CHAPTER X.
I had for some weeks remarked the visits of several mysterious looking strangers, who came often, and were closeted long with Monsieur de Serval in his studio. These men were dressed in the costume of the peasantry, but they all wore brown cloaks, with cowls drawn over their faces, which they jealously preserved from sight, perhaps from pity to those unfortunate hearts on whom they should bestow their glances. There was something very strange about them; and as none of the domestics knew from whence they came, or whither they went, I determined to ask my husband their business at the castle.
The morning after his arrival I rose early. I heard my husband move about his room till a late hour, when silence proclaimed he had gone to rest. We no longer sank to rest, cradled in each other’s arms—and sometimes when my lonely, impassioned heart, fairly ached for companionship, I compared our present estrangement with the joyful hours we had formerly spent together; and then the midnight hour saw convulsions of passion, I should have been ashamed any one should witness, save that faithful, silent monitor, time; but it was no fault of mine: the gay roué, whose fickle fancy was momently caught by my beauty and virtue, had wearied by possession; the same face, the same enduring love, no longer attracted him; he had not known his own heart when he promised fidelity: he was incapable of it. I sometimes felt disposed to forgive him the wild life he had led during the past year, could I have seen any indications of a reformation; I could have returned to my old love, and have been happy once more, would he have acted differently, but he would not: to reproaches, alienations, and recriminations, had succeeded a polite coldness, which, between husband and wife, means far more than the alternations of hot and cold feeling.
I often wept myself to sleep, hugging my pillow to me for company; my mind dwelt in the past, or speculated on the future: it was void and empty, for it is only when we are with one we love that we live in the present, and who loved me now, who save old Pasiphae?
I sought the salon, where, to my surprise, I saw the count seated. On entering, he rose, placed a chair for me, and made some general observation on the beautiful day. I replied, seated myself, and fixed my eyes on the fire, for there was a magnetic attraction in those orbs that influenced me strangely when I met them;—the gentleman suddenly remarked,
“Madame, you are much improved since I first saw you, the night of your first appearance at Naples.”
“Ah! you saw me then at that time?”
“Yes, and I shall never forget your look, your manner, your acting and whole appearance: the tones of your voice, indeed the whole scene is engraven on my mind.”
The tone in which he said this, made the expression, and sent the blood to my cheek. How true it is, that looks and tones give the sense to conversation, far more than the words themselves; I knew not what reply to make to this extravagant compliment, and bowed in silence.
“I never thought my friend would ever marry,” he continued, I thought to relieve my obvious embarrassment,—“he used to be so volatile and gay; but I am glad he has, and that the correction of youthful errors has fallen to the guidance of one so gentle.” And as he looked at me, the same light shone in his eyes. “We have been almost like brothers for many years; at one time he was aide-de-camp to his majesty, and during that period we were constantly together; being older than he, I naturally advised and guided him; but now I see how much better he is tutored by that power that rules the world, the influence of love.”
The arch smile that played upon his lips, called the blushes to my cheeks, while my mournful heart, alas, too truthfully denied the assertion.
At this moment a servant announced the breakfast, and the count rising offered me his arm, and we went in together; Rinaldo was not there: I sent to request the honor of his presence, while the count entertained me delightfully, with a description of his journey to the shores of the Dead Sea, and travels in Arabia. His descriptive powers were fine, and I listened eagerly; we were thus engaged when Rinaldo entered; the lassitude and dissipated air my husband had acquired of late, from negligent habits, had never so forcibly struck me before, as then, when he came towards me; his eyes were sunken, his form thin, and the expression of his features cadaverous; he looked worn out: he smiled on his friend, said ‘good morning’ to me, then sat down on the other side of the table.
“The morning is fine, count,” he remarked, as the attendant handed him a cup of coffee; “it is a charming day for rambling, and I will show you over the grounds.”
“I shall go with pleasure,” answered he, and then continued his description of Mecca, and the grave of the Prophet.
“Of what are you speaking?” asked my husband.
“My travels in Arabia,” said the count, “I have been there within the last three years. Since we parted at Naples, I travelled through the East.”
“Ah!” said Rinaldo, “I did not know that; how desolate those countries of the Levant are now: what a contrast they present when we recall the olden time.”
“Desolate enough, and the means of travelling miserable, and stopping places filthy.
“All life, all commerce, all enterprise seems progressing onward to the North of Europe, leaving the East, and even us, far behind; we are on the decline, never probably to be revived again.
“Thus it is with every thing on earth, every thing has its beginning, its zenith, and its fall. But do not let us involve madame in a didactic controversy, we will continue our philosophies when alone, my friend,” said he, bowing to me, as I accepted his escort to my salon, when my husband and himself departed for their walk.
As I crossed the corridor to my bed chamber for my tapestry, to amuse myself during the morning, I again met some of those shrouded forms which seemed to haunt, like ghosts, the castle. One of them, pushing partially back the cowl he wore, disclosed to my view a remarkably sunburnt, repulsive physiognomy, whose harsh dark features appeared to me the index to a harsh dark soul.
“God save thee, lady, but I wish to see the master, Monsieur de Serval,—is he at home?”
“No, my good fellow,” said I, in a gentle tone, wishing to ascertain what these men wanted; “what is your business with him, tell me, and I will communicate it to him when he returns?”
“We have orders, lady, from our chief,”—at that one of the others frowned on him, and he confusedly went on, “that is—I mean to say—it is a private matter of business with the master, I cannot tell any other than him.”
“Well,” said I, “you can go to the lower hall and wait for him, he will return soon;” and calling Guilo, I bade him conduct them thither, and added, in a whisper, an admonition to watch and not permit them to depart till my husband returned. They seemed unwilling to remain, and the chief said he would come again at a more convenient season, but I gently detained them, bidding them wait monsieur’s return; reluctantly they followed Guilo, who regarded them with suspicious glances.
An hour afterwards I was walking on the terrace, when I saw Rinaldo approaching, with Count Calabrella; he was speaking with great earnestness, and peering with penetrating eyes into those of his friend; they were evidently engaged in some deeply interesting discussion, in which the count, from his cloudy brow and downcast eyes, did not seem to acquiesce.
As they ascended the stone steps, at the summit of which I stood, both became silent, and the count, lifting his hat to me, made some remark about the beauty of the grounds. I hastened to tell my husband about the strangers.
“Monsieur de Serval,” addressing him by his surname, as was most polite, “three strangers of very mysterious appearance, whom I have often seen here before, now await you in the lower hall. As you were out, I asked their business, but they declined telling, and preferred waiting your return.”
“In the lower hall did you say?” said he abruptly, and with a disturbed look. “Why did you not send them to the studio? It must be him,” he added as if to himself; “what can have happened? how strange!” and, without saying another word to me, he walked rapidly away, and entered the castle. I looked after him with surprise, for by his startled looks and distorted manner, I plainly saw that this was some affair of importance, and could not refrain from wondering what it was. I had a vague presentiment that his conversation with the count in some way related to these men. I could have wished to have asked the count what had been the subject of their conversation, but he was almost a perfect stranger. I could not do so with propriety, and so, silently, he and I retired to the salon. There was something so inexpressibly delicate and gentle in his manners, in his looks, in every thing he said or did, that it threw a charm around him, and this magic influence soon extended to those of his acquaintance. He had sojourned with us but two days, and yet had ingratiated himself into the good graces of the domestics, and by his fine conversational powers had whiled away some of the many lonely hours I daily passed. My husband too possessed, at first sight, the most attractive and winning ways, but these soon gave place to capricious variations of feeling, which soon ended in complete indifference, like all roués the difficulty constituted the charm; that overcome, the graces, the charms soon vanished.
I often regretted—as I sat alone, gazing on the fickle fire-light—often regretted having left the stage and having exchanged the certainty of a brilliant fame, unbounded admiration, and a fortunate perspective, for the uncertainty of love.
My husband had been closeted with his visitors two or three hours when I saw them depart, and he came from the room, pale and anxious; with hasty strides he reached the court-yard, and having ordered one of the fleetest horses to be saddled, mounted, quick as lightning and rode off.
I pulled the bell, and Guilo answered the appeal.
“Guilo, where in the name of heaven has Monsieur de Serval gone to? I this moment saw him depart on horse-back.”
“I know not, madame. He seemed very angry at something: he swore and muttered to himself as he mounted. I supposed you knew where he was going, my lady.”
“No; I know not. I have no idea.”
“I wish I could tell you, my lady; but master has acted so singularly lately, I am not surprised at anything he does. I never saw him seem so queer.”
“Did the strange men take the same road your master did?”
“No, my lady; they went away before him and took the opposite direction.”
“Very well, Guilo, you can go.”
“Will you be pleased to have dinner served now?”
“What is the hour?”
“Five o’clock, Madame.”
“Well, serve it, and announce it to the count.”
Guilo did so. When I went to dinner, my guest had preceded me: he looked very thoughtful. When I said that we must excuse Monsieur de Serval, he having been called away by a matter of business, his face clouded; but it passed quickly away, and he was as entertaining as usual.
That night, after I had retired to rest, the clattering of horses’ hoofs sounded on the valley road; they neared the house; now they were beneath my window; then stopped: then I heard the stamping of heavy boots, and loud voices in the hall; then I distinguished Rinaldo’s piquant voice—for he had a bright voice, soft and cheering; and next I heard him enter his own room. Satisfied that he had returned safe, I composed myself to sleep, wondering what this mystery could mean,—longing to ask, yet restrained by pride.
Next day Rinaldo appeared to have recovered himself entirely from his temporary agitation, and I ventured to inquire, indirectly, the cause of his sudden journey. He carelessly replied, that it was a small matter of business which demanded his presence, and avoided the subject. I was not satisfied, however; I knew better; but I also waived the subject, as I could elicit nothing by questions.
A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded. Three gentlemen of the neighborhood, my husband’s friends, came to visit him. The same old scenes of riot and late hours were enacted over again; but I observed that the count avoided, as far as was consistent with politeness, all participation in these midnight revels, and often retired early to his chamber to avoid them. This added to his attractions in my eyes; and meeting me one evening, as I was gliding past the banquet-hall,—whence I heard the drunken revels, the noisy songs and clamorous uproar of my husband and his friends,—he came to my side, and, quietly placing my arm in his, silently conducted me to my salon, closed the door, to shut out those noisy sounds, drew my fauteuil to the fire, then placed another for himself, and looking at me very sadly, said in mournful tones:
“This behaviour of your husband is very distressing to you, I know.”
“Yes, it saddens me much to see him wasting his life in such dissipations.”
“Has he always led this sort of life since he married you?”
“The first months of our wedded life we spent happily. He acted differently then.”
“Rinaldo always was very wild, very unprincipled in his views of women, yet the first day or two of my arrival here, I confidently thought you had reformed him.”
“Alas! that is not so. I wish it were.”
“Marriage is a mere lottery at best,” said the count, thoughtfully. “I have always viewed it in that light, and my observation of its unhappy results, has deterred me from choosing a wife. Some frequently draw prizes; most get blanks. You, dear lady, have unfortunately—” He paused, and did not complete the sentence, probably fearing to wound my feelings; for so strange it is, though you may despise your husband, yet to hear him depreciated, will wound.
“In a month from now, I shall probably be at Epirus. I only feel happy in continual motion: travelling, war, politics—something to excite. Onward, seems to be my watchword; onward, as we on our little planet continually whirl round, and other worlds follow us, unceasing, eternal, in the sublime organization of nature.”
I had never seen my guest so animated before; his eyes sparkled, his alabaster face lit up with the warm glow of feeling and enthusiasm. The announcement of his intended departure, somewhat surprised me, as we had expected to retain him for several weeks.
“We shall regret your departure, count,” said I, trying to force a smile, but it was a sad one. “Monsieur de Serval intimated that we were to have the pleasure of your society for some time to come.” As I spoke, my eyes met his, and their expression of intense interest riveted mine: those beautiful, sad eyes,—those eyes of love, of ingenuousness, of truth and fidelity. He sighed, and withdrew them, and I resumed my contemplation of the carpet of the salon.
A long, loud laugh, from the apartment where my husband was revelling, startled me. I thought I heard footsteps coming, and not wishing to see him in his present condition, I rose to return to my room.
“Good night, dear lady,” said the count. “Remember me in your prayers, for I need them.” Glance met glance, but I tore mine away, and I felt, as I sought my repose, that my fluttering heart, and crimsoned cheek, told sad tales against me.
Rinaldo was ill next day from excitement, and his friends in much the same condition. Monsieur D’Artagnan, and Monsieur Porthos, were men of middle age, corpulent and lazy; high livers, high drinkers, fond of all sorts of rural sports, and all sorts of amusements. They generally favored, or rather bored, me with their compliments and society every day after dinner, when Rinaldo usually lounged about a little while, ere he and they disappeared together, to arrange their plans for the evening. The count spent hours and hours with me, reading, singing, conversing, receiving and imparting information. These consolations, these sympathies, between a married woman and a handsome male friend, are dangerous. The loneliness of heart, the isolation a woman who has been slighted in her affections feels, strongly induces her to love the society, and the self-deluding friendship of an interesting man. This friendship soon becomes love, and then—where are they?
Some evenings after this, twilight found me in the beautiful garden of the castle, seated beneath a widespreading palm tree, that threw far before me its blooming branches. From beneath this natural bower, lulled to repose by the beautiful scene before me; by the sweet, balmy air that played around me, and the glorious sky above me, I contemplated the landscape.
The sun went down behind a veil of heavy purple clouds, whose ragged edges were tinted with his parting rays; his smile dwelt lingeringly along the mountain’s brow, as if he must, yet wished not, to say farewell. The warm, oriental light illumined the summits of the trees, and showed forth more distinctly the tall gothic turrets of the castle. Part of the building remained in shadow, and the rising ground of terrace behind me concealed my view of the court-yard and its marble fountain.
The grounds, disposed in flower beds of divers shapes and patterns, were thickly planted with exotic flowers, which, as if tired of their admiration of the god of day, now drooped their heads in mournfulness at his departure;—the golden butterfly flew gayly from flower to flower; his purple and gold wings glittering in the glowing light;—the grasshopper hopped on the tall thick grass; and the birds sang in the trees, carrolling their love-notes so thrillingly, I almost envied them their joy. Their songs were the only voices of the hour, and in listening to them I felt soothed, consoled: sweeter, calmer thoughts came over me,—etherealized feelings,—and leaning my head against the rough bark of the trees, I fell into a gentle slumber.
Cracking of brushwood, breaking of boughs, aroused me from my dreamy trance. I started, looked around;—I heard the sound of coming feet, and presently my husband emerged from the copse. The sun had disappeared, and the mellow dusk was gathering her dusky veil around me. Arousing myself from dreams, I spoke to him as he seated himself by me. He looked absorbed with melancholy preoccupation, as was his wonted air of late:—his dress was disordered.
“What an exquisite evening!” he observed; “how gloriously that sun declines along the hills.”
“Yes, it is indeed beautiful. I have been watching his departure for the last hour.”
“I have been on a long hunt through the forest: some of the people said they thought they had discovered a bear’s trail; but I sought in vain;—I found no traces of one.”
“How can you like those bear hunts; they are so dangerous?”
“They are exciting:—I like excitements.”
“We mutually became silent, watching the clouds drifting across the sky, and the different hues of eve, as they blended into one. The air began to distil dew heavily. I rose, apprehensive that my health would be injured by exposure to it. As I rose upon my feet, a strange sensation came over me. Earth, air, mountains, clouds,—all objects seemed to swim before my eyes. I felt as if falling, I knew not where, and stretching out my hands for support, instinctively, I was received into my husband’s arms, and lost all consciousness.
“When I recovered life, I found myself in my salon, my husband and Pasiphae anxiously bending over me: my bodice was unloosed, my hair undone. I gasped for breath, and partly raising myself, leaned on some one’s shoulder;—it was Rinaldo’s. Everything in the room seemed indistinct, confused.
“Dear lady, what ails thee? what has happened?” I heard poor Pasiphae say, as she bathed my face and rubbed my hands.
“Your mistress fainted as we sat in the garden together,” was my husband’s reply, rendered inarticulate by tears. He kissed me repeatedly, smoothed my hair, and manifested by his emotion the grief he felt, not only at my illness, but his own incomprehensible, cruel, conduct.
When strong aromatics had thoroughly brought back to earth my truant senses, Pasiphae watched that night my fitful slumber, broken only by strange starts and convulsive movements that half affrighted her: my husband tenderly attended me. For days (they said) my life hung on a thread: and when exhausted nature resuscitated to life and health once more, I had a beautiful, a lovely boy!
My health for weeks after his birth continued delicate. I seldom left my room: that cherished infant, whose life had so nearly been purchased by my own, my constant companion. And Rinaldo was kinder in those days; if our old feelings were not renewed, at least our child formed a connecting tie,—we seemed drawn more nearly to each other. Pasiphae manifested, at seeing the child, the joy of a child itself at seeing a new toy: she would carry the little thing in her arms, admire its undefined features, and playfully caress its tiny hands.
Count Calabrella, at my husband’s urgent entreaty, prolonged his visit, and often came to pay his compliments; the charms of his conversation and manners won daily upon my esteem; I never could look upon that animated face, nor listen to that melodious voice, which distilled such noble thoughts, such chivalrous sentiments, without wishing that Rinaldo was more like him,—that he did not desecrate to unworthy uses the abilities with which nature had endowed him. Time fleeted, and I again resumed my walks in the castle garden, and on the terrace, in which Pasiphae sometimes followed me, bearing the child.
We named him Raphael, a fancy of his father’s it was to bestow on the little one the name of the great painter. As day by day developed his senses and he became conscious of the difference of persons, and would extend his baby hands toward me, and weep if I left him, I realized in this love a mother’s pride, a mother’s joy; often when caressing him I imagined I saw him grown to manhood, noble in his principles, handsome in appearance, and that he would reward me by his tenderness and duty for all the mental anguish I should have to endure before that time came. When he pressed his little hands on my face, or tried to bite my finger as infants do, I always kissed that sweet little mouth, and sometimes tears followed the kiss and fell upon that face.
On one occasion when I was passing through the corridor, on my way to take my daily promenade, the door of my husband’s studio was suddenly thrown open, and the mysterious stranger who had accosted me before in that corridor rushed violently passed me, and disappeared down the marble staircase. The sight of that shrouded form inspired me with a vague foreboding of horror. I had never been able to gather from my husband the object of their frequent visits, and I often attributed his dejection and gloom to his communications with them.
“Who can that man be, Pasiphae? and what can he and his companions want with monsieur?”
“Indeed, my lady, I know not; they come very often I know, and I dislike them much.”
“God grant they bring no ill fortune here; but I feel as if contaminated by their vicinage,” I devoutly exclaimed, as we stepped from the oriel window out upon the terrace. We did not walk much that day, the wind blew hard; the infant gasped for breath and hid his face on his nurse’s shoulder: we went in.
The next day I was occupied in my apartment with my tapestry, when Guilo abruptly entered, without knocking, and with a countenance pale and troubled, requested me to come immediately to his master: he wanted me. Laying aside my embroidery, I left Pasiphae with Raphael, and went. What was my amazement, when entering the banqueting hall, I found it filled with strange men, wearing the uniform of state officers, and seated in their midst, Monsieur de Serval and Count Calabrella; my husband affrighted and shrinking, the count self-collected and calm as usual. I moved hastily toward my husband, and seated myself at his side; the officers making way for me as I passed them.
“What does this mean, Rinaldo? what do these men want?” I cried, seized with a strange presentiment that their presence in some way related to, or was concerned with the visits of the mysterious strangers.
“Be composed, poor child,” replied Rinaldo. “I will tell you; I must leave here, I must go away.”
“Leave your castle, go away! Wherefore? for God’s sake, explain?” I demanded, perfectly bewildered.
“It is a dreadful thing to tell, but it must be told; I am arrested by these men for high treason; they have come to take me before my sovereign; I am utterly ruined; my castle is no longer mine; I am a bankrupt.”
“Oh God!” I exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden blow. I fell down upon my knees, burying my face in my hands.
“It is but too true. I have suffered myself to be engaged in a piratical expedition against the government; it has been discovered, destroyed, and I am commanded to answer the charges laid against me; I am to leave here to day in company with these men.”
“Engaged in a piratical expedition against the government; to be arrested; perhaps imprisoned for life; and where are they to take you? cannot I also go?”
“You go with me to ignominious disgrace, to a prison’s walls; oh no, that cannot be: and yet you cannot stay here. This house will pass into other hands; I know not what to do with you, where to send you. I must return to Naples, but I do not wish you there, amid the general contempt, the disagreeable publicity that will attend me; no, you will be far better off away; I want you to go to Baie; you can remain there until the issue of affairs is known; then, if favorable, you can come to me.”
“I will obey you; I will go there if you wish it; but tell me one thing, Rinaldo, I entreat you; are not those singular men who used to visit you, the cause of this?”
“Yes,” said he, hesitatingly, “they are.”
“I knew it. I felt they came for no good purpose.”
“Gentlemen,” said my husband, addressing the king’s officers, “will you allow me a private conversation with my wife before I go?”
“Certainly, monsieur,” replied the principal of the officers; and with their officials they filed slowly from the apartment. The count, who had not spoken during our dialogue, following them with a dejected air. When the great door of the banqueting hall shut heavily behind them, Rinaldo, as if overcome by this sudden, unlooked for misfortune, threw his arms around me, and, weeping, kissed me.
“Genevra, my poor Genevra, we are about to separate, and it may be you will never see your unhappy husband again! I have not been to you the kind husband I should have been; my conduct has often been harsh and cruel: my love for you has been an enigma to myself. I have not acted rightly towards you; and now, a strange fatality—as unlooked for as strange—is about to tear me from you and that dear child.”
Sighing, he kissed me again.
“Let the past be forgotten and forgiven,” I answered, as I folded my arms around his neck: “let it go; it is done; it is nothing; I have forgotten it: only let me accompany you now. Why should sorrow separate a wife from a husband? I can share imprisonment with you, and take Raphael with me: I fear not its isolation, nor its gloom.”
“No, no; do as I wish. What could be more brutal than to enclose in prison walls a young woman and her child—shut out from God’s air and human society! Go to Baie; you will not be far from me; you shall hear from me often. Perhaps this unfortunate affair will be happily ended: then, reunited, we will seek some new home—since this will no longer acknowledge me as master; some sweet, quiet place, where our days shall be spent more happily than the best part of our married life has been.”
“But that prospect is far distant; perhaps it may never come; you may be convicted of high treason; oh, heaven! you may be decapitated.”
“Well, if that is my fate, I shall meet it bravely: I am not afraid to die, let death come in what shape it will.” And he laughed recklessly. “No, Genevra, I fear no such catastrophe; I shall be able to clear myself: tremble not for me.”
“How unfortunate this has been; how disastrous for you to have embarked in this ill-omened business. Why did you do it?”
“Talk not of that which is past, Genevra,” said he, with something of his former sternness; “but come with me; the officials wait: let us bid each other farewell at the bedside of my child.”
He took my hand in his: the officials stationed without the door respectfully made way for us; we ascended to our bedchamber, where, slumbering in his oaken cradle, lay Raphael—his rosy hands crossed upon his bosom, which rose and fell with his gentle breathing; his long night robe hung without the cradle, and the calm little face, so innocent, so passionless, expressed the unconscious happiness of infancy. A large lamp, the shade depressed, to shield the glare of light from his eyes, sat on a table near; and his nurse sat by the cradle side and watched him—her strongly marked features of dusky hue, and fantastic dress, thrown strongly into relief by the effect of the lamp.
I sent her away, not wishing a witness of this scene; and my husband, kneeling by the cradle, gently took up the child in his arms, but did not awaken him; he still slept on. He looked at the babe long and wistfully: his very soul seemed gushing into his eyes as he contemplated the features of his son. He seemed looking forward into future years; he seemed inspired; he took one of the little hands in his, and kissed it: the child, with a slight start, withdrew it, and recrossed his arms on his bosom.
“Sweet little lamb, as yet innocent of guile, pure as thy Maker: of such, if there is a heaven, should it be composed; sleep on, and mayst thou ever remain as innocent as now.”
His thoughts appeared too deep for words; he replaced the babe, laid its satin coverlid over it, and rose on his feet, once more he wistfully regarded it, then turned to me.
“Let us kiss each other; adieu here, Genevra. You had better not come down stairs again; those officials are rude sometimes, and I, being under arrest, cannot protect you against whatever they choose to extend to you. Farewell! you shall hear from me soon; be comforted, you know your religion teaches you that out of much tribulation shall arise joy; be comforted, all is not lost.”
But I would not be put off with that abrupt farewell. I went down with him into the lower hall, where, standing around on the marble floor, in various attitudes, were the king’s functionaries. Count Calabrella had offered large sums of money to the chief, making himself responsible for Monsieur de Serval’s appearance for his trial in any state they should name, but the men were inexorable. Their commands from government were to bring him in person to Naples. No influence, no money could shield him. The count was traversing the hall with hasty strides, and gloomy expression of countenance, his steps resounding as he walked; seeing me approach on Rinaldo’s arm, on which I leant heavily, he came towards us, endeavoring to conceal his uneasiness by a forced smile.
“This is a most singular affair. How came Alcantara to be detected?” he inquired, speaking in a low tone.
“The stupid fool had the impudence to boast of what we were doing in the coffee houses, some persons informed the government, which led to my exposure.”
“I have been trying to persuade them to return alone, naming some day for your appearance, promising to come with you myself, but they will not consent,—what is to be done, my friend?” he anxiously inquired, looking sorrowfully at Rinaldo.
“What is to be done? why I am to go, of course, my dear Alfieri. Don’t be annoyed, don’t be alarmed at this: you know I told you weeks ago I was prepared for the worst: all that troubles me is the welfare of my wife and child. This old castle, though partly ruinous, is still a home, but even this I am obliged to part with. I sold it some days ago to a friend, to raise money for this expedition; and that is also gone. She and the infant must leave here; I wish you to attend her to Baie, where she will be not far from Naples, and can hear from me often. Promise me to see her safely there to-morrow.”
“I will do all that mortal man can do for Madame de Serval, you may be sure; whatever she wishes I will perform,” said the count, with fervor.
“Thank the fates, then, I do not leave them friendless,—utterly uncared for,” ejaculated Rinaldo.
The chief of the officers now came out of the banqueting hall, and whispered to my husband.
“Very well,” said he in reply, “in an hour I shall be ready, if you wish it, to start.”
“In an hour! are you going in an hour?” I cried. “Oh cannot they stay till to-morrow? do make them stay till then.”
“To-morrow, child, to-morrow I shall be far away from you.”
We three continued to walk up and down: I tearful, desponding; the count abstracted, silent; Rinaldo with a sort of affected reckless gayety, assumed, doubtless, to conceal his real feelings. The men were sent away into the servants’ hall, and what little luggage my husband was allowed to take with him, brought down. I imagined I had a world of things to say in that hour, yet, when I went to speak, they escaped my recollection. I could think of nothing but the suddenness of this separation, and my own sad situation. The hour elapsed, it fled,—the man came to summon Rinaldo, the carriage was ready, the luggage was placed behind, the officers got into their carriages, the chief came to escort my husband to his!
“I regret extremely that it should be my misfortune to convey such disagreeable tidings, and to be the cause of bringing sorrow to such a lady,” said the man, politely raising his cap to me.
“It is not your fault; we excuse you; you merely act officially. If the carriage is ready, I am. Proceed, sir.”
I walked with him to the court yard, notwithstanding he cautioned me not to do so, saying I would catch cold. Four carriages contained the inferior men, and their principal occupied the same carriage with my husband. He did not kiss me farewell there before others, but relinquishing my hand with stoical energy, he entered it with his companion, and closed the door. He shook hands convulsively with the count, who went round to the carriage window to bid him adieu. I did not move; I was riveted to the spot where I stood. The carriage started, it whirled through the avenue, it passed the lodge, it was gone, the others following it. When my eyes could no longer discern any traces of it; when I was fully convinced that it was reality, no dream, but reality, stern reality; I turned within the hall, went up stairs, fell upon my knees by the child’s bedside, laid my cheek by his, and wept bitterly.