I could not withstand him. I plucked and ate—and the more I ate the greater became my hunger for them. Oh! how my spirits warmed, as I tasted the well-known Rutland grape, the Orleans, Riesling, Traminer, and the delicious, cooling Muscatel. The world around me vanished, and this fruit of the Rhine was—for the moment—life and love. A loud laugh from the ladies and the doctor awoke me from my dream of delight. Amazed, I looked up and around. Angelica pointed maliciously to the stripped vines, and I saw, to my horror, that I had eaten all the fruit, and that I was just stretching out my hand for the last grape upon the arbor. I was deeply mortified, but in the next moment my mortification was changed into dismay. What had I done? How could I have so forgotten myself as to enjoy the fruits of the witchcraft of my rival: I was—if not poisoned—at least bewitched. He gazed at me maliciously; and as he laughed contemptuously, the wicked fire that he had stolen from hell darted from his eyes.
“What is the matter, my lord?” began the duchess, who must have noticed the change in my manner and countenance. “Are you bewitched? Are you going to have another attack?”
“How bewitched? What attack?” cried I, almost beside myself. “We—all three—your gracious highness, the heavenly Angelica, and I—I, the Marquis Della Mostarda, are bewitched by the devil’s arts and a cursed dog. Doctor Joannes will lure on our poor souls into the power of his poodle, with Nüremburg gingerbread, delicious confectionary, and magic fruit. But his power reaches not to me—I am under mightier protection.”
I rushed away, and directed my steps toward the shadiest part of the garden. “What a pity that the poor man suffers from such attacks,” I heard the duchess say behind me. “What a pity,” echoed the princess, sweetly. But the doctor was well content that I had left the field clear for him.
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CHAPTER VI.
In the shady palm-forest, I walked wildly up and down. What was the use, to me, of my wondrous gifts, if this doctor, with his witchcraft, always contrived to humble me, and to obliterate from the minds of the ladies all that I might effect by my gold and rich presents. I could no longer spare him. The duke and duchess were worthy, God-fearing people; and Angelica went every day to mass, and every week to confession. They should know who they were entertaining as a friend—who was luring their lovely daughter on to her destruction. But what could I adduce against him? That he had journeyed to China upon a poodle-dog, and there stolen money and precious stones from the emperor’s treasury? Good Heavens! If I had advanced such a statement Angelica would have looked suspiciously at me, and the duchess would have felt my pulse, and anxiously asked—“Are your nerves again excited? Is this a fresh attack, my lord?” No, no; nothing was to be done in this way. Only some mighty blow at his credit could free me from my rival. How was it, that from the depths of my soul I seemed to hear a distinct voice, saying—“You know well both him and his poodle; bethink yourself where you have seen them before; he is a person of distinction, well known throughout Europe.” But I thought until my head ached, and could remember nothing. Suddenly, a plan occurred to me, which would put an end to all my embarrassment. Was not the doctor occupied at this moment in creating arbors for the ladies—and was not his poodle sitting upon the coach-box, whistling Caspar’s song from Der Freischütz? Could I not instantly repair to the doctor’s studio, and procure proofs of his dealings with the evil one?
No sooner thought than done. I set my cap more firmly upon my head, and in the next moment I was sitting in the doctor’s studio, surrounded by the most ordinary articles of furniture and dress. The papers upon the table were of no consequence, but the handwriting appeared to me remarkable. The ancient form of the letters, and the various flourishes with which they were adorned, belonged to the Middle Ages. I stepped up to another table, upon which lay several books and a map.
“He loves reading,” thought I: “from the reading in which a man delights, one can easily discover the bent of his mind; and perhaps he has made marginal notes which will betray him, and afford sure proofs of his guilt.” The first book that I opened was the earliest edition of Faust—it was the merest fragment; and nowhere through the book could I find a scrap of writing except at the end, where, in red ink, in the doctor’s easily-recognized handwriting, was the single word, “good.” Did this word refer only to the masterly genius of Goethe, or did it characterize the escape of Faust from his well-merited punishment; an escape which probably filled the doctor with hope that he also might continue unharmed in his league with the Evil One. I opened another book: it was another edition of the same work, with the same blood-red “good” at the end. It was the same with every book that I could find—nothing but Faust, with the same comment at the end. In the latest edition, however, where Faust and Mephistophiles leave Margaret in prison, in the last scene, there was a distinctly-written “very good” at the end.
This “very good” made the strangest impression upon me. At last I lighted upon a handsomely bound book, which proved to be an edition of the admirable drawings with which Ramberg has illustrated Goethe’s great work. As I held this book in my hand I had the distinct impression that the riddle was about to be solved—and so it proved. Was I dreaming?—No. In the first picture upon which I cast my eyes, I recognised in Faust and his Demon Doctor Joannes—my rival, the wooer of the heavenly Angelica—and his hateful poodle, who was now figuring as coachman to the Duke of Silvio Cremonio. My glimmering recollection became a living picture; and I understood well, why the doctor had defied the demon dog—“because the old fellow in Weimar had not completed him.” And because he was as yet only a fragment—because M. von Goethe had delayed his conclusion he was permitted to live in the world, and make me and my Angelica miserable. I would write to Weimar, to M. von Goethe, instantly, and represent to him the dreadful consequences of his delay. No—it were much better, by virtue of my cap, to present myself before him, and plead my own cause in proprid persona.