The next thing I remembered, was finding myself in the sunny Toledo, and hearing the jarring of the convent's iron doors as they were closed and locked behind me. I tore the letter to fragments, which I scattered on the wind, and rushed through the streets to order forth horses and servants in pursuit—servant, I should say, for my retinue was then curtailed to one. I thought only of revenge. O signor! little can you imagine the agony of rage and shame I endured; not, perhaps, so much from unrequited love as from wounded vanity and pride. Next morning all gossiping Naples rang with the story, and everybody enjoyed a laugh at the famous jilt of the Cavaliere di Castelermo, by a perfidious little nun—per Baccho!
A letter, which I received next day from Cardinal Ruffo, containing abundance of good advice and his blessing on our nuptials, in no way tended to soothe my exasperation. Basta! months elapsed before the shock of this event passed away, and I could listen with calmness to Santugo, who related to me the story of Despina, so far as he had been able to pick it up in the public places of the city.
I had been most cruelly and strangely duped. Anxious to be free from those religious trammels which her parents' bigotry and her guardian's avarice had cast around her, the artful girl—who had never loved me—was willing that I should employ all my interest (which was great) and my money (which, alas! was little) to procure her a dispensation, that she might espouse the brother of that diavolessa the superior. He was a ruined cavalier of the Calabrias, who had lost his last ducat at the hells, and to whom the reversion of her entry-money from the convent-treasury would be very acceptable: though the beauty of the girl was temptation enough.
"Basta!" said I, "Santugo, 'tis enough!" I inquired after her and her choice no more; but strove to banish the affair from my mind, when the first burst of my fury had passed away. Luckily, I had been taught philosophy, and bequeathing to the devil my share in the sex, found that I had not much more to bestow: I had not a quattrino, save what I raised by the sale of the remnant of my patrimony—the tower of St. Ermo in the upper province. Santugo would have shared his last ducat with me; but I was too proud to be dependent on any man. My legacy, the reward of my devotion, had all melted away, too, during my joyous life in the Guards: it was spent in procuring a wife for another man! I wish him joy of his spouse: if she proved as virtuous after marriage as she was before it, she must be a crown—but not of glory—to her husband. Basta!
Finding myself without one beggarly bajoccho to clink upon another, I became a soldier again, and served the Knights of Malta as a musketeer against the corsairs of Barbary. On the return of our frigate to Malta, after a most successful cruise, in which we obtained abundance of plunder, slaves, and glory, I was admitted into the Italian Langue; on proving before a chapter of the order that my blood had been noble for two hundred years (easy enough for one who comes of a senatorial family), and that in my coat armorial there were the blazons of four patrician houses. A little prize-money picked up in Algeria furnished me with two hundred and sixty golden crowns, to pay my fees of diploma on passing from esquire to the rank of spurred and belted knight. In this capacity, when in command of a frigate, I defeated Osmin Carara, the celebrated corsair who so long infested these seas; and for that exploit I was made bailiff of the commandery at St. Eufemio, then consisting of sixty knights, the noblest in Italy.
So, signor, you now behold me a brother of the most reverend and illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem, once of Rhodes, and latterly of Malta. After the reduction by Buonaparte of that barren rock (the last stronghold of the order), I retired with his most eminent highness the grand master, and the poor remnant of our forces, to Genoa; where our solemn chapters are yet held. On the breaking out of the Italian war, when the French crossed our frontier to plant their banner of blood and anarchy on the ramparts of Rome—to assail God's vicegerent in his own eternal city, drive the Bourbon king from Naples, hoist their red cap above the winged horse, and establish a republic of injustice and tyranny—then I once more girded on the sword, and have ever since been fighting; at one time under the chiefs of the Masse, at another under the British: but, alas! oftener under Francatripa and other bold bandits of Naples; who seem to be the only men truly staunch to Italy in these days of war and peril. Malediction on the hour when a wearer of this blessed badge has to stoop to a companionship so unworthy! But the end sanctifies the means. * * *
There is the Villa Belcastro! If my story has beguiled a part of the way through this wild and mountainous country, I shall consider myself amply repaid in having pleased you: but I fear, Signor Claude, you have found it dry enough; though the tale is a sad one to me—the most dismal chapter of my history indeed.
CHAPTER XX.
THE VILLA BELCASTRO.
"Where is the path? It seems lost in the wilderness hereabout," said I, when my communicative friend had concluded.