Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. Afraid of disturbing him, some minutes elapsed ere she again raised her head and turned to look upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung listlessly by his side. It was cold, and she thought to warm it by pressing it to her lips—to her cheek—to her heart. She bent her ear close to the sleeper—there was no sound; she laid her lips on his—oh, God! where was the warm breath? A horrible dread came over her, and unable from the intensity of her agony to utter any cry, she sunk down and gazed fixedly in her husband’s face, realizing the heart-touching thoughts of the poet.
‘And still upon that face I look,
And think ’twill smile again,
And still the thought I cannot brook
That I must look in vain.’
“And thus were they found by her father, who was the first to enter the apartment. Paul quite dead—Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at his side—and before them the unfinished picture.
“When the fond wife was restored to consciousness, and felt the full weight of that misery that was crushing out her young life, her reason became unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering from room to room as if in search of some lost object, often stopping to unfold, and then folding again, the garments prepared for their journey. She would frequently rise with a sudden start, walk hurriedly to the window, and stand for a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then mournfully shaking her head to and fro, would slowly resume her accustomed seat, and in a low voice repeat ‘not yet—not yet—Paul still lingers in Rome.’ Carlotta remained in this melancholy state during the time I was in Florence, but a letter received since my return home informs me that after a short interval, in which reason resumed her sway, the sufferer calmly departed, coupling the name of her beloved with the rest and the bliss of Paradise.
“The wretched father was filled with self-upbraidings. But for him, he said, Paul Talbot might have been living, and his daughter living, happy in each other’s love. He spoke truly. To gratify his ambition, Paul had overtasked the powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by the flame which for years had been scorching and burning into the heart and soul of the artist. Too late had he obtained his reward. Too late had Carlotta’s father consented to her union with Paul. Too late had the old man found that by his daughter’s alliance with a man of genius, a greater lustre would have shone upon his house than could ever be reflected from his glittering hoard.”
Here ended my friend’s narration, and while with him I lamented the fate of genius, I could not forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy Florentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often the golden ears betray the ass, while wisdom, virtue, talent, constitute the only real greatness.