I scarcely heard him: I felt as if oppressed by a frightful nightmare. The idea that that kind old man was dead, whom I had so lately seen in good health and spirits; and dead so suddenly, so unexpectedly, was too strange and unaccountable for me to realize. Mechanically I followed Guiseppe into the house, and entered the studio, in which I had passed so many pleasant hours since my arrival in Rome; nothing was displaced from the position in which he had left it, when first taken sick; and notwithstanding the consciousness of his death, I momentarily expected to see his tall thin form, and benevolent face, appear at the open door. Guiseppe had left the room, and I fell into a reverie, in which were blended my sad regrets at this unexpected loss, when the old domestic returned, and handed me the packet his master bequeathed me as a legacy, together with the address of the lawyer who wished to see me. I put them both in my pocket: and then turned to the old man, who stood by my side, with his arms folded.
“And you, my good Guiseppe, what do you intend doing, now the good Signor is dead, where do you think of going to?”
Tears startled in the old man’s eyes, as he replied—“I hardly know myself, sir, what I shall do; I think I will return into the country with Signor Carrara’s cousin; I only liked Rome, because I could live with my dear, kind master; and now he’s gone, I would rather go than stay.”
“If you conclude to remain, Guiseppe, and if my influence can be of service in obtaining you another situation, call on me, and I will do whatever I can for you.”
“I thank you a thousand times, Signor,” answered the grateful Italian; and I sadly retraced my steps to our hotel. Augustus was almost as surprised as I had been, on hearing of the sudden death of his artist-friend; he could scarcely believe it, so unexpected had been the sad event, and expressed some curiosity to learn what I had to do with Carrara’s will.
I had not spoken of the packet to Augustus: that was my own little secret; and when night had assumed her reign, I took a “bougie” and established myself in my chamber, with the door locked to prevent intrusion, and proceeded to the examination of this mysterious package. After taking off the paper wrapper, I saw a small silver casket, locked, and the little gold key belonging to it, lying within the paper; upon unlocking it, I saw a bundle of manuscript, and a letter addressed to myself in Carrara’s handwriting. Some of the papers of the diary had already become yellow from age. I hurriedly opened the letter, anxious to learn what this singular present meant; it was dated some days back, during carnival time; the contents were thus:—
“My dear young Friend,
“I feel a presentiment of my approaching dissolution; already the angel of death fans me with his wings, he beckons me to come to that unknown shore; he invites me to drink of the cup of oblivion, and forget all things in the quiet sleep of death. I am now an old man; I have experienced all that I shall ever experience of pleasure; the world is no longer either pleasing or new to me. Death, therefore, so far from appearing an enemy, seems like a dear friend, who comes to release me from future decrepitude and imbecility.
“You will recollect you one day asked me, while gazing upon the portrait of the beautiful Countess Calabrella, what had been her character, and her destiny in life? you seemed to admire, and love to look upon, that picture; when living, no man ever looked upon her without loving her; the manuscript enclosed within the casket is a diary of her own life, which she, confiding in my discretion, promised, and sent to me, previous to her final departure from Rome.
“The perusal of these sad recollections of her childhood, I feel confident, will interest you; they will, at least, exemplify the virtuous struggles of a noble soul, and that determined will, and perseverance in the paths of rectitude and morality, which sooner or later rises triumphantly over the transient contingencies of fortune.