Gentle and generous instinct of woman! Her first thought under the severest pressure of calamity is always for the dear ones whom the blow that crushes her perchance may bruise!
At length the gondola stopped. The moon was shining so brightly, that the marble steps seemed almost to radiate light. There was a hum of voices at a distance, and tones of music at intervals floated on the air; but all was still immediately around them. Two of the guard took their places on either side of the prisoners; two followed; the officer walked before and led the way up a dark flight of steps that terminated in a wide corridor. This, too, was only lighted by a torch carried in the hand of one of the attendants.
“Antonio, whither are we going?” asked Madame Tamburini, in a feeble voice, and leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, half fainting with affright.
“Courage, my beloved!” answered he, supporting her with his arm; “we shall soon know the worst.”
Crossing the corridor, they entered another long gallery, and walked its whole length in silence, stopping before a massive door at the lower end. The officer directed the door to be opened. It swung on its hinges with a most dungeon-like grating, and the prisoners were ushered into the next apartment.
The sudden light, combined with the effect of overpowering surprise, nearly completed the work of terror on the lady’s trembling frame; she would have fallen to the earth had not the officer supported her. Several persons came crowding round to offer their assistance. Tamburini thought himself fallen into a trance, and rubbed his eyes. They stood in the green-room of the opera house!
This, then, was their dungeon! And what meant this bold invasion of their liberty?—this marching them back as prisoners, under guard, and in fear of their lives? Was it the work of the Impressario? Apparently not—for he stood with open eyes and mouth, as much astonished as the rest at the unexpected apparition of the distinguished singer. He turned an inquiring look towards the officer.
“I know what you would ask, Signor Tamburini,” replied the cool official, “and will give you all the satisfaction in my power. I have the honor to announce to you the commands of His Majesty the Emperor. It is his imperial will that you perform this night in the Marriage of Figaro. The Emperor himself, with His Majesty the Emperor of Russia, will honor the performance with his presence.”
Who is there that had the happiness of being present on that memorable occasion, of witnessing the brilliant and graceful performance of Tamburini, that can forget it? The splendor of the scene, the countless number of spectators, comprising the beauty and aristocracy of the most aristocratic of Italian cities, assembled in the presence of two of the most powerful monarchs in Europe; the pomp of royalty; the enthusiasm of a people eager to do homage to genius; the gorgeous decorations of the theatre; the admirable aid of a well chosen orchestra—all these were but accessories to the triumph of the young and distinguished artist. It was for him this glorious pageant was devised—he was the power that set in motion this vast machinery! What wonder that human pride failed to withstand a tribute so splendid, and that Tamburini, as he trod the stage, and listened to the bursts of rapturous applause that shook the house like peals of thunder, and knew himself the cynosure of all eyes,—the idol of beauty, nobility and royalty,—felt within his breast an inspiration almost superhuman!
When the opera was over, he was called out to receive the bravos of the audience, and the wreaths that fell in showers at his feet. When, flushed with triumph, yet filled with gratitude, he returned behind the curtain, he was surprised to find himself still a prisoner. The guard was ready to conduct him accompanied by his wife to the lodging assigned them. They were treated, indeed, with courtesy and respect, like prisoners of state; but our hero felt uneasy under the restraint, of which he could obtain no explanation further than “he would know on the morrow.”