The trunk sent by Iachimo was duly placed for security in Imogen’s
chamber, but it was no plate or jewels that it contained. That night,
when the Princess slept, a lighted taper still burning in the room,
and near at hand the book she had been reading ere she fell asleep,
the lid of the trunk was lifted, and a man stepped out. It was
Iachimo. With rapid glance he surveyed the room, carefully studying
every detail, what pictures there were, where the window was placed,
what was the adornment of the bed, the arras, the figures and the
story represented. But even this was not sufficient for his purpose.
He stealthily approached the bed, and while Imogen lay wrapt in deep
sleep, he slipped from her arm the bracelet which Leonatus had given
her, noting at the same time, on the pure whiteness of her skin, a
little mole with five spots, like the crimson spots in the bottom
of a cowslip. Next he took up the book she had been reading, looked
carefully at the title, and observed the exact passage in the tale
where she had left off. Then, satisfied with his ignoble work, he went
back into the trunk. The lid shut with a spring, and once more there
was apparently nothing in the room to disturb the innocent serenity of
the sleeping Princess.
In the morning early came an unwelcome suitor. Cloten, the Queen’s
son, had been advised to try the effects of music on the hard-hearted
lady, who unceasingly repulsed his advances. He therefore ordered some
musicians to attend outside her chamber window, and sing a charming
little “aubade”--that is, a song of the nature of a serenade, but
sung at dawn to waken the sleeper instead of during the night. The
song chosen was an especially pretty one, with a wonderfully sweet
air, and Cloten hoped it would not fail to touch Imogen’s heart.
“Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!”
Imogen liked the pretty music, but she was sorry not to be able
to thank Cloten properly for his trouble, for she disliked him as
heartily as ever, and, vexed by his importunity, was forced to tell
him so. Cloten tried to persuade her to give up her husband, saying
that the contract which she pretended with that “base wretch, one bred
of alms, and fostered with cold dishes, with scraps of the Court,” was
no contract, and that the marriage could easily be dissolved.
Imogen, furious that this contemptible creature should thus dare to
insult the noble Leonatus, indignantly heaped scorn on Cloten, telling
him that he was too base even to be her husband’s groom; that he would
be too much honoured, and be worthy of envy, if he were styled the
under hangman of his kingdom. In short, she ended, the meanest garment
that Leonatus had ever worn was dearer in her eyes than a hundred
thousand men such as Cloten.
Imogen had already had cause that morning for grave distress, for she
had discovered the loss of her bracelet, and was greatly upset about
it. Leaving her clownish wooer to brood sullenly over this unusual
plain-speaking (for all the gentlemen at Court flattered and fawned
on Cloten to his face, though they roundly abused him behind his
back), Imogen now called her faithful Pisanio, and bade him tell her
waiting-woman to make the most careful search for the missing jewel.
“It was thy master’s; I would not lose it for a revenue of any King’s
in Europe. I _think_ I saw it this morning; I am confident last night
it was on my arm; I kissed it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
that I kiss aught but him,” she ended, with a melancholy attempt at a
little jest.
Alas, poor Imogen, if she had only known how fatally near the truth
came her lightly-spoken words!
At that same moment Iachimo was speeding back to Rome with his
unwelcome tidings. At first Leonatus took for granted that Iachimo
must have lost his wager; he had an answer ready for everything that
the latter could say; but little by little the wily Italian contrived
to make it appear that Imogen had been far too generous in the favours
and friendliness she had lavished on this stranger. He had seen her
chamber, he said, and forthwith he described all the tapestry of silk
and silver with which it was hung. The chimney was south of the room,
and the story of the huntress Diana was wonderfully carved as the
subject of the chimney-piece. The roof of the chamber was fretted with
golden cherubs; the andirons on the hearth were two winking Cupids of
silver, each standing on one foot.
Leonatus was forced to admit that all this was true; but still, he
said, it did not prove that Iachimo had won his wager.
Then, with a self-assured air of triumph, Iachimo produced the
bracelet, which he declared Imogen had taken from her arm to give him.
Leonatus, with one last effort to preserve his belief in Imogen’s love
and fidelity, suggested that perhaps she had taken off the bracelet to
send it to him.
“She writes so to you, doth she?” asked Iachimo cunningly. But alas,
Imogen’s letter, which he had himself conveyed, made no mention of
such a fact.
“O, no, no, no! It’s true. Here, take this too!” cried Leonatus,
handing Iachimo the ring which he had wagered. And he broke out into a
torrent of despairing scorn for the utter falsehood and inconstancy of
all women.
“Have patience, sir, and take your ring again,” counselled Philario,
who all through this interview had keenly distrusted the plausible
Iachimo. “It is not yet won. Probably Imogen lost the bracelet; or who
knows if one of her women, being bribed, has not stolen it from her?”
“Very true, and so I hope he came by it,” said Leonatus. “Return me my
ring, and give me some stronger proof than this, for the bracelet was
stolen.”
Then Iachimo told of the little mole which he had noticed on the white
skin of Imogen, and Leonatus could no longer refuse to admit that he
had lost his wager.
He had loved Imogen so deeply, so tenderly, he had placed such
absolute trust in her perfect goodness and truth, that the shock of
discovering her falsehood and inconstancy was a terrible one. All
women were alike, he thought bitterly; there was no fault in man
that woman did not have in greater measure--lying, flattery, deceit,
revenge, ambition, self-indulgence, covetousness, pride, disdain,
luxury, slander, fickleness--every fault that could be named, was
found more abundantly in woman than in man.
So, maddened by the supposed treachery of his peerless wife, the
unhappy Leonatus began to brood thoughts of dark revenge.