It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, and sumptuously furnished, as became the rank of its mistress. Large and costly ottomans, oaken seats richly carved and ornamented with the armorial bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set in massive frames, and richly chiselled stands of colored marble, upon which heavy silver candelabra were placed, added to the magnificence of the apartment, which was lit by a swinging lamp of silver, from whence exhaled a delicate perfume. The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, and covered his face with his hands.
“Ugolino!” said the princess, passing her small white hand through the curled locks of the count, “why are you thus agitated? Are we discovered? Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? If so, impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, that she may, at least, participate in them, if she cannot console thee.”
“I am come,” said the count, and a pang of agony shot across his noble features, “to prove myself a most foul traitor.”
“Traitor!” said Rosabelle. “Ugolino! can the name of a traitor associate with thine?”
“Aye. It can—it must! Thou knowest, Rosabelle, the price I paid for thee ere now. Thou art yet doomed to exact from me a sterner sacrifice. When I saw thee first, the fairest dame in France, at the gay field of Poictou, I drew in love for thee with my first breath. Thou wert then the wife of Julian D’Este. What I suffered for thee then, my recollection brings too vividly to light. What agonies I now experience, knowing the barbarous revenge which my already too deeply oppressed countryman must undergo, when my tale is told to the duke—yet all for thy sake—no human imagination can depict. Then I languished beneath the load of an affection, which honor, reason, duty, chivalry, all combined to oppose. Powerless opposition! The deity of love scorns all defensive armor. I sought, impelled by fate, the charms of thy society. For thee, Julian D’Este was no fitting spouse. Harsh and unrefined, he repelled thine youthful affections, while I, unhappy, too surely was the magnet which did attract them. Then followed our fatal step. Was it folly? My heart still tells me it is no folly to adore thee. Was it madness? Madness never spoke in so clear a tone of reason as in that, which on the day, hallowed to my remembrance, as we perused that antique volume, displayed all our feelings—disclosed the secret emotions of our hearts—gave us soul to soul—and formed our future bliss—our future woe! No base and vicious inclinations—no vulgar voluptuousness disgraced our union. We felt that we were made for each other, and when Julian D’Este fell beneath my poniard, I thought it no crime added to my account, when I endeavored, by compassing his death, to confer happiness upon thee.”
Rosabelle answered nought, but hung more devotedly around the neck of the count, while the soft blue of her eyes was dimmed with the rising tear.
“What ensued—the impossibility of discovering the murderer of Julian—our farther intercourse—your brother’s hearty refusal of my suit, and the suspicion attached to our names, were but matters, which, had prudence been consulted ere the deed was done, she would have foretold. But who advises calmly when the burning fire of love threatens to consume him? In fine, the tyrant brought thee with him here to Florence, upon his election as captain and signor of the city. Here, secluded by him from the world, I had given thee up as lost. My faithful Spalatro discovered thy retreat, and as yet we had hoped that our secret interviews were undiscovered. Fatal infatuation! This very night has Pompeo Medici thrown out hints, nay, open assertions of his knowledge of our situation. Thanks to the death of Giovanni, else all had been discovered to the duke!”
“Let me counsel thee to fly!” said Rosabelle, “as I have done before. There is no time to be lost. Myself will be companion of thy flight.”
“It is, I fear, too late. Now listen to the conclusion of my tale. A great conspiracy is on foot against the rule of the duke. It will break out into revolt ere morning. All is prepared. The fierce Medici swears utter ruin to thy race. Even though forewarned, I doubt that Gualtieri will be overwhelmed. Adimari, equally exasperated with the Medici against thy brother, dare not check Pompeo in his chase of blood, lest he fall off and irretrievably ruin the fabric of the conspiracy. Pino D’Rossi vows death to the minions of the duke, who, as I am a Christian man, have well deserved it. Ere day-break, confusion will begin. Thou must fly to thy brother, and advise him of the plot. My name must be known as the traitor to my country, else thy tale will not be believed. My charge lies at the church of Santa Mario del Fiore. Ere the palace is invested, do thou devise means to escape, which may readily be done in the confusion. Spalatro will conduct thee to the hotel of San Giovanni, in the Primo Cerchio. There have I prepared disguises and horses. The chances of escape then lie before us, and if fortune befriend us, we will fly to some happier clime. At all events, death is the worst which can betide us, and death ends all woes and calms every distress forever. Art thou willing, my Rosabelle, to trust thus blindly to fate?”
“Rosabelle can only live or die with Ugolino!” cried the princess, throwing herself into the arms of the count.