“You have told me I cannot be to you what I wish to be. You have bade me be your friend, and as I cannot be that with safety either to you or myself, we must see each other no more; at least not now, as you say; but to me the prospect of a future lawful re-union is very dim and remote. But you have not denied me the honor and pleasure of writing you, and that shall be a slight link of friendship between us when I am far away,—for I intend leaving, a few days hence, for Epirus, having to-day resigned my commission as chamberlain to his majesty,—and I shall treasure the precious replies you send me as mementos breathing your own pure spirit.
“I shall resume my lonely wanderings in the Levant, where two years ago, I spent many happy hours in silent contemplation. To those scenes I shall transport your fairy form, and in your imaginary society, the ruined grandeur of Athens,—the stately remains of Agrigentum,—the classic shores of Troy,—will acquire new beauties for me from association. Would that you were with me,—that your dreamy, philosophic mind, might conjure up visions of past magnificence, and revel in the recollections of what it was, contrasted with what it is.
“But why do I wander into dreams again? Suffice it to say, that I must go while yet I have the will to do so, and in bidding you farewell, I feel as if bidding adieu to life. But most generally in life so it is. No sooner have you found a sympathetic mind,—one in whose society existence would wing itself away only too delightfully,—than some fatal accident tears her away, as if Providence envied human felicity, so rarely is it found on earth. I know, however, that that angelic virtue which has so nobly sustained you thus far, will continue to do so to the end; and that it will, of itself, be a great reward. And that heaven may shower upon your pathway roses, the brightest, the most beautiful, is the fervent prayer of your own
“Alfieri Calabrella.”
Below his signature, was written in small characters,—“I shall write you next from Epirus, and expect an answer there.”
I read it again and again,—I kissed the words and examined the handwriting,—then I folded it, and carefully laid it away in an album. Within a week, then, he would be away on his journey to Epirus. Far away from me: I should only hear from him through the indifferent communication of letters; and how unhappy I should feel when I actually saw him depart. But I felt in my own heart that I had acted rightly, and the consciousness of moral rectitude upheld me.
That night I played the part of Norma to a crowded house. Again the lips and eyes of royalty applauded me. Never did I look better: the excitement of my mind had sent the hot blood to my cheeks, and my long auburn hair, falling to my waist in spiral ringlets, relieved my face. An unwonted inspiration came over me that night, and my voice was unusually clear; the house was in an uproar of delight, but neither elated by my triumph, nor caring for the admiration I elicited, I was about leaving the stage, when the silk curtains of the lower stage box were drawn aside, and the beautiful, but pale and sad face of the count presented itself to my view. So sudden was the encounter of our eyes, so strange this unexpressed adieu, that I scarcely had recollection enough to leave the stage.
Determined to avoid the crowd which always awaited me in the green-room, I requested the manager to hand me to my calesso, which he did, and I drove to my hotel.
It was one o’clock. Pasiphae sat in the bedroom near an open window,—Raphael lay on his bed in a sweet slumber. I thought I saw something glitter on my dressing table: going towards it, I perceived a small Tripoli chain, with a tiny gold heart attached to it, and a slip of paper pinned to it, with these words written upon it:
“Let the child wear this in remembrance of me.