A few days after the scene which had occurred in his room, Maulear and the ladies sat together in a boudoir near the salon, which opened on the park, a view of which Aminta was taking. The Marquis had been reading to the ladies the trial of Count Monte-Leone from the Diario di Napoli. This curious story, full of surprises, the noble energy, the wonderful sang-froid of the Count, the remarks of the journalist on the character of the prisoner, and the unjust accusation to which he had been subjected, and which he had so completely refuted, and to which he had submitted with such nobleness and heroism, all was listened to with the greatest interest. Maulear had read all this much to his own dissatisfaction, because Signora Rovero had requested it. The praises of Monte-Leone were most unpleasant to him.
Aminta heard every word. Every detail of the Count's daring, every change of character in this judicial drama, awakened an inexplicable emotion in her. It seemed that Count Monte-Leone, to whose singular story she had listened, was a far different man from the one she had imagined him to be. His powerful mind, his exalted soul, all the powers of which had been developed by the trial, conferred on Monte-Leone new proportions hitherto not realized by her. Count Monte-Leone, whom she had seen at home, almost timid in the presence of her he adored, annoyed by his false position as a refugee, suffering from a passion he dared not own, was not the person of whom she had heard for the past month. Looking down on her drawing, which her increasing absence of mind made almost invisible to her, Aminta sought to recall the features of the Count which had been nearly effaced from her memory. Gradually, however, they arose before her. Had her mother then spoken, had her glances been diverted from the album on which they were fixed, a strange trouble and confusion would have been visible, when aroused from this meditation. The sound of wheels entering the court yard of the villa broke the charm which entranced Aminta, and made Signora Rovero utter a cry of joy.
"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter, let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."
Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter. This man was Monte-Leone.
IV.—TWO RIVALS.
Much had passed since Count Barberini had told Monte-Leone of the love of Maulear for Aminta Rovero. Monte-Leone felt all the furies of hell glide into his heart at this revelation. The idea that Aminta could love any one had never entered his mind. Whether from confidence in her, or from that error so common to lovers that they are entitled to love because they love themselves, Monte-Leone flattered himself that he had left a pleasant recollection in Aminta's mind. We may therefore imagine how painfully the Count was disturbed by the half-confidence of Barberini. Yet Taddeo, his friend, whom, he loved as a brother, could not have deceived him, and have concealed what had taken place at Sorrento, when he had received so cordially the hand of his sister. Taddeo, then, was ignorant of it. Monte-Leone, a prey to a thousand thoughts, left his box, forgetful of the opera, his friends and companions, with but one object and wish. He was determined to see Taddeo, to question him and find out who was the rival that menaced his happiness, and whom Aminta probably loved. The Count went to that part of the theatre in which he had seen Aminta. The second act, however, was about to begin; and the efforts of Monte-Leone to get near his friend created such murmurs, complaints, and anger, that he was obliged to wait for a more favorable opportunity. La Griselda was singing the andante of her cavatina, and the artist's magnificent, powerful, and tender voice, echoing through the vastness of the hall, fell in pearly notes like a shower of diamonds on the ears of the spectators. After the andante came the caballeta, and then the coda-finale. For a while one might have thought the four thousand spectators had but one breath, and were animated by a single heart, that they restrained the first to prevent the pulsations of the other from being disturbed. This gem of the opera was at last concluded, and mad applause rose from every part of the room. We are constrained, however, to say, that from this time the accents of La Felina were less passionate and brilliant, and that a veil, as it were, was extended over all the rest of the representation, so that a person who had heard only the second act of La Griselda would have asked with surprise, if it was really the wonderful prima donna, the songs of whom were purchased with gold, and the wonderful talent of whom, had enslaved the audiences of the great Italian theatres. The reason was, that, after the second act, the star which shone on La Felina had become eclipsed. Monte-Leone had left his box—the box which had been the source of Griselda's inspiration from the commencement of the first act. Hope had sustained the singer during the cavatina, at the beginning of the second act. She fancied that he whom she loved possibly heard her from the recess of some other box. When, however, she was satisfied that he was gone, despair took possession of her. "Nothing touches his heart," said she, with pain. "Neither my love nor my talent are able to captivate him—to attach him to me for a time." Thenceforth, as she sang for him alone, she sang for no one. The holy fire was extinguished. Genius unfurled its wings and flew to the unknown regions of art, whence passion had won it. La Felina finished the opera, as a prima donna should, rendering the music precisely and distinctly, note for note, and as her score required. She neither added a single fioritura nor a single ornament which had not been noted by the composer. In one word, the audience at San Carlo on that day heard the opera of the Maestro Paër and not La Felina. During this, Monte-Leone, who had given up all hopes of reaching Taddeo, and whom Taddeo, paying attention only to the artiste, had neither heard nor seen, Monte-Leone walked in front of the opera-house, a prey to the greatest agitation, impatiently waiting for the conclusion of the representation, to see his friend and hear from him what he had to hope or fear at Sorrento.
The opera ended. The crowd slowly dispersed, and Monte-Leone, wrapped up in his cloak, watched with anxiety every spectator who left the theatre. Taddeo did not come. The doors of the theatre were closed, and the Count still waited. Surprised and impatient he went to his hotel, where Taddeo also lived, but he was not there. Night passed away, and he did not come. About three in the morning a stranger was shown in, and gave Monte-Leone three letters. One of them was addressed to the Count: he opened it anxiously.
"Excuse me, my dear friend, at quitting you thus. Excuse me, especially the uneasiness I have created in your mind"—wrote Taddeo—"I have learned that she left Naples to-night, and if I leave her I shall die. I will follow her by post and on horseback, without stopping, until I shall learn whither she has gone. What will I do then! I do not know,—but at least I will know where she is, and I will not fancy that she is lost to me for ever. 'To-morrow,' said she, when she left us, 'you will love me less.' She was mistaken, my friend, or she has deceived me; for to-day I love her better than I did yesterday. My heart suffers too much for me not to sympathize with yours, and I understand how impatient you are to go to Sorrento. I send a letter to my good mother—give it yourself to her. I beg her to receive you as a friend, and as she would receive a brother of mine. Stay with her until I come back. Say that in three days I will come back to ask her to give you Aminta's hand."
"Has the person who gave you these letters gone?" asked Monte-Leone of the messenger.
"He went an hour since from the post-house, on one of our best horses," said the messenger.