“Nay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, “I like not the wines of Cyprus, they are heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have the same distaste. The English are said to love their potations warm and pungent.”
“Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, Prince?” said Zicci. “Recollect all cannot drink it with the same impunity as myself.”
“No,” said the Prince, hastily; “if you do not recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we should constrain our guests! My Lord Duke,” turning to one of the Frenchmen, “yours is the true soil of Bacchus. What think you of this cask from Burgundy,—has it borne the journey?”
“Ah!” said Zicci, “let us change both the wine and the theme.” With that the Corsican grew more animated and brilliant. Never did wit more sparkling, airy, exhilarating, flash from the lips of reveller. His spirits fascinated all present, even the Prince himself, even Glyndon, with a strange and wild contagion. The former, indeed, whom the words and gaze of Zicci, when he drained the poison, had filled with fearful misgivings, now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit a certain sign of the operation of the bane. The wine circulated fast, but none seemed conscious of its effects. One by one the rest of the party fell into a charmed and spell-bound silence as Zicci continued to pour forth sally upon sally, tale upon tale. They hung on his words, they almost held their breath to listen. Yet how bitter was his mirth; how full of contempt for all things; how deeply steeped in the coldness of the derision that makes sport of life itself!
Night came on; the room grew dim, and the feast had lasted several hours longer than was the customary duration of similar entertainments at that day. Still the guests stirred not, and still Zicci continued, with glittering eye and mocking lip, to lavish his stores of intellect and anecdote, when suddenly the moon rose, and shed its rays over the flowers and fountains in the court without, leaving the room itself half in shadow and half tinged by a quiet and ghostly light.
It was then that Zicci rose. “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “we have not yet wearied our host, I hope, and his garden offers a new temptation to protract our stay. Have you no musicians among your train, Prince, that might regale our ears while we inhale the fragrance of your orange-trees?”
“An excellent thought,” said the Prince. “Mascari, see to the music.”
The party rose simultaneously to adjourn to the garden; and then, for the first time, the effect of the wine they had drunk seemed to make itself felt.
With flushed cheeks and unsteady steps they came into the open air, which tended yet more to stimulate that glowing fever of the grape. As if to make up for the silence with which the guests had hitherto listened to Zicci, every tongue was now loosened; every man talked, no man listened. In the serene beauty of the night and scene there was something wild and fearful in the contrast of the hubbub and Babel of these disorderly roysterers. One of the Frenchmen in especial, the young Due de R—,—a nobleman of the highest rank, and of all the quick, vivacious, and irascible temperament of his countrymen,—was particularly noisy and excited. And as circumstances, the remembrance of which is still preserved among certain circles of Naples, rendered it afterwards necessary that the Due should himself give evidence of what occurred, I will here translate the short account he drew up, and which was kindly submitted to me some few years ago by my accomplished and lively friend, il Cavaliere di B—.
I never remember [writes the Due] to have felt my spirits so
excited as on that evening; we were like so many boys released from
school, jostling each other as we reeled or ran down the flight of
seven or eight stairs that led from the colonnade into the garden,
—some laughing, some whooping, some scolding, some babbling. The
wine had brought out, as it were, each man’s inmost character.
Some were loud and quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining;
some, whom we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful; some, whom
we had ever regarded as discreet and taciturn, most garrulous and
uproarious. I remember that in the midst of our most clamorous
gayety my eye fell upon the foreign cavalier, Signor Zicci, whose
conversation had so enchanted us all, and I felt a certain chill
come over me to perceive that he bore the same calm and
unsympathizing smile upon his countenance which had characterized
it in his singular and curious stories of the court of Louis XV. I
felt, indeed, half inclined to seek a quarrel with one whose
composure was almost an insult to our disorder. Nor was such an
effect of this irritating and mocking tranquillity confined to
myself alone. Several of the party have told me since that on
looking at Zicci they felt their blood rise and their hands wander
to their sword-hilts. There seemed in the icy smile a very charm
to wound vanity and provoke rage. It was at this moment that the
Prince came up to me, and, passing his arm into mine, led me a
little apart from the rest he had certainly indulged in the same
excess as ourselves, but it did not produce the same effect of
noisy excitement. There was, on the contrary a certain cold
arrogance and supercilious scorn in his bearing and language,
which, even while affecting so much caressing courtesy towards me,
roused my self-love against him. He seemed as if Zicci had
infected him, and that in imitating the manner of his guest he
surpassed the original, he rallied me on some court gossip which
had honored my name by associating it with a certain beautiful and
distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat with contempt
that which, had it been true, I should have regarded as a boast.
He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered all the flowers of
Naples, and left us foreigners only the gleanings he had scorned;
at this my natural and national gallantry was piqued, and I
retorted by some sarcasms that I should certainly have spared had
my blood been cooler. He laughed heartily, and left me in a
strange fit of resentment and anger. Perhaps (I must own the
truth) the wine had produced in me a wild disposition to take
offence and provoke quarrel. As the Prince left me, I turned, and
saw Zicci at my side.
“The Prince is a braggart,” said he, with the same smile that
displeased me before. “He would monopolize all fortune and all
love. Let us take our revenge.”
“And how?”
“He has at this moment in his house the most enchanting singer in
Naples,—the celebrated Isabel di Pisani. She is here, it is true,
not by her own choice,—he carried her hither by force; but he will
pretend to swear that she adores him. Let us insist on his
producing the secret treasure; and when she enters, the Duc de Lt——
can have no doubt that his flatteries and attentions will charm the
lady and provoke all the jealous fears of our host. It would be a
fair revenge upon his imperious self conceit.”
This suggestion delighted me. I hastened to the Prince. At that
instant the musicians had just commenced. I waved my hand, ordered
the music to stop, and addressing the Prince, who was standing in
the centre of one of the gayest groups, complained of his want of
hospitality in affording to us such poor proficients in the art
while he reserved for his own solace the lute and voice of the
first performer in Naples. I demanded, half laughingly, half
seriously, that he should produce the Pisani. My demand was
received with shouts of applause by the rest. We drowned the
replies of our host with uproar, and would hear no denial.
“Gentlemen,” at last said the Prince, when he could obtain an
audience, “even were I to assent to your proposal, I could not
induce the signora to present herself before an assemblage as
riotous as they are noble. You have too much chivalry to use
compulsion with her, though the Due de R—forgets himself
sufficiently to administer it to inc.”
I was stung by this taunt, however well deserved. “Prince,” said
I, “I have for the indelicacy of compulsion so illustrious an
example that I cannot hesitate to pursue the path honored by your
own footsteps. All Naples knows that the Pisani despises at once
your gold and your love; that force alone could have brought her
under your roof; and that you refuse to produce her because you
fear her complaints, and know enough of the chivalry your vanity
sneers at to feel assured that the gentlemen of France are not more
disposed to worship beauty than to defend it from wrong.”
“You speak well, sir,” said Zicci, gravely;—“the Prince dare not
produce his prize.”
The Prince remained speechless for a few moments, as if with
indignation. At last he broke out into expressions the most
injurious and insulting against Signor Zicci and myself. Zicci
replied not; I was more hot and hasty. The guests appeared to
delight in our dispute. None except Mascari, whom we pushed aside
and disdained to hear, strove to conciliate; some took one side,
some another. The issue may be well foreseen. Swords were drawn.
I had left mine in the ante room; Zicci offered me his own,—I
seized it eagerly. There might be some six or eight persons
engaged in a strange and confused kind of melee, but the Prince and
myself only sought each other. The noise around us, the confusion
of the guests, the cries of the musicians, the clash of our own
swords, only served to stimulate our unhappy fury. We feared to be
interrupted by the attendants and fought like madmen, without skill
or method. I thrust and parried mechanically, blind and frantic as
if a demon had entered into me, till I saw the Prince stretched at
my feet, bathed in his blood, and Zicci bending over him and
whispering in his ear. The sight cooled us all; the strife ceased.
We gathered in shame, remorse, and horror round our ill-fated host;
but it was too late, his eyes rolled fearfully in his head, and
still he struggled to release himself from Zicci’s arms, who
continued to whisper (I trust divine comfort) in his ear. I have
seen men die, but, never one who wore such horror on his
countenance. At last all was over; Zicci rose from the corpse, and
taking, with great composure, his sword from my hand,—“Ye are
witnesses, gentlemen,” said he, calmly, “that the Prince brought
his fate upon himself. The last of that illustrious house has
perished in a brawl.”
I saw no more of Zicci. I hastened to the French ambassador to
narrate the event and abide the issue. I am grateful to the
Neapolitan government and to the illustrious heir of the
unfortunate nobleman for the lenient and generous, yet just,
interpretation put upon a misfortune the memory of which will
afflict me to the last hour of my life. (Signed) Louis Victor,
Duc de R.