BOOK IV.
I. EXPLANATION OF THE ENIGMA.
While the events we have described are taking place at Sorrento, we will retrace our steps to the Etruscan House, where we left Monte-Leone and Taddeo when the latter placed in the hands of the former the letter of La Felina. The Count opened the letter, and read:
"Taddeo—You told me in the prison of the palace of the Dukes of Palma, whither I went to find you, 'Love which speculates is not love. Mine will obey you for obedience' sake. Try, however, to ask something grand and difficult, that you may judge it by its fruits.'"
"Then you love her?" said Monte-Leone, interrupting himself.
"Read on," said Taddeo.
"'Your heart, Taddeo, is noble,' replied I. 'I have faith in it. May God grant that your strength do not betray your courage. In four days you will learn what I expect from you.' I write down what I expect, for I have not courage to tell you. I cannot crush your hopes, though I know that they cannot be realized. The feelings you have avowed to me, Taddeo, demand entire confidence: for it would be a crime to deceive a heart like yours. I will therefore tell you the truth, painful as it may be. It is a year since I came to Naples, having been attracted thither by a brilliant engagement at San Carlo. My success was as great as it had been in the other capitals of Italy. After the applause and ovations of the public—the truest and most discriminating of all—came privileged admirers; those, who, from their rank, birth, and fortune, have a right to pass the curtain of the sanctuary, and cast incense at the very foot of the idol; who can compliment the artiste on the stage, and follow her with their commonplaces to her very box. There was no scarcity of sacrificers. The noblest of Naples overwhelmed me with adulations; from compliments they came to declaration, and there, as at Rome, Venice, and elsewhere, I was persecuted by the insipid gallantries of suitors, to which every successful artiste possessed of any personal attraction must submit. To all these advances my heart remained cold, and my insensibility cost me nothing; for I neither loved nor wished to. A strange event, however, changed my plans. It was an evening of last autumn, and the air was as sultry as possible. Exhausted by the heat of the theatre, after the performance was over I sent my carriage home, and resolved, in company with my confidante, to return on foot. I avoided my many suitors, and escaped from the theatre by a back-door. The air was so pure, and the night so beautiful, that I walked for some time on the chiaja. It was late when I returned homeward. Crossing an isolated street, which I had taken to shorten the walk, my confidante and myself were unexpectedly attacked by a party of men who stood beneath the portico of a palace. They had well-nigh stifled our cries with scarfs, which had been thrown over our heads, and we should possibly have been murdered, when a man, rushing sword in hand, I know not whence, attacked our aggressors, disarmed three of them, whom he put to flight, and killed the fourth by a dagger-thrust. Rapidly as possible, he then took off the bandages from our faces, and gave me, half dead with terror, his arm.
"A carriage passed, the stranger called to it, placed us in it, and said: 'A lady, signora, of your appearance, met in the streets of Naples at such an hour, doubtless is under the influence of some secret motive she would be unwilling to expose. My services to you have been too slight to warrant my questioning you. Now you have nothing to fear, and this carriage will take you any where you please. I will inquire into no orders which you may give.' 'But your name, signore?' said I. 'Count Monte-Leone,' said he, as he disappeared."
"That is true," said the Count. "I never knew, though, whom I had rescued from the hands of bandits."
He then began again to read: