engagement. I had not told him, and wondered, when told, what he would say and think of it. Of course he would be astonished at its suddenness, and, in a worldly point of view, at the condescension of Monsieur de Serval. I did not even know that he would give his consent, as he had a right to command my services. I trusted, however, to his uniform kindness to me, to arrange that matter. I felt sure he would not force me to do any thing I did not wish to do; that he would allow me to discontinue my theatrical career if I felt so inclined.

We were visited daily by many of the fashionable men of Naples; we were escorted to and from the theatre by numerous beaux, and the gay cavaliers vied with each other in their attentions; yet the compliments, the civilities paid to actresses, are of a different tone to those rendered to ladies of private life. There is a tone to all expression, a gradation to every human feeling; there is an imperceptible something in expression which we can feel but cannot describe; and it was this something that I felt, but could not describe, when I regarded the opposite of attentions to a lady of rank, and compliments to an actress.

I endeavored to console myself for all regrets in philosophy, but sometimes feeling triumphed over even that, stoical as I thought myself. Sometimes attributing every thing to fate, sometimes believing in chance, I surrendered myself to the current of life’s troublous stream, and blindly glided on.

Among other visiters to the house, there came the beautiful Lord of Glenfells. I say beautiful, because handsome, manly, fine-looking, are not terms to express his ideal, his exquisite, shadowy, captivating loveliness. He often visited Blanche. I never obtruded on their interviews; and, save the ordinary civilities of etiquette, never had any acquaintance with him; yet, though I saw him frequently, the impression of his personal attractions ever seemed new to me. I know not if he were intelligent or otherwise. I once or twice spoke of him to her, but the embarrassment and rosy blush told of interested feeling, and perceiving she did not wish to converse about him, I ever afterwards waived the subject.

Busy gossiping tongues, however, with which the world is filled, who make it their business to attend to every body’s but their own, reported him as a man of immense wealth, travelling for amusement, or pleasure, which with the rich, and great, and fashionable, means the same thing. This was all I gathered concerning him; yet from what I saw of him, I considered him a man of dangerous attractions; artful, without appearing to be so, possessing a mournful tenderness, an abandon of manner, peculiarly attractive to a woman like Blanche. Though younger, I was superior in perception of the realities of life. I was not so dreamy, perhaps not so pure as she, my embodied concentration of the great, the beautiful, the good. God bless her! Let me not dilate upon that purity, that goodness. I feel my praise is inadequate to her merits; my commendations cannot add to the halo of immortality that surrounds her in the Elysian shades.