CHAPTER XI.
Reason almost failed me, when I awoke the next day. I wandered into the banqueting hall, calling for Rinaldo. The count followed me, entreated me to recollect myself, to bear misfortunes with calmness, with fortitude; asked what he could do for me. I answered not: I began to doubt my own identity. I only remembered distinctly that I was to leave that day, to go to Baie: every thing else seemed blank, intangible.
I summoned Guilo to my salon, and told him that the castle was sold by my husband to another, who would come in a few days to claim it. I offered to pay his expenses to any city he chose to go, or he might stay in the vicinity of the castle, and endeavor to obtain employment of the new owner. He thanked me for my kindness to him, and said he preferred remaining. The other domestics were sent away; my household was broken up. Pasiphae determined to accompany my precarious fortunes as the nurse of Raphael, and so all things being definitely arranged, Count Calabrella, myself, Pasiphae, and my beloved babe, started that afternoon for Baie. I, almost unconscious, allowed myself to be placed in the barouche, and without looking back at those proud turrets and massive walls, within whose confines I had passed two years of alternate joy and grief, I was borne away. We rode all day. The count, anxious to beguile me from sad thoughts, conversed charmingly, but though ever agreeable and fascinating, yet my mind was too pre-occupied to listen, and the object so kindly intended failed of its purpose; nor did my melancholy abstraction cease, when, on the second day of our travel, we entered Baie.
Oh, Baie! classic, beautiful, time-honored Baie! when again shall I revisit thy tranquil, lovely shores? when again shall I gaze upon thy pellucid waters, or roam over thy gentle, verdant hills, once the home of happy thousands,—thrilling with life, hope, perhaps happiness,—now silent, deserted; the seat of ruins, the abode of solitary peasants, who lead their flocks over the spot where once rose stately Roman villas, temples, theatres, and all the haunts of what was human vanity and life;—all which have faded into fragments, into dust, leaving those few remains to tell that the tide of human life had once passed there.
“Why am I not also gone?” thought I despondingly, as the barouche rolled over the smooth road, among the ruins. “Why do I still live on, unfortunate, unhappy? my husband arrested for high treason; myself and child alone and desolate; our home lost to us forever! What has the future for me but disappointment, continued isolation and my child, my Raphael! what is to become of him?”
The stopping of the carriage aroused me from my gloomy reflections. It paused at a small cottage kept as a place of accommodation for strangers. Tired, faint, and weary, I found myself in the parlor of this rustic abode, scarce knowing where I was. The apartments were comfortable and scrupulously clean, but in contrast to the elegant home I had just left, they appeared contemptible to me. An image of the virgin stood in one corner, under it a crucifix: some pictures decorated the plastered walls, and flowers were trained to creep outside the latticed windows;—a gaily colored parrot, in a gilded cage, mockingly imitated our words, repeating them after us in playful tones: the hostess, a peasant vinter’s wife, came courtesying in to receive us, wearing a Neapolitan dress, which reminded me forcibly of Naples. The domestics of the castle, wearing another style, embarrassed and awkward at the sight of one, so far superior in worldly station. Ah! how far happier, if they did but know it, are those lowly ones of earth! how quiet; how untinctured by ambition are their lives! Very little envy is theirs; very little of those fierce hatreds we see in society! Calm, peaceful, obscure, they walk to their graves, seldom known; seldom wishing to be known, yet often tasting much real, substantial happiness.
The count explained that I wished apartments for myself, nurse, and child, and the woman left the room to prepare them.
“And you, my friend,” I said to him, “you also are going to stay here?”
“Until to-morrow I shall have that honor,” said he, “but after that I shall not have the pleasure of being near you.”
“Oh!” I cried, “will you also desert me? shall I be utterly alone?”
“Alone! oh, no! not all alone with the companionship of your own sweet thoughts and your lovely child. Do not grieve; to meet to separate is the inevitable law of nature. Why should we cavil at that we cannot change? Existence is, as I have often told you, a play, a farce;—do not let us be its most miserable actors. Your husband will doubtless be liberated soon. You will be restored to him;—life will put forth new buds and blossoms from its giant tree. In his renewed affection you will find new joys; and I shall pursue my solitary travels, rejoicing at your happiness.”
“But if you were not there, the measure of our joy would be incomplete. If what you predict comes to pass, will not you partake of our joy?”
“I! what shall I be to you but a strange dream, associated with unhappy circumstances, disagreeable to your memory? I shall have been but the witnesser of one of those vicissitudes of fortune, which always fall to the lot of the talented and beautiful. No! I had better be forgotten. To be forgotten! how mortifying is the reflection. Yet, has it not always been the law of destiny?”
“Do not philosophize now; let us be matter of fact. I thought, when my husband was so cruelly taken away, that you, who have always been so kind, would be spared me—at least for some time—till I should recover a little from this violent shock; but I am disappointed in this, as in all other things.”
“Lady,” said he, bending a piercing glance upon me from his expressive eyes, “the request you make would be as dangerous to myself (if granted), as it would be useless to you. The charms of your person, your judgment and talent, I appreciate to their fullest extent, and nothing could give me more delight than to revel in the sunshine of such presence; but that enjoyment would be as injurious to you as perfidious in me to my friend.”
The sad tones of his voice and significant manner of expression, did not allow me to misunderstand him. In my careless innocence I never recollected the cruel interpretation malice would put upon such companionship.
“My departure,” he continued, “will be all the more advantageous to you, since to-morrow I will proceed immediately to Naples, and perhaps, through intercession with his Majesty, be the means of liberating your husband. I shall, of course, see him immediately, wherever he is, and write you a description of affairs.”
He became silent, and mechanically stroked my infant’s rosy, downy cheeks. The vinter’s wife came tripping into the room, saying she would attend me to the apartments. Pasiphae, sad and quiet, preceded me, carrying Raphael; the count remained absorbed in thought. The rustic stairs were climbed, and with many low courtesies I was ushered into a large chamber, in which I noticed nothing but an immense fauteuil, into which I sank mechanically, completely overpowered. After making numerous demonstrations of respect and duty, the hostess withdrew.
In the meantime, Raphael, who had slept nearly all the way from the Chateau of the Ravine, awoke from the slumber in which he had been wrapt all day, and looked inquiringly for me. I took him in my arms and kissed him. The little one laid his tiny hands on my face and raised his large eyes wistfully to mine. He was too young to miss his father, or know that father’s fate,—that unhappy, wayward man who now inhabited, perhaps, a prison’s gloom: and as I childishly toyed with the ribbons of his dress and watched the light and play of his features, I wished—oh! what does not a mother wish?
I did not go down stairs again that afternoon and evening; but I distinctly heard the footsteps of the count as he continued to pace the floor of the lower room till a late hour. My own heart was the prey of contending emotions—of conflicting thoughts. Raphael fell asleep on my breast—his tiny hand clasped in mine—with an expression of conscious happiness on his smiling countenance. I fixed my gaze upon a crucifix which hung in a corner, and invoked to my support that invisible influence whom we worship in an earthly form. I conjured up before me visions of persecuted martyrs, dying saints, nuns devoted alone to the service of God; but, in spite of myself, other thoughts came stealing over me, and the recollections of the happy days of love and sunshine I had passed during the first part of my married life, were mingled with regrets at my husband’s misfortunes.
A glorious morning sun beaming through the lattice, awoke me at an early hour; a beautiful landscape met my eyes on going to the window; it commanded a view of the sea coast, which was not far distant; and I beheld with delight the blue rolling waves of the ocean, crested with foam, and swelling proudly as they rolled onward, and came and beat against the rocks on the shore, with a hoarse echoing sound; the high cliffs at the water’s edge, matted into quiet unassuming hills as they disappeared in the distance. The light fishing skiffs of the fishermen, chained to the shore, danced on the bosom of the blue waters, and the joyous song of the men as they drew in their nets, was wafted to my ears by the clear morning breeze. The shepherds and their flocks browsing on the hill tops, diminished by distance to the size of mice, were dimly visible. On that classic, quiet shore, silence and repose kept vigils gentle and imposing as such presence should be.
When I descended I found the count below in the parlor; he said his sleep had been disturbed by dismal dreams, and his sad face bore testimony to his words. After breakfast, at which little was said, he proposed a walk on the beach; mechanically I consented, put on my bonnet and shawl, and we went forth together.
We pursued a path through a small forest of palm, linden, and fir trees; their thick shade formed an impenetrable bower, relieved at their base by wild flowers of every description; the meandering course of numerous rivulets ran through the wood.
We continued on, the count occasionally making some remark about the beauty of the scenery, to which I responded by monosyllables; my mind was too intensely absorbed to talk. The forest was passed: the sun broke brightly from a cloud, and the beach and the murmuring waves lay before us; a small schooner, contending against the tide, was drifting slowly along.
“That bark, struggling for anchorage, is like your life, dear lady; now it rises, now falls amid the waters; the sails gathered in, the pilot endeavoring to gain a position of safety; presently she will rest quietly, securely anchored on the bosom of the bay; so will it be, I predicate, of thee.”
“God grant it may,” I murmured.
As he said, after many tacks and manœuvres, the little bark succeeded in gaining safe anchorage, where riding tranquilly it rested. The birds of the ocean surrounded it, flapping their wings, and making the air resound with their mournful cries.
A road wound along the shore, bordered by a footpath: on this we wandered at random, stooping sometimes to pick the flowers strewing the way. The count philosophized on nature in his sweet voice, and nature smiled upon us wearing her fairest dress; at last, after we had gone some distance, he looked at his watch.
“The hour has come, dear lady, I must go: the carriage will be at the house to bear me away, and your forebodings will be relieved when I shall arrive at Naples and write you.”
Seeing that he was really bent on going, we retraced our steps to the house; the barouche which brought us was already there; he did not enter the dwelling, but pressing my hand with earnest fervor, stepped into it and drove away.
A week of quiet daily routine, and intense mental anxiety, succeeded the count’s departure; the days sped slowly in monotonous regularity; the nights were lonely, and would have been terrible had it not been for my child and faithful servant.
The evening of the sixth day after he went to Naples, I was sitting at the window of my room abstractedly gazing on vacancy, when I saw a man rapidly approaching on horseback, urging his spurs into the animal’s sides, and moving his arms in such a ridiculous manner, that, had my mind been at ease, I should have laughed at his absurd gestures; but in my grief they were unnoticed; suddenly reining in his horse at the door, he handed a letter to the peasant, who was taking his siesta before the door, and rode away as rapidly as he had come; the man brought it to me, and I eagerly, yet tremblingly, opened it and devoured the contents; it was from my husband, superscribed in the count’s handwriting, and as follows:
“Barberinni Prison, June 11th.
“Dearest Genevra:—
“Count Calabrella will find means to send you this. Were it not for him you would hear nothing of my condition, as I am under such close surveillance that nothing concerning me escapes suspicion. The principal agent in this sad affair exposed all by his blunders, and this has brought me, perhaps, to a felon’s death. It is not known when my trial will take place,—I hope soon, as I have secured powerful mediation in my behalf. These prisons are dark and cold—frightful from their solitude. I sit in one corner of my cell and write this by the light of a lantern, while the count waits to take it away. I wish I could see my boy again; but the strange inexorable fate which has pursued me from my earliest years will probably continue its malice to the close of my life. Farewell,—farewell,—take care of yourself,—remain at Baie till the result of this is known. You shall hear from me soon again.
“Yours till death,
Serval.”
This strange epistle, written on a piece of paper evidently torn from some book, and almost illegible from blots and blurs, was too general and incoherent to satisfy me. Perhaps, for fear of being surprised by the jailor or some of the officials, he was unable to write more; yet he told me of nothing that had transpired. Perhaps it would have harrowed my heart too much had he told me all,—he wished to spare me the sorrow.
Then came a note, within the other, from Count Calabrella.
“Most Respected Lady:—
“Immediately upon my arrival I asked permission to be admitted to see your husband, but was refused the favor, and only obtained it yesterday through the intercession of a cardinal of the church, a friend of mine. I then hastened to see Monsieur de Serval. I found him sad, but not as desponding as I had expected. Of course you can imagine what was said of you,—and I should be rude to repeat to you what you will have already anticipated. We then conversed upon this ill-fated affair. I told him that Alcantara was arrested, of which fact he was ignorant,—the minor confederates had fled. We conferred as to what was best to be done; and I decided on soliciting the intercession of the foreign ministers, and some of the cardinals, together with as many others as I could secure.
“When I left him I hastened to the house of the French minister. I was admitted to an audience. He received me most politely,—listened attentively to my explanation of the facts of the case, (which it is needless to trouble you with,)—I entreated him to interest himself for his countryman. He did not definitely say he would, but deferred the question for reconsideration. I think, however, I shall be able to persuade him into doing something. I have secured the interests of several cardinals, and intend to do much more before the trial comes on. Believe me, every thing that is within the range of human possibility shall be done. I do not despair: and I entreat you, also, to be consoled,—to hope.
“Yours in faith,
Calabrella.”
This letter partially revived my drooping spirits, for it breathed hope and elasticity of mind. My husband’s was gloomy, but that was attributable to his unhappy situation. I had expected an explanation,—I received only general assurances of brighter times, which to me seemed far distant,—dubious,—if not impossible.
I resigned myself to the course of circumstances, and patiently abided my time. Beautiful sunny days, and moonlight nights, fell upon Baie at that time,—the warm, bright glow of the sun, and the calm sweet light of the moon was soothing as its rays. I often walked, beneath its light, up and down the road on which the house faced.
One evening I started before sunset and walked in the direction of some curious ruins, situated on a cliff on the shores; the road diverged in a fork leading down to the beach. I preferred this walk and followed it; when I had walked some distance I reached the beach, the waters now quietly swelling and falling beneath the brilliant rays of the sun; the road was thickly strewn with shells, some of which I picked up and examined; then, my mind naturally running back to philosophy, I compared human life, human joys, human expectations, to those shells at my feet, and those ruins on the cliff before me. As the light played upon the broken archway, the desolate court-yard, the ruined chambers, the falling turrets, I felt my old feelings of gloom and morbid thought come wandering back.
I ascended the hill by a beaten pathway, and wandered in and around the little temple; myself and my thoughts were the only inhabitants of the place. I gathered a bouquet of flowers and was preparing to return, the moon having now arisen: when, glancing up at the sky, I saw that which had been a few moments before so serene, dark and lowering; the horizon obscured by immense black clouds, which were rapidly spreading over the sky; heavy gusts were borne bellowing along, and the glaring foam of the waves was visible faraway.
It was impossible to take the beach road under such circumstances, the tide having arisen, I was in danger of drowning; it was impossible to go through the woods the other side of the ruins, I was in danger of being lost in their density. I knew not what to do: meanwhile the sky continued to darken; the moon was completely overcast; the wind continued to howl around me; the only thing to do was to remain in the temple, and claim the precarious benefit of its shelter. I could scarcely see to re-enter the ruins, and seated myself on a broken column in their midst; everything was buried in stones and darkness; the gloom was so intense I felt it.
The storm increased rapidly; the waves lashed to fury, broke against the rocks with a roaring noise; the waves in the distance shone with phosphoric light; the clouds swept hither and thither over the face of the sky; now in tremendous masses, now scattered, white, dim and ghostlike; such a scene as this, was calculated to inspire any one with horror, and the blood ran cold in my veins, as I sat and listened.
Thus it raged for I know not how long: I could not reckon time in such a place. I thought it must be two hours. Then another sound was mingled with the gale: a strange crashing, a wild unearthly yell rang out on the storm; then all was absorbed in the rushing gale. Presently another interval of calm succeeded to the hellish sounds, when the waves and winds apparently paused to take breath, and gather their strength for another onset. The uproar of echoes, reverberating around me, was frightful; I almost thought demons from a lower world were playing their fantastic tricks within the old ruins. The weather during the day had been delightful, but the storm had rendered the air severe; and, as I sat shivering on the column, my hair standing on end, and teeth chattering with fear, the moon momentarily broke through the clouds, and disclosed the lurid landscape, strange and unearthly looking by the mysterious light. I could not express on paper the agony I suffered, till by the faint streaks of morning light in the east, I perceived day would soon dawn. The roar of the gale gradually subsided, the clouds became less strongly dark, the ocean’s waves less tumultuous; and an hour afterward, when I could fully perceive objects, I saw the light of day; and it shone upon a strange scene! When assured that the danger was over, I summoned strength to rise; my trembling limbs almost refused to support me. I wished to return to the house, anxious about my child. Walking down the hill towards the beach, my attention was attracted by pieces of spars, rigging, and a small boat stranded by the waves; this explained to me the horrid sound I had heard during the storm. A ship had been wrecked off the coast, which in that part abounded in breakers; numerous other objects now caught my astonished eyes: a little farther on a number of bales and some personal property lay scattered about; an object clothed in white, was stretched across my way; going towards it I knelt down and sought to distinguish what it was; it was a corpse, a female form; the drapery concealed the face. I raised the robe from the countenance, and beheld! yes,—no,—yes—it was Blanche!
Blanche! Great heaven! what could it mean? Yes, it was her! There she was dead: the same calm, sweet features; the same graceful form, dressed in white; the fair arms crossed on the breast. From the position in which I found her, she seemed not to have made the slightest effort to save herself: the angels of heaven seemed to have fanned her with their wings,—so innocently calm, so pure looked she. But how came she on board this unhappy bark? Where was she going to? I had supposed that when she fled from Naples, it was to some foreign land, not to remain in Italy. And where was her lover? I resolved to leave the body, and go to some fishermen’s huts on the cliff behind the ruin, and seek assistance, to have the body conveyed to town. As I prepared to do so, several other bodies presented themselves to my gaze, and in the corpse of a man, lying with his face exposed, I recognized Lord Glenfell. He was dressed in royal blue cloth, such as he had always worn (preserving his English customs) at Naples. One hand was buried in his bosom, the other hung stiff and cold by his side; and even in death he retained his perfect beauty. This unexpected, incomprehensible event, coming so suddenly upon me, after my own sorrows, and the fright from the storm, overpowered me, and sitting down on a fragment of stone, I wept over the bodies. Along the beach for a quarter of a mile the wreck was strewed in confusion: masts, cargo, rigging, luggage, all lay in different positions. The principal part of the passengers and crew probably had perished. One or two bodies came floating along as I franticly rushed up the hill again, in the direction of the fisher’s huts. They were not there when I reached them:—gone, an old woman told me, to plunder the wreck. She and a young girl were the only occupants of the tent, and I earnestly entreated them to return with me to the shore, and carry the body of Blanche to their house, to remain there till I could obtain assistance from Baie. They consented to accompany me, and we returned together, they talking incessantly about the storm and the wreck, wondering what the name of the vessel was, and whence it came. The bodies were undisturbed when I reached them. The woman, apparently used to such scenes, carelessly took up the inanimate form of my beloved friend, and strode away to the house again, while the girl remained to watch that of Lord Glenfell’s.
Meanwhile the sun had fully risen, and threw his golden rays on the scene. The waves had subsided somewhat: they were growing calmer. The sky was bright and glowing: the hues of morning lit up the shores.
The wreckers were busy at their plunder, wretchedly dressed; some of them in tatters, running here and there: even the dead bodies they spared not. The girl sat down on the sand near the gurgling waves, and I, standing on my feet, regarded the fair young Englishman. His eyes, which in life had been a soft brilliant blue, were wide open, and their unnatural glare startled me. The deadly pallor of his features, and the languid air his form and face bore, too surely showed that life was not there. Presently the old woman returned, and with the aid of her husband, an athletic peasant, they raised the corpse, and I and the girl following, went back whence we came.
They laid the two beautiful, yet guilty lovers, side by side on a rustic bed, poor and lowly as the lot of them to whom it belonged. Then the woman began to wash away the sand which thickly obscured their faces, and gathered on their clothes, all the while uttering sad cries that two so beautiful should die. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to the peasant, and asked him if he could proceed immediately to my house at Baie, and procure biers to take the bodies thither, and tell my maid and some of the peasants there to come also? He replied with alacrity that he would, and departed.
When the sand and red clay of the shore was entirely cleared from their persons, I regarded the corpses more attentively. Two years had not changed my Blanche; she was as beautiful as in those times past, when we sang together at Naples. I remembered the night of her departure, and her nocturnal farewell—so sad, so strange. Where had she gone then, and whither was she going now in this ship? Perhaps again to Parthenope, when the scissors of the fatal sisters, cut short the thread of her days. Oh! unhappy fate,—sad destiny.
Lord Glenfells then continued faithful to his vows of faith and love. Oh! marvellous instance of attachment in a man, that his love should last two years. Perhaps, if there were more women like her, their love would last longer. Together they had died, and now it was my sad task to see them buried amid the wild, romantic scenery of Baie.
I was alone with the bodies for more than an hour, ere the peasant came back with my poor, astonished Pasiphae, accompanied by several men, bearing hand biers. News of the shipwreck had reached the town, and great fear had been entertained lest some evil had befallen me, as hour after hour passed away, and I came not, and the terrible storm arose. Great was their amazement when they beheld me watching two corpses, and when they saw the agony imprinted on my face. The sympathizing Pasiphae threw herself at my feet, and weepingly buried her face in the folds of my robe.
“This is a most inexplicable affair, my poor Pasiphae,” said I. “I will tell you some other time. I could not return to you last evening. I spent the night in the ruins of the temple to avoid the storm. I wish to get home quickly.”
“The sweet child wept much last night, my lady, but I hushed him to sleep at last,” said my faithful servant.
I turned to the men, who had placed upon the bier Lord Glenfells and his beautiful Blanche, and after paying the women for their attention, the mournful cortege set out.
We took the road along the beach to the fork, whence it diverged to the house; then following that, we soon arrived at home. The women came rushing to the door to see so strange a sight, and scarce believed their eyes when they beheld what I brought. They were carried up stairs into an empty room, next to mine, placed on a bed, covered with a white coverlid; and I left the room, locking the door and taking the key with me. I returned to my child.
I buried them at Baie. They have a lonely grave on that rock-bound coast, at the top of the cliff on which the ruined temple of fortune stands. The ocean’s waves wash the base of the rocks, and the flowers and trees are gathered thickly around it. No splendid monument marks the last repose of one of England’s brightest, handsomest sons;—no inscription tells of the fair, ill-fated songstress. Her death, like her life, was isolated. But her memory at least is still fondly cherished by one who knew and loved her well.
When last I visited their graves, I found them overgrown with flowers,—odorous and beautiful as had been the character of Blanche. There the rose, the acacia, japonica, myrtle, and cypress, form unfading bowers, unfailing mourners, over their graves. When the sea is calm, the quiet murmur of its waves seems to utter unknown regrets. In storms their swelling tumult sounds like a requiem. Vain would it be for me to describe the many sad hours I passed there, silently offering as an ovation the grief of a sincere heart. During my stay at Baie, not a day elapsed but found me a visiter there. There the sadness of the scene taught me to moderate my own regrets,—taught me to uplift my heart to God,—taught me to be humble, thankful, and resigned.
A month passed without my hearing anything farther from my husband or Count Calabrella. I was terribly anxious: I dreaded lest something of a frightful character had happened, and that they feared to tell me it. I sometimes walked half the night up and down my room, conjuring my brains to imagine the reasons of this mysterious silence; but I could bring my mind to no clear explanation. I could resolve on nothing; everything was dark to me. At length the dreaded, yet wished for explanation came. Another courier came with another letter, which I have still preserved. I submit it to you:—
“I have made my escape. I have left Naples and Italy for ever. Had I awaited my trial, I know I should have been utterly lost. I jeoparded my life in getting out of prison; but am safe now. I release you from all faith, all allegiance to me; forget me: heaven never intended us for each other. Return to the gay world: may you be happy. Kiss my child for me. I had a presentiment, when I stood over his cradle, that I should never see him more: his baby-features are imprinted on my soul; they will only be obliterated when I shall cease to breathe. Remember me in those prayers you so fervently offer to your God, and may that God watch over you.
“I go to seek a new fortune in some foreign land; as yet I know not where: everything in the future is dark and uncertain. Farewell! Farewell!
Serval.”
When I had read this strange epistle, and fully comprehended it, I remained petrified with amazement: the tone of it was so reckless, wild—almost incoherent—I scarcely believed it to be my husband’s. He gave me up; he told me to forget him; to return to the world I had quitted for him. He seemed to write without feeling any regret, any sadness at this eternal separation. His child alone elicited a sentiment of humanity; and this was all the reward I received for the forbearance I had manifested toward him,—the devotion I had practiced for more than two years to that unhappy man. I was thrown off—cast away!
After reflection, I resolved to go to Naples to learn something definite. Our travelling arrangements were soon made, and the following afternoon we left Baie.
The classic ruins, the ocean, the beautiful shore, and the graves of Blanche and Lord Glenfells, were soon lost to my longing eyes, in the windings of the road. The town, the mountains, sea, rivulets, ruins and all, were enveloped in the blue mists of heaven.
The next day I again beheld the fair city of Naples rising on the hill, with her lofty towers, gardens, churches, castles and splendid private dwellings, rearing their superb height one above the other; and again I drove through the beautiful street Toledo. I hastened to the house of Madame Bonni; but two years had created changes in Naples. The good woman was gone, and another dwelt in her house. I secured apartments, however, in one of the most retired hotels, and then sent for the Court Guide, to ascertain the residence of Count Calabrella, whom I regarded as my only friend in this great trouble; it was brought, and after ascertaining his address, I sent mine to him.
He came immediately. When he entered my parlour I rushed toward him, and showing him the letter I held in my hand, exclaimed:
“Is this true? Oh! tell me, dear count, is it true?”
“Be calm, dear lady, I entreat you; be composed; this is an unexpected meeting. I had intended coming to you at Baie to-morrow to tell you the strange news.”
“But tell me, I entreat you, is it true? has my husband really escaped from prison? has he left me in this way?”
“He has escaped, and gone I know not where. Three days ago I visited him to tell him some favorable news regarding himself; he seemed cheerful; spoke much of you, and confidently of the result of the trial. Yesterday it was noised abroad that he had fled from Naples; doubting whether it was not mere rumor, I inquired, and found it true: it astonished me much. Knowing your husband’s determined character, I had been actively engaged in obtaining all the influence I could in his favor. I doubt not, myself, had he awaited his trial, it would have terminated favorably.”
“Gone! gone!” I cried—thinking only of the desertion—“for ever gone! and what is to become of me and the child?”
“Don’t give way to grief, madame; be comforted; you will find numerous friends: those who have known and loved you before your marriage.”
“Oh, count! I feel as if this were the acme of my misfortunes!”
“I know life has had many changes for you; but sorrow will not last for ever; and destiny sometimes presents a pleasant face.”
Thus for an hour he endeavored to divert my mind from dwelling with too much intensity on this inexplicable affair; but in vain did I try to talk or think of something else; and he, perceiving the abstraction of my thoughts, probably thought that quiet and repose would be the best consolers at that moment: and, after repeated adjurations to be calm, to hope, he went away. I appreciated the delicacy of his behavior in not reverting to any thing that could pain me: he had impressed me agreeably at first, and acquaintance had not dissipated that impression. I was determined, however, to learn more concerning my husband; and that day calling a calesso, bade him drive to the Barberinni prison. It was situated in an obscure quarter of the city, down near the harbor, surrounded by dark and dirty looking buildings on all sides, and itself presenting an appearance of dark, impenetrable gloom. I alighted and entered the keeper’s room, where he sat, amid old papers of all descriptions, reading from a great book, which looked to me like a ledger. Great bunches of keys adorned the smoked walls, dirty and old as their proprietor; and an old writing-desk stood in one corner, with a high stool before it.
He rose civilly as I entered, and asked in what he could please me. I told him that I had come to ask the particulars of my husband’s escape; and then informed him that I was the wife of Monsieur de Serval. He seemed surprised at that; and, on my requesting to be shown my husband’s cell, immediately acquiesced, locking the door of his stronghold previous to accompanying me.
We threaded several long stone galleries, off which, on either side, opened the doors of the cells. Then we descended a long flight of stairs; then came another gallery; then he paused, and unlocked an iron door, and ushered me into the dreary cell, lighted by one window, in which Rinaldo had written me the letter I received at Baie. One of the iron bars of the window was gone; the keeper pointed to it, and said: “Through that aperture your husband made his escape two nights ago. I know not how he obtained possession of the file with which he sawed apart the bar; but he did so, and swam probably to the opposite shore: at any rate, nothing has been learned of him, though government has sent spies every where to look for him.” I looked down at the stone pavement at my feet—and up at the dim light above my head—and soliloquized, that a month in a dungeon like that must be equivalent to ten years in the world.
“Did no one come to see my husband during his imprisonment?” I asked, wishing to learn if any one besides Count Calabrella had visited him.
“A tall, dark gentleman came often, and once another man came, but he wore a cloak, and I could not see his face; as he presented a permit, I admitted him.”
“That must have been the man who was accessary to his departure,” thought I: and having nothing farther to say to the keeper, I left the cell and returned to the carriage, and was driven home to the hotel.
All the inquiries I made were baffled; all my suppositions were useless; nothing further concerning my husband’s dubious fate was learned. I found myself once more thrown out on the world, obliged to resort to my musical talents for a support. The old manager of the San Carlo, hearing I wished to return to the stage, called on me, and I entered into an engagement with him to perform in one of my old operas. I cannot describe the heartaches I experienced at being obliged to resume the laborious and distasteful profession I had so gladly resigned: but something must be done;—I could not remain idle;—I knew of no other means by which I could maintain myself as well as by singing, and therefore decided on that.
The night of my reappearance, a crowded house awaited me: and the Austrian nightingale, in her misfortunes, was more admired than had been the gay Genevra; yet could those brilliant crowds have looked into my heart, and have seen the bitter sadness imprinted there, even my rivals would have pitied me; but the world only beheld the celebrated beauty, the great singer, and my rivals could see nothing; their envy blinded them. My only joy was to return from those crowded houses; to run away from the plaudits of the multitude, the dubious admiration of the men, the patronizing envy of the women, and bury myself in the solitude of my own room; devote myself to my smiling, happy boy. It was generally understood that I denied myself to all visitors, consequently I was not annoyed by any of those disagreeable attentions so often extended to actresses. I even wished to deny myself to the count, dreading the consequences of such companionship; but gratitude forbade such incivility, and he came.
One evening Raphael had fallen asleep on a sofa, after creeping about on the floor till sleep overcame him. His pretty mouth, like a blooming rose-bud, was half open, showing two new teeth, and his long white robe swept along the sofa as he lay;—as I sat near him, listening to his gentle breathing, I heard a light step on the carpet, and turning, saw the count. He sat down on the sofa, at the feet of Raphael, and looking at him, said:
“How sweetly he slumbers; how innocent is the sleep of a child.”
“Yes, their unsuspicious innocence is a charming attribute which they soon lose.”
I never could raise my eyes when the count was present without encountering his fixed gaze, and I met it now as I looked up from my child. He turned his away as I did so, and turned his hat from one hand to the other with a confused air.
“Can nothing be thought of? can nothing be done, to find out something more about Monsieur de Serval?” I suddenly inquired, reminded more strongly by the presence of the count of my unhappy lord.
“Everything that the ingenuity of the government could devise, or I, or others, suggest to find him out, has been done, but in vain. He has baffled pursuit. Perhaps some day in future will find you reunited to him on some fair isle, of which you and your child will form the Venus and Cupid, your husband the Mars: then, in those days of sunshine, all recollections of unhappy hours will be forgotten: that will be another sphere of existence.”
“It is very kind of you to re-assure me, but I am convinced that will never be.”
“It is possible, and whatever is possible is probable; as for me,” he continued, “I wonder what fate has in store for me; a life of loneliness I suppose, as it always has been, travelling, wandering alone.”
“Oh, say not so,” I cried, and anxious to soothe, I laid my hand on his; “not if you were near me, should you be lonely; friend to me and my husband, I would always cheer you.”
“You,” he exclaimed, catching my hand; “oh, heaven itself would seem to dawn upon me, could I always be near you as I am now.” Then, as if amazed at the fervor with which he had spoken, he dropped my hand, and confusedly looked down. An agitated silence followed: this singular avowal had been so abrupt, it startled me into a tumult of thoughts I had not dreamed of for a long time past: my cheeks blushed carnation hues as I looked away; my confusion, however, did not last long, for the count, as if struggling against some feeling he wished to hide, rose abruptly, and ejaculated, as if with an effort,
“I have alarmed you; I have acted foolishly; but God knows it was involuntary; I did not intend to wound your feelings; forgive me, dear Lady Genevra, forgive me; good night.” He extended his small, thin hand for mine; with my head averted, I placed mine within his. He shook it gently, and when I looked up he was gone. Oh, how fervently I wished I had a right ever to retain that hand, ever to lean on that arm, and gaze into those star-lit eyes; to feel that some one human being on earth cared for me, was true to me, would not desert me or disdain my love. Oh, how I wished for that faithful heart. And then to think I had found it, but under such circumstances that it was guilt itself to think of it! Had I not better determine never to see him again, to deny myself the siren-like attraction which was drawing me I know not where? Ought I not to think of my husband, to mourn his loss, regret his destiny? Yet he had himself bade me forget him, abandon all allegiance to him, be happy without him. What was to become of me? whither should I turn for consolation? Monsieur Belmont had gone to Paris, to direct the opera there; Madame Bonni had left the city; sweet Blanche was dead, and Inez far away. Oppressed with these thoughts, I sank into a reverie, when my child stirred, and turning, I took him in my arms.