Return--A Triumph.
Charles had dreamt a golden dream. Ambition's cup is full, but its
draught is bitter. On the march to Naples, in triumph, commanding
the royal troops, who had completely beaten the brigands, were glories
Charles never thought she was one day to obtain. With her return to
the city the war was ended, and the people were rejoicing in the
restoration of peace. The young captain who had returned so victorious
from Vesuvius was the lion of the day. The city gave her an ovation
far beyond her most sanguine hopes. Illuminations were instituted in
her honor, her name was shouted in the streets, and the nobles and
great ones of the state gathered around her as if the safety of the
kingdom had depended on her own personal efforts. For some time crowds
of lazzaroli gathered around the entrance of the Molo to see the young
and beautiful captain who had achieved such wonders; and we can fancy
how sweetly would ring on the ears of our ambitious heroine the shout
of the enthusiastic crowd sending far and wide the "Erira Carlo
Pimontel!" The King confirmed her position of captain, and sent her
the iron and golden crosses of honor, only given to the bravest of the
brave in those days of strife and warfare.
But vanity of vanities, and all is vanity! Let us raise the veil of
deception that shrouds the emptiness of human joy. Alvira has now
gratified her heart's desires in everything she could have under the
sun. She had beauty, wealth, and fame, but she was like the pretty
moth that hovers around the flame of the candle, and finds its ruin
in the touch of the splendor it loves. Poor Alvira was another child
of Solomon that sighed over the emptiness of human joy; for bitter
disappointment is the sad tale ever told in the realization of misguided
hope. Often, at midnight, when the unknown captain would return from
the theatre or some festive entertainment given in her honor, she would
sit at her table, wearied and disgusted, and weep bitterly. The
unnatural restraint necessary to preserve her disguise, the separation
from all the comforts and sympathies common to her sex, and the painful
reminiscences of the past wrung tears of misery from her aching heart.
The dreams of Messina haunted her still, but increased in anguish
and terror, as her thoughts could now fly from the lonely cave on the
Alps to the battle-field on the side of Vesuvius. Again the pangs
of remorse poisoned every joy; again the angry countenance and clenched
hand of her murdered father would bend over her restless couch; and
again the scream of terror in the dark, silent midnight would summon
her friends around her. Deep and fervent the prayer that was poured
forth from that sad and breaking heart that some providential
circumstance would enable her to make the change she had no long
premeditated. That change is at hand. Her mother's prayer is still
pleading for her before the throne of God; he who cast an eye of mercy
on the erring Magdalen had already written the name of Alvira in the
book of life, and destined her to be one of the noblest models of
repentance that adorn the latter history of the Church. Let us come
to the sequel of this extraordinary history; but first we must introduce
our readers to a new character--a great and holy man, destined by
Providence to save Alvira, and give the most interesting and most
remarkable chapter in this romance of real life.