TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES.
Continued from page 229.
Second crime: A cold and deliberate attempt upon the life of Stenio Salvatori, on the public square of Torre-del-Greco. The Count listened to this harangue without emotion. "Bring in," said the judge, "both the witnesses and the plaintiffs, for they have a double quality."
At this summons, a man of stern and moody aspect appeared, with his hair and dress in great disorder. He was sustained by two others, and the group paused at the foot of the balcony, where the judges sat.
"Your name?" said the Grand Judge, to the eldest of the three.
"Stenio Salvatori," said one.
"Your names?" asked the Grand Judge, of the other two.
"Raphael Salvatori—"
"Francesco Salvatori."
"You swear before God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"I swear," said each of them.
"Do you persist in your accusation against Count Monte-Leone?"
"I do," said they.
"The Count," continued Francesco, "presided over the Venta at Pompeia, where he was seen by my brothers and myself. In our presence he administered the oath to two of the neophytes of the society. They promised to contribute by every means in their power to the dethronement of our well-beloved sovereign Fernando IV., and to destroy monarchy forever in our country. The associates of the Count," added Raphael and Francesco, "discovered us listening to them, and our energy and strength alone preserved us from their poniards."
"And my energy and strength," said Stenio, with an accent of rage, as he sprang unexpectedly from the bench on which he sat and pointed to Monte-Leone, "were able to contend with difficulty against the iron hand and poniard of this man." Then tearing up the cuff which hid his wound, he showed the judges a deep and blood-stained stab. A feeling of horror took possession of all the assembly. Every eye was fixed on Monte-Leone, who seemed unconscious of the sentiment he inspired.
"The Count avenged himself on one of us, because we did our duty in denouncing him," said Francesco Salvatori.
"He would have murdered us all had he been able," said Raphael.
"Stenio," resumed Francesco, "has atoned for all the family."
"And we ask," said Stenio, with a terrible voice, "we ask justice on the assassin! We demand it of God, the king, and the judges."
The tall stature of Stenio, his pallor heightened by anger, and the bloody arm he intentionally exposed, made such an impression on the spectators that a murmur of approbation ran round the room. More numerous voices, however, soon drowned it.
"Count Monte-Leone, have you prepared yourself to reply to these accusations, or have you chosen a defender?"
"I have."
"Name him," said the Grand Judge.
"My defender is Stenio Salvatori, my accuser."
Nothing could exceed the surprise caused by these words, not only in the minds of the three witnesses, but of the court and public.
"Count," said the Grand Judge, solemnly, "you must remember this accusation is a solemn one; that you are accused of two crimes, the punishment of which is known to you. Such an answer testifies your small respect to this court, and must injure a cause which needs to be ably defended."
"Signor," replied Monte-Leone, "it is because I recognize the great importance of the cause, that I confide to this man the duty of exonerating me from it. He alone can do so: his mouth alone, his lips, will demonstrate my innocence. Stenio Salvatori says, he saw me preside at the Venta of Pompeia."
"I did," said Stenio, rising again.
"He says I stabbed him at his threshold in the town of Torre-del-Greco."
"I do," said Stenio.
"You see clearly, Signori," continued the Count, speaking to the court, "that this man is establishing my case distinctly, as he saw me neither at Pompeia nor at Torre-del-Greco. The day on which he, his brothers, and the people of the latter town, say they saw me, I was imprisoned in a cell of the Castle Del Uovo, an impenetrable prison whence it is impossible for any human creature to escape, and whence none saw me go."
Bravos filled the hall. The Count was triumphing.
"Signori," said the Grand Judge, rising, "such applause is an insult to the court, and if it be renewed, the trial will be continued with closed doors." Silence was restored.
"Do not believe him," said Stenio, turning towards the auditors and showing his bloody arm. "He was the person who wounded me."
"Justice shall be done," said the Grand Judge. "Signori, a series of secret and minute inquiries instituted in the Castle Del Uovo, the examination of the employers of the fortress and the confronting of the gate-keeper, a man of known piety, and the head jailer, one of the most severe and incorruptible of Naples, have been unable to show how the Count Monte-Leone contrived to escape from prison. In the face of such complete evidence of his having remained in the prison, in the face of the report of the minister of police who visited the prison a few hours after the commission of the crime at Torre-del-Greco, we could not but recognize the innocence of the Count, and fancy that something had led to a mistake in his person. A strange and providential circumstance makes us doubt the innocence of the Count, and though the means of his escape from the castle be unknown to us, we persist in thinking him guilty as accused."
The interest and emotion of the audience was as great as it could be; and the words of the Grand Judge were listened to with the most intense anxiety. At that moment three hearts almost ceased to beat—that of the veiled woman, that of the young man who had replied to her signal, and that of Count Monte-Leone, though his features were unmoved.
"The Count," resumed the Grand Judge, "possesses a family jewel, a ring of immense price, one of the chef-d'œuvres of Benvenuto Cellini. This ring he rarely lays aside, as we learn from many witnesses, and a secret superstition induces him always to wear it. Did he hide it from the jailers at the time of his incarceration, or did he obtain possession of it on his way to Torre-del-Greco? This has not as yet been demonstrated: one thing, however, is certain, he lost this jewel in his contest with Stenio Salvatori, who, having obtained possession of it, placed it in the hands of his Excellency the Duke of Palma, as a positive and incontestable evidence of the criminality of the Count. This mute witness is here," said the Grand Judge, who as he spoke exhibited a sparkling brilliant to the audience.
The judges took the emerald, and silently looked at it. When the Grand Judge first spoke of the emerald, the Count was satisfied that he was lost, and drops of icy sweat coursed down his cheeks. But yet his courage and energy, even when he saw the emerald in the hands of the judges, did not desert him, and he struggled against the new danger which had beset him in so strange and unexpected a manner.
"This ring," said he, pointing to the emerald, "is a fortune in itself, and may have been stolen from me."
The Grand Judge arose to reply, when an old man advanced toward the tribunal, pushing aside all who opposed his passage, and in spite of the resistance of the ushers and guards, reached the foot of the balcony on which the judges sat. With tears and an excited voice he said:
"The ring has not been stolen! It has not left our jewel closet, and I have brought it to the judges."
"Do not believe him," said the Salvatori, "he deceives you. This is the Count's ring."
"Silence, impostors!" said the old man. "I learned yesterday, from public rumor, the story of our ring being lost by Count Monte-Leone, the intendant of whom I am, and I have brought the precious jewel hither to confound our accusers."
Nothing could equal the effect produced by Giacomo's words. The court itself participated in the surprise, and the Grand Judge, making the old servant approach, took the jewel from his hand.
"Two rings!" said he, amazed; "two similar emeralds! Signori," said he, speaking to the court, "this event again changes the face of this trial. One of these jewels is evidently a copy of the other, such as the hand of a great artist alone can produce. There was, however, never but one Benvenuto in the world, and it will be easy to distinguish his work."
The words of the Grand Judge increased the agitation of the crowd. The Count, whom his friends thought saved, lost by the discovery of the emerald, and again restored by the testimony of Giacomo, became every moment an object of new interest and more intense curiosity. If we must use the word, pity for him increased. Every step taken seemed to bring his head nearer to or to remove it farther from the executioner. Just here this event interrupted the session of the court.
The judges retired to their room, the Salvatori to the witness chamber, until the experts, whom the president had sent for, should come. The interval between the acts, however, was filled by a touching episode which deeply excited the audience. Giacomo, taking advantage of the departure of the judges, hurried to his master, fell at his knees, and covered his hand with kisses.
"Go back!—go back!" said the chief of the officers to Giacomo. "No one is permitted to communicate with the accused."
Adding action to words, they seized the old man by the arm, and bore him from his master.
Giacomo however found time to whisper to the Count, "You are saved."
The crowd was so touched by the affection of the old servant, that it was near taking sides with him against the officers who had interfered.
The veiled lady stood motionless as a statue and watched the scene. So abstracted and calm did she appear, that it might have been supposed her eyes looked on while her mind was far away. Her eyes, animated by a thousand sentiments, glittered beneath her veil. The young man to whom she had made signals did not lose sight of her, and his whole soul seemed enchained to the life presence and breath of this woman.
The experts came; the court resumed its sessions; the Salvatori entered. The experts were three of the most skilful lapidaries of Naples, where the art of engraving on stone had reached the greatest excellence. They approached the bar. The president said:
"On your soul and conscience, and by Christ your Saviour, you swear to tell the truth."
"We swear."
"Tell us which of these two rings is the work of Benvenuto Cellini."
"On my soul and conscience, and by Christ," said the first expert, after a careful scrutiny, "this is the work of Benvenuto Cellini."
"And you, sir?" said the judge to the second.
"On my soul and conscience, and by Christ, this is the work of the great master."
"And this ring," said the judge, "what is it?"
"This is but a copy, compared with the original, of trifling value and fineness."
"Very well, Signori," said the Grand Judge, rising, and with a ring in each hand. "This ring given me yesterday by the Duke of Palma, and by him received from the Salvatori, is an imitation of Benvenuto Cellini's great work. The real ring of the Monte-Leoni, the chef-d'oeuvre, an heir-loom of the family, has just been brought us by an old servant of that noble house."
The effect of the words of the Grand Judge was immense. He was silent, and with the other judges consulted about the decree. A few moments after, with his hand on his heart, the Grand Judge said:
"After having carefully sought for traces of the double crime of which Count Monte-Leone is accused—after having heard the public accuser, the proof is found most incomplete. It appears that all the facts are based on the resemblance of Count Monte-Leone with some unknown person, in relation to whose identity the Salvatori were mistaken. The court declares the Count Monte-Leone innocent of the double crime imputed to him, and orders that he be immediately released. As for you, the brothers Salvatori," continued the Grand Judge, sternly, "your hatred to the Count Monte-Leone is well known. We interpret your conduct in the most favorable light, attributing it to mistake, and not to cowardly revenge. If the counterfeit ring was fabricated at your instance, to corroborate the accusations made against the Count, and justice should become possessed of proofs of it, you would have to fear its rigor and punishment. If there be severe laws for calumniators, those for assassins are yet more stern. You would in that case have murdered Count Monte-Leone."
The Salvatori were amazed. The rage of Stenio was irrepressible.
"Beautiful justice! Do we serve the king so faithfully for his justices to treat us thus! I repeat again," said he with an accent so terrible that it reached even Monte-Leone's heart, "the Count was at Pompeia. He stabbed me. He is an assassin!"
He then left as he had entered, walking painfully, and leaning on the arms of his brothers. When Stenio Salvatori, spoke thus, the Count had withdrawn, and the noise in the hall prevented the judges from hearing him. The tumult was as great as possible in the hall, which hitherto had been so calm and silent. The public seemed to move, shout, and become clamorous, as a recompense for the constraint which had been so long enforced.
The beautiful woman in the recess, who had been so long impassible and motionless, seemed to sympathize with the excited crowd, and lifting up her noble form to its full height, as the Grand Judge spoke the last words, she threw aside her veil, and lifted to heaven her eyes, full of gratitude and joy. She then looked toward Monte-Leone with an expression of the most passionate love, and immediately letting fall her veil, as if to enwrap her sentiments in night, left the room. Quickly, however, as she left, the first of the young men, whose conversation was detailed in the early part of this chapter, had time to see her, and said to his companion:
"Signor, indeed you are fortunate. The lady of whom we spoke not long since, and whom you know so well, is the very spirit of beauty incarnate, she is the most magnificent woman in the world. It is La Felina."
"You think so?" said Taddeo Rovero, who had become yet paler when the singer threw up her veil.
"Yes, I think so," said the first speaker, with a smile, "and I am also sure you know so." He left.
In the mean time the friends and partisans of the Count surrounded him. Among them were the chief nobles of Naples, for, as has been said before, the cause of one of the order became that of all, and Monte-Leone's success was a triumph to all the class. Amid a proud and gallant escort, the Count left the Castello Capuano. Scarcely had he left the door when enthusiastic cries were heard on all sides. The people, who had been in the street since dawn, waited impatiently for the result of the trial, for Monte-Leone was immensely popular. The crowd from time to time heard the various incidents of the trial from persons who had contrived to get into the hall. The rumors in favor of Monte-Leone were received with shouts of joy, and those injurious to him with cries and curses. The sentence was hailed as a priceless boon by the crowd around the Chateau Capuano. The people are everywhere, it is said, the same. The people of every country are doubtless impressionable and easily excited. A kind of electricity pervades large bodies, and the subtle fluid certainly is found everywhere. But among people of the south, under the burning sun which scorches their brains, the Italians, and especially the Neapolitans, in their public assemblies, attain a degree of fanaticism and exaltation, of which the people of the north have no idea. The eruptions of their own Vesuvius are the only things to which the passions of their populace can be compared.
When the Count and his escort left the court-room, the people literally rushed upon them. A thousand hands, not half so seemly as those which already had clasped his own, were extended towards his. These strong and sturdy hands seemed to promise him protection in case it should be needful for him at any future time to seek it.
From this crowd of men with sternly marked features, shaded by hats of gray felt, there fell on the Count's ear such words as, "Two hands pledged in friendship are but one!" Venta of Castel la Marc.
"A dagger for ten enemies!" Venta of Capua.
"Our right, silence, or death!" Venta of Annunziata.
"Eyes to watch, and a hand to strike!" Venta of Pompeia.
To which the Count replied, by the word Speranza, accompanied by a clasp of the hand and a significative glance.
"My friends," said a penetrating voice, "for heaven's sake give him air. The poor man has need of air. We know you love him. He is the friend of the people of Naples, all know, but he should not on that account be stifled. By the miracle of San Januarius restore him to me, restore my master to me, you may have him soon, but now he needs the care of old Giacomo."
Giacomo took the Count's arm, and sought to remove him from the crowd which surrounded him. The Count paid no attention to the old intendant. For a time, he strove almost to cast him off, and stood looking anxiously at a person he saw in the crowd, and whom like a swimmer he sought to approach. This person was his friend Taddeo Rovero. The young man sought in vain to approach the Count. The tide of living beings seconded their wishes, and at last they rushed into the arms of each other, forgetting, while thus enlocked, the world, their secret thoughts, the past, and the present, and mingling together the tears of friendship.
"Air, day, sunlight, motion, life, life itself I have found. They woke up our existence; a dungeon is death—"
Again he threw himself into the arms of Taddeo, with an expression of tenderness and happiness.
"Adieu, my friends," said he to the crowd. "Count Monte-Leone will never forget these proofs of your sympathy, and you may rely on him, his arm, his heart, his fortune, as he does on you."
Taking Taddeo by the arm, he hurried into a neighboring street, accompanied at a little distance by Giacomo, who, as he panted after them, cried out, "Too fast, too fast—what the devil can I do? My legs are worn out—remember I came from the villa to la Vicaria on foot to bring your ring to the Grand Judge."
"My ring!"—then looking anxiously at Giacomo, and in a low tone, he said:
"Are you sure it is my ring?"
"Yes, I swear to it by the blood of Christ and by your life."
"My friends," said the Count, "we have strange secrets to talk of when we are in a safe place. And there the ear and lip must be close together, so that not even the walls of the room in which we are shall be struck by the sound of our accents. Wait for me at the Etruscan villa. In two hours I will rejoin you."
"Why not go thither now?" asked Taddeo.
"Two hours hence I will tell you."
Without speaking a word, and without listening to Rovero's reply, Monte-Leone put on a cloak the old intendant had brought and passed into a labyrinth of passages, with the intricate windings of which his political associations had made him familiar. An hour after the Count so brusquely left Taddeo and the old intendant, he paused at the door of one of the most ancient churches in Naples, an old pile, built in 1284, and called San Domenico Maggiore. It is of vast size, built in the Gothic style, and has a magnificent picture of Titiano, the Flagellation of Caravaggio, and in the sacristy a glory by Solimené. But not to contemplate them had Monte-Leone come to the church. A deeply-rooted sentiment forced him, for a few moments, to pause beneath the old portico before he entered the sanctuary.
Nothing is more touching, more poetical, and more mysterious, than the old Christian temples, which like giants of stone have braved the ravages of time and the hands of men. Generations, as they pass away, worship beneath their arches, and the prayers of many centuries have echoed in their walls, which are yet open to coming time.
The deep notes of the organ attracted the attention of Monte-Leone and increased his excitement. He crossed the church, went down the nave, and approached a lateral chapel where a taper was burning with a flickering light. The Count entered the chapel. Those who had seen him amid the brilliant society of Naples, or amid the awful judicial ordeal to which he had just been subjected, and which he had undergone with such coolness and audacity, would not have recognized the humble and trembling man, who knelt before a sarcophagus of black marble surmounted with the coronet and arms of the Monte-Leoni. The Count knelt at the tomb of his father—his father, who was his religion and his faith. He would have thought himself unworthy of his protection had he not gone immediately on his release to worship those consecrated relics. Prostrate at the monument he prayed with fervor. All the recent events of his life occurred to him. And in the kind of hallucination caused by prolonged meditation, awake as he was, he entered the realm of dreams. He seemed to see two genii seeking, the one to drag him towards heaven and the other towards the abyss. The genii were two females. They recalled the features of two charming and beautiful women, whom he remembered. One had the gentle and pale expression of Aminta; the other, the more masculine and stately air of La Felina. The one which led him heavenward was Aminta. The sound of the organ, the mysterious light which pervaded the chapel, the religious effect of the whole scene, exaggerated the excitement of the Count, and contributed to add to his nervousness. Two mild melancholy voices, like those of angels praying for the guilty, mingled with the organ's notes, and Monte-Leone fancied that he heard in the distance the voices of departed souls. The blood of Monte-Leone became chilled, for at that moment he asked his father to reveal to him the future, and guide him in his perilous path. The song of the dead seemed to reply to him. The Count, like other energetic and brave men, like Cæsar and Napoleon, was very superstitious. We have seen him brave death without trembling, though it came in the most terrible form. He who had struggled against the waves of the sea, and confronted the Grand Judge of Naples, grew pale when he heard the de profundis chanted in an obscure church and by the side of a tomb. By a strange fatality, nothing seemed wanting which could increase the sadness of Monte-Leone. Just as he was about to leave the church the solitary light was extinguished. The young man fancied this accident a declaration of the will of God. Terror-stricken, he left the church, and did not regain his consciousness until he stood in the portico of the old temple. In a few moments he shook off his idle apprehensions, but the sombre scene perpetually reacted upon him, as we shall see hereafter. It left a deep trace upon his mind, and materially influenced his subsequent life.
Two hours after he left the church, the Count rode on the horse of one of his friends to the Etruscan villa, which, as we have said, was on the road to Castel la Marc. Giacomo was waiting at the door for him, and taking a resinous torch, lighted his master to the strange room which we described in the first part of this book. Things remained precisely as they were on the night of the ball of San Carlo. The lights were burning, the hangings displayed their richness, the Greek and Roman couches were arrayed, and a magnificent supper was prepared. There were, however, but two covers, one for the Count and the other for young Rovero. By the side of the Count's plate lay the emerald of Benvenuto, of which he had so miraculously regained possession.
"It is the emerald," said the Count. "Who brought it hither?"
"An officer of the court, from Signor San Angelo, the Grand Judge of Naples."
Monte-Leone looked at it again, and said, "It is one of God's own miracles."
"Not so," said Rovero, "it is one of Love's own;" and he gave the Count the letter of La Felina.