“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.