For a time after his marriage no man was happier than Count Giulio, and no woman more loving or beloved than Diomida. Proud of each other, their mutual tenderness and devotion appeared to increase every day, and their happiness became a proverb among their friends. If the count returned ruffled in temper by losses at the gaming table, by debates in the senate, by any obstruction opposed to the passage of his gondola on the canal or his train on the steps of the Rialto, the soft voice and gentle smile of Diomida were sure to soothe his fiery spirit; which was easily chafed by trifles into a fury. At the sound of her voice or the pressure of her little hand, the gloom vanished from his haughty brow, and the annoyance was forgotten: Diomida was formed for love and delight, and anger fled from her presence. The count doted on the noble girl whom he had taken to his bosom, and enthroned in his palace: his affection had no equal save her own. His innocent bride was supremely happy; giddy with joys that were too bright to last. She saw not the storm that was gathering in the distance, and which, urged by the power of her evil genius, was so soon to overwhelm her.
The young Count di Strazoldi—who had been serving under Zondodari, Grand Master of Malta, and had gained considerable renown in the war against the Ottoman Porte—arrived in Venice, six months after Giulio, at the altar of Sta. Maria della Salute, had placed on the bright tresses of Diomida that coronet which ought to have adorned the sister of Strazoldi.
Like all the Venetian nobles, the Count di Strazoldi was fierce, haughty, and infatuated with his family rank; and being naturally of a libertine disposition, his residence among the knights of San Giovani—whose loose mode of life is proverbial—did not improve his morals. The wild cavaliers and reckless military spirits with whom he had associated, in the garrisons of La Valetta and Melita, had altogether destroyed the little sense of honour which a Venetian education had left uncorrupted; and he returned, a perfect devil in heart, though assuming the frank air of a soldier, and the graceful manners of an accomplished cavalier. When flushed with wine, however, his features had a stern expression, and his restless eyes a daring look, that quiet men shrunk from; and he then looked more like a debauched and brutal bravo, than a polished Venetian gentleman.
Lucretia, his sister, to whom La Torre had preferred the gentle and timid Diomida, was the most imperious and haughty signora in the duchy; notwithstanding the exquisite softness imparted to her brilliant charms by the Lombardo blood of her race. Fired at the preference of La Torre for the beautiful Cornaro, her love turned to the deadliest hatred; and she demanded of her brother Stefano to challenge La Torre to a duel on the Bialto. But Count Strazoldi was tired of fighting: he had seen enough of it under the banner of Malta, and in the valley of the demons in Sicily, under the Marquiss de Leda, and was not disposed hastily to enter into this feud at the behest of his incensed sister.
"Patience and peace," said he, with a grim smile. "I will anon avenge you more surely and amply."
He had met the Count della Torre at the Dogale palace, at the gaming houses, and other public places, and found him a gay agreeable young man, upon whose generosity and frankness of heart he had little doubt of imposing; and from whose princely revenue he hoped to repay himself for the ducats he had squandered in the Turkish wars, and among his wild companions at Malta and Gozzo. The Count della Torre was in turn pleased with the gay and fashionable manners of the hollow-hearted Stefano Strazoldi; who first gained his esteem by losing some hundred sequins with an air of unconcern, and performing a few pretended acts of friendship. Strazoldi afterwards won the admiration of Della Torre, by relating the battles, sieges, and fierce contests by sea and land in which he had borne a conspicuous part, while serving under Zondodari and the grand cross Antonio Manuel de Vilhena; who, on the death of the former, succeeded him in the office of Grand Master.
Although La Torre made a constant companion of the dissolute Stefano, and dissipated his patrimony in gay entertainments, he had more prudence than to invite him to his palace. His unhappy countess mourned in loneliness the sad change in the manners of her husband; who, led astray from the path of honour, spent whole days at the gaming house, and nights at the café or the cantina. He associated also with other reckless spirits, to whom Strazoldi introduced him, in visiting those thrifty mothers who had rising families of daughters, and who were anxious to procure them dowries according to the infamous custom of that abandoned city. In short, Count Giulio was no longer the same man he had been, and days passed without his crossing the threshold of his wife's apartment. Poor Diomida! this terrible change sank deeply in her heart. When during the day her husband at times visited the palace, it was only to extort money from his terrified steward; who warned him in vain that the splendid revenue of his estates was miserably impaired. But palled with excesses, jaded in spirit, and morose with losses, such answers only chafed the count into a tempest of rage; and the steward was glad to raise the gold, by having recourse to Isaac the famous Jew-broker on the Rialto.
Seldom now did he look on the pale face of his once loved Diomida, whose silent sorrow—she was too gentle to upbraid—passed unheeded. Her grief was increased to agony when she learned that in the society of her dangerous rival Lucretia, the count now spent the most of his time: the passers-by shrugged their shoulders when they beheld the vast façade of the palazzo della Torre so silent, gloomy, and dark—having the air of a deserted mansion—while the gorgeous palazzi of the Strazoldi, the Cornaro, the Balbi, and other nobles, were blazing with light, and brilliant with festive assemblies.
One evening, full of sad thoughts, Diomida sat in her boudoir alone: alas! she was now seldom otherwise. Her cheek was pale; the slight roseate tinge that once suffused it had fled, and the lustre of her eye had faded. Long weeping and pining in secret were destroying that fresh bloom, which rendered her the most admired of all Venetian beauties, and the pride of the venerable Doge, her uncle. Her books, embroidery, and guitar were all neglected; and she sat moodily in her dimly lighted room, watching in despairing anxiety for the tread of her husband (whom for four days she had not seen), and weeping for the past joys of their early marriage days.
As she listened, step after step rang in the adjacent streets, and heavy spurs jangled beneath the paved arcades: other men were passing to their homes, but the count returned not to his; and the thoroughfares gradually became silent and empty. The clock in the marble cupola of Santa Maria tolled the hour of midnight, and the Countess bowed down her fair head in wretchedness: she knew that her husband would be absent for another night, and she would rather have known that he was dead than in company with her triumphant rival, or damsels of still more doubtful fame. She was about to summon her attendants previous to retiring, when the dash of oars broke the silence of the canal, and a gondola jarred with hollow sound on the steps of Istrian marble leading from the portals of the palace. A flush of hope glowed on the pallid cheek of Diomida, and listening intently, she pressed her hand on her fluttering heart. In breathless expectation she paused, listening to the measured tread of manly footsteps approaching, marked by the ring of silver spurs on the tessellated floor of hall and vestibule, and a sword clattering in unison, as the wearer ascended the lofty stairs by three steps at a time. A hand cased in a long buff glove drew back the ancient hangings of the doorway—