That ordinary-looking middle-aged gentleman, who is just emerging from that Jeweller's shop, is Signor Goffoni. He has been there to purchase a pair of earrings for his pretty young wife, with which he purposes to bribe her into good-humour with him again. For, to say the truth, the happy couple have lately been living on the usual matrimonial terms which follow the union of Signoras, who are scarcely out of their teens, with Signors, who are half way through their 'tys. And this morning the conjugal breezes had swollen into a perfect hymeneal hurricane. It had blown divorces and separate maintenances. The Signora had gone into the customary hysterics, and the Signor had left the house with that violent bang of the street-door which is the especial property of enraged husbands. And "the cause—the cause" was precisely the same as made Mr. Othello determine to put an extinguisher upon his better-half, instead of his night-lamp. The green-eyed monster had kittened his horrid suspicions in Signor Goffoni's bosom, and had lapped up all the milk of human kindness in the dairy of his heart. He had accidentally discovered a billet—something more than a doux—addressed to his black-eyed young wife, from a gentleman calling himself the Marchese di Castellinaria, and which expressed a regard for her that—tested by the very delicate thermometer of the Signor's jealousy—did appear to him not quite so tepid as mere friendship would dictate. And he had not scrupled to say as much to the black eyes he had taken for better or for worse. Whereupon the said ebon optics had looked scissors, though they'd used none—had vowed eternal separation—usque ad mensam et torum—and wound up with those effective convulsions of which married ladies generally keep a plentiful supply, ready for use. Jealousy, however, had galvanized the iron of the Signor's heart, and made it no longer susceptible of being acted upon by the salt water of his wife's eyes; so, as we said before, he bounced out of the house with a bang like a human cracker.
Long before evening, however, Goffoni had relented; he felt convinced that he had wronged his dear little wife by his unjust suspicions, and arrived at the sage conclusion that he was a brute and she was an angel; so that an hour before his usual time for quitting business he hurried off to the nearest Jeweller's to buy her a pair of earrings, determined to hasten home and shed over her the diamond drops of repentance. But on arriving at his domicile, he found the dark-eyed young partner of his bosom absent from home. Could his unkind treatment have driven her from his roof? The very thought was stilettoes. He rang furiously and inquired of the servant concerning her mistress. She had quitted the house about half an hour ago, leaving directions that the letter which the maid then presented should be delivered to the Signor immediately on his return. He seized it. It was unaddressed, and ran as follows:—
"After your insulting conduct I can no longer consent to the continuance of our acquaintance. I must beg, therefore, that henceforth we be as Strangers; and that you will never again dare to offend me with the protestation of your regard, which it is utterly impossible for me further to acknowledge.
"Carlotta."
"Gone! gone!" groaned Goffoni; and he sunk overwhelmed upon the sofa, and buried his face in his hands. Presently he started up again—buttoned his coat vehemently—knocked his hat on his head—and dashed from the house with a wild look of despair and prussic acid.
That miserable-looking middle-aged gentleman, seated on that stone in the heart of that wood, is Signor Goffoni. And that small phial, which he takes from his waistcoat-pocket, is labelled "Laudanum!" He has sought out this secluded spot, and purchased this poisonous potion, to put a premature "finis" to his wretched biography. For "what is the world now to him?" he says—"a wilderness—a desert. He has lost the angel who made it a paradise; and as he always felt convinced that there was not another woman like her upon earth, why should he go dawdling on alone to the grave? No! he is resolved! Bereft of his Carlotta, he cares not to live, and fears not to die. She has bidden adieu to him, so he will bid adieu to the world."
With this brief oration the woe-begone Goffoni drew the stopper from the phial, and swallowed its contents.
No sooner had he drunk off the deadly draught than a Signor, habited in a capacious cloak, started up from behind the stone on which Goffoni was seated, and inquired whether he would save the life of a fellow-creature?
"I save the life of a fellow-creature!" gasped Goffoni, dropping the empty phial with amazement from his hand; "I am a dying man myself!"
"Yes! I know that," replied the Signor in the cloak, "and that is the cause of my making the request. The fact is, the other gentleman, whose life is in danger, is not quite so tired of his existence as you seem to be of yours. And since you are determined on going out of the world, you may as well leave it with the grace of a good action, and let your death be the salvation of his life."