When I had read this fatal letter, I endeavored to look around for the man who had brought it, but I could not see him: the room darkened, and, with a wild shriek, I fell into Pasiphae’s arms, and lost all recollection.
I must carry you onward another year. When I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of this unexpected news, I sent to Pondicherry, and had the remains of my unfortunate husband brought to Naples. I thought I should have gone mad when I saw the body: and with bitter sadness did I consign it to mother earth. A marble tombstone was placed over him in the cemetery of the convent of Sacre Cœur. Of his adventures, or the cause of his going to Pondicherry, I never knew. All I learned was, that he came there, boarded at the house of the man who had written me, and was gentlemanly and reserved. They knew nothing of him. He told no one any thing concerning himself. He had been there some weeks at the period of his self-destruction; and it was merely from accident that the landlord had supposed, that perhaps there might be a relationship between two persons of the same name. Thus, through the merest chance, after six months of anxiety and sadness, did I once more, and for the last time, look upon my Rinaldo’s face.
There is a feeling between husband and wife—that is to say, between husbands and wives of any sensibility, who have ever loved—there is, I say, a feeling of affection, which will sooner or later return, however alienated the parties may have become. As I stood over that lifeless form, and thought of his erratic career, and wayward, uncertain character; of his love for me, and subsequent desertion; his entering into a conspiracy against the government; then carried as prisoner of state to Naples; his escape and after-wanderings—all rushed through my mind. Why had he acted thus? Why had he not been honest, upright? Why? Of whom could I ask that question? The earth falling on the coffin was my only reply.
Let me pass over those times.
It was in the dawn of spring, I occupied a small Gothic cottage about a mile from Naples. Two domestics and my child—now a lisping, rosy boy—together with Pasiphae, were its sole tenants. The grounds of this sylvan abode were beautifully laid out, and the fairest flowers planted there. There, too, a marble fountain threw high in air its airy spray—cooling the air and adorning the garden by its beauty.
Several rustic arbors, formed of the pliable bamboo, and shaped in Gothic turrets, were placed at intervals along the gravel walks, which, meeting in one broad attic before the porch ended there; the birds sang their sweetest songs in the day time; and, at night, the spiritual warbling of the nightingale was the inspirer of the hour.
Here, one sunny afternoon, I sat under the shade of a tree, watching Raphael, and Zoe, his pet dog, running races. The frolicksome glee of the child, the graceful antics of the dog, as he sometimes ran after his baby master,—sometimes solicited pursuit in return,—amused and diverted me. As the child grew older I could trace his father’s lineaments in his young features: and the thoughts which were recalled by that resemblance only rendered me sadder than I was. I was reading Petrarch’s sonnets, a volume of which had been presented me by my husband during the first months of my marriage: their gloomy descriptions of love and beauty entranced my soul; and, absorbed, I read on, forgetful even of the playful cries of Raphael, when I saw Pasiphae coming towards me, her face lighted with more than usual animation: and with a gleeful voice she told me a man desired to see me in the salon.
“Ask him to send me word what he wants, Pasiphae. I do not wish to see any one this morning. Why did you not deny me yourself? you know I do not want to talk,” was my reply; for I was indisposed to see visitors, or answer business engagements.