The stream of fire and smoke that obliged us to leave the place where we
were standing had a like effect on all who were in the vicinity of the
fiery current. We were therefore soon joined by Teresina and Lando,
Mariuccia and the baron. But I felt extremely anxious at seeing nothing of
Stella and young Leslie, who had left the others to go further below, in
order to get a better view of the lava in its course to the plain. The
fear lest some accident had happened to them began to chill the blood in
my veins, but I was soon reassured by seeing them at last reappear with
blackened faces and torn garments, while Stella was bareheaded, and her
hair streaming in disorder.
“Good heavens! what has happened to you?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Stella, out of breath. “We will tell you
everything by‐and‐by.”
Here Mr. Leslie interposed, declaring that the Countess Stella was “the
bravest woman he had ever met—a heroine, and an angel of goodness.”
“You are entirely mistaken,” said Stella, drawing up the hood of her
cloak. “But I have lost my bonnet, and nearly destroyed my shoes also, I
fear. Let us start immediately. We will relate everything afterwards.”
As she was there safe and sound, it was really much better to put off any
further particulars till another time, and return to Naples as quickly as
possible. We started, therefore, without any delay, only stopping at
Resina long enough to take my aunt, who, having devoted the whole time of
our absence to a siesta, was completely rested, and had quite recovered
from her terror. Mario was less good‐humored; but when, a little after
midnight, we all assembled at last around the supper‐table that awaited
our return, every one seemed satisfied with the excursion we had made. I
alone felt I had brought back a heart more agitated than at our departure.
Stella still refused to answer our questions, pretending to be too hungry
to think of giving the account we were all so eager to hear; but Mr.
Leslie was only too glad to assume the task, and at once proceeded to
satisfy our curiosity.
“We were,” said he, “watching the lava, as it advanced with a dull sound
resembling the distant report of grape‐shot, when all at once we heard a
succession of heart‐rending groans a few steps off. At our approach we
found a man lying on the ground. I endeavored to raise him. Impossible: he
had broken his leg. Countess Stella questioned him, and the story he
related was a sad one. Like so many of the other poor creatures, he had
deferred leaving his house till the last moment. His wife was ill in bed,
with a little boy of five or six years old beside her. He kept hoping the
lava would stop before it could reach his dwelling—they all hope that! He
went out two or three times an hour to see how far it had progressed, and
finally saw all hope was vain. The lava kept on its course, regardless of
any one. He had barely more than half an hour to save his wife and child,
and then carry away what he could. He rushed towards the house; but in the
haste with which he endeavored to make up for lost time, he had fallen
from one of those black rocks you are so familiar with, on the spot where
we found him, unable to rise. It was necessary to hasten; the lava was
continually advancing. In less than a quarter of an hour it would reach
his hut, and his wife and child were there!... I could not understand what
he said,” continued the young Englishman with an expression of benevolence
and courage which added to the effect of his narrative, “but while I was
gazing at the devouring current that was advancing towards a house I
supposed empty, I suddenly saw the countess dart forward without any
explanation. I understood it at once, and followed her. Outrunning her, I
was the first to arrive at the house, and had already taken the woman and
mattress in my arms when the countess joined me. ‘Take the child!’ I
cried. He was screaming, the poor thing; for, in taking up his mother, I
had, without intending it, thrown him on the floor. He was a boy of about
six years of age, and heavy to carry, I assure you. But kindness and
courage gave strength. The countess picked him up as if he were a feather,
and we hurried out of the house. The heat of the fire was already
intolerable, and the earth under our feet heaved at every step. I thought
a dozen times we had sacrificed our own lives in trying to save theirs.
But no, thank God! we all succeeded—woman, child, and ourselves, with the
mattress—in reaching the poor wounded man, whose cries of terror now gave
place to those of joy. He had reason—the poor creature!—for we were hardly
in safety before we heard a horrid sound, this time like the noise of
cannon—it was the shock of the burning lava against the house we had just
escaped from. What a sight! Good God!... But since it must have happened,
I am not sorry I was there! The fiery stream first passed around the
house, then rose, as if to wrap its red flame around it, and finally swept
over the roof; and when everything was engulfed, it quietly continued its
course. The poor people wept; but, after all, they were thankful to be
alive, and kissed the hands of the Countess Stella, calling her an angel
sent by the Madonna and a thousand other things of that kind. It was now
time to call for assistance, and by the aid of two or three peasants we
transported them all into a habitation, where they were received for the
night. To‐morrow I shall go and carry them some assistance. And now,
Madame la Duchesse, you know how the Countess Stella lost her bonnet, and
why we were so late.”
The effect produced by this account cannot be described. Gilbert eagerly
raised his head, and I saw his eyes glisten as he listened. As for me, my
heart leaped with a kind of transport, while my dear, noble Stella made
fruitless efforts to stop the acclamations her courage drew even from
those who were the least accessible to enthusiasm.
“What an absurdity!” exclaimed she as soon as she could make herself
heard. “Who of you would not have done the same thing? Stop, I beg of you,
or rather, listen to me. Let us all join in buying these poor people a
cottage to replace the one they have lost.”
This proposition was of course acceded to with ardor and unanimity. My
Aunt Clelia instantly plunged into the depths of her pocket, and had
already opened her well‐stocked _porte‐monnaie_ when Lando rose and
exclaimed:
“Stop, Donna Clelia; put your gold back in your pocket—for the moment. I
have an idea. Let us do as they do in Paris.”
“Oh! bravo!” exclaimed my two cousins in a breath.
“Yes,” said Teresina with enthusiasm, “as at Paris, I beg of you. But
what? how? say!”
“Listen, all,” said Lando—“listen to my programme. It contains a _rôle_
for us all. First, Donna Ginevra’s is the easiest, but most indispensable.
She must lend us one of her drawing‐rooms where a small but select number
can assemble. This _réunion_ shall take place to‐morrow, ... no, the day
after to‐morrow, when—pay special attention now, Monsieur le Comte de
Kergy.”
Gilbert, hearing his name, looked up with surprise, while Lando stopped to
say very swiftly in Italian to his neighbor, “You know he is celebrated
for his eloquence,” then continued: “And then, the Comte de Kergy, here
present, shall, at the opening of the meeting, make a brief discourse, in
order to explain the object of the contribution we shall afterwards expect
of each one. He will relate the account we have just heard, and add all he
pleases about the excursion we have made together and the various
incidents that have taken place. We shall depend on his omitting nothing
that occurred. _Poi_, Donna Teresina and Donna Mariuccia will sing a duet,
accompanied by the Baron von Brunnenberg; and if you wish for a general
chorus, here we are, Mario, Leslie, and myself, ready to lend our
assistance. _Finalmente_, we come to the most important; the Countess
Stella will recite some poetry of her own choice, and you who have heard
her know what is in reserve for those who are to hear her for the first
time. After that is the moment to present your contributions, and you
shall give me the result. _Che ne dite!_”
I could not have declined, even if I had had any serious objections
against this proposition, which was unanimously received with even more
enthusiasm than the first. Stella, though really endowed with the talent
Lando was desirous of profiting by, seemed annoyed. Gilbert’s face
darkened, and he resumed the gloomy, preoccupied expression he had for an
instant shaken off; but to protest or refuse was as impossible for them as
well as me, and before separating, at two o’clock in the morning, the
meeting was decided upon and appointed for the next day but one.
When I found myself alone, it was impossible to think of sleep,
notwithstanding the advanced hour of the night. My chamber was at one end
of the house, and opened on the lateral terrace opposite that of the
drawing‐room. I opened my window, and took a seat outside. There, in the
imposing silence of that beautiful night, I sought calmness and the power
of reflection. The uncommon courage Stella had just given a proof of
produced a salutary effect on me. Her example reacted somewhat against a
fatal enervation that was gradually diminishing my moral strength. I
admired courage, and my soul, however enfeebled it might be, responded at
this moment to her noble, generous impulse. With my eyes fastened on the
flame that now lit up the whole horizon with its sinister gleam, I thought
the sight ought to inspire Stella with a lofty emotion such as follows the
accomplishment of an heroic deed; whereas I—it was with a shudder I
thought of the contrast it suggested!... I tried to avoid dwelling on what
had taken place. I wished to believe it was my imagination alone that
disturbed and alarmed me; that nothing was changed; but I could not
succeed, and at last I was forced to consider what I should do—what was
the course prescribed by the new light to which I could no longer close my
eyes? But as soon as this question was clearly placed before me, I
experienced the most violent repugnance to solve it.
Gilbert’s sweet, beneficent friendship alone had enabled me to endure the
destruction of my happiness. Could I admit the necessity of renouncing it?
What had he ever done till to‐day to give me reason to regret my
confidence in him? For an instant, it is true, and only for an instant, he
had not seemed like himself, and my heart beat, in spite of myself, as I
recalled his look and the accent of his voice; but did I not attach too
much importance to words which, after all, were vague and incoherent?
Should I not take time to reflect? Such were the questions I asked myself,
in order to impose silence on my reason and the actual voice of my
conscience. I succeeded so far as to defer the reply I was unwilling to
listen to, and put off my decision, whatever it might be, till the
following day.
It was late when I awoke, for I did not go to sleep till daylight; and I
had not yet left my chamber when the following letter was brought me. It
was dated the same day at three o’clock in the morning:
“MADAME: A few hours ago I addressed you in a moment of delirium. What I
said I know not. But what I do know is that you understood me, and, in
order to regain your confidence and make you forget what I uttered, I
should be obliged to declare what is false, and this I cannot do. No, I
will not be false to myself, were I, by speaking the truth, to forfeit a
happiness I ought to have courage enough to deny myself, and which I
shall, at least, renounce if you require it.
“I only ask you not to condemn me without a hearing. For once allow me to
speak plainly, though it be of myself; which is repugnant to me, as you
may have perceived. But it is necessary to do this in order to throw light
on the decision you will afterwards have to make.
“I believe I have a high idea of the use a man should make of his life, as
well as a profound conviction he will have to render an account of the way
he spends it. In a word, I adhere, thank God, to the faith of my mother,
and desire to live as much as possible in accordance with this faith, and
as it becomes an honest man and a Christian to live.
“To this end, I have given my activity every possible scope—long,
fatiguing journeys, hard study, active concurrence in a multitude of
enterprises that seemed to have an useful object. I have entered eagerly
into everything that could absorb my mind and time, not so much out of
disinterested zeal for doing good, as from a calculation that is
allowable, I think; for it is founded on a distrust of myself, resulting
from an exact knowledge of the shoals on which I might easily be wrecked.
“I dreamed of a happiness, common enough in many countries, but rare in
ours—that of knowing, loving, and choosing the one I would make my own;
but this is a difficult thing in France, and I had a strong repugnance to
any other way of deciding my lot. I persistently refused to consent to any
of those so‐called chance encounters one is constantly drawn into by
officious friends without number in Paris, who are always ready to take
possession of any one who has the misfortune to be considered a _bon
parti_.
“In avoiding these encounters I was spared other temptations still more
dangerous, and I met with nothing to disturb my peace of mind till the day
I saw you the first time, madame. I had no conversation with you on that
occasion, but I observed you, I heard your voice, and listened to some of
your remarks. I noticed your indifference to the homage that surrounded
you, and the evident absence of vanity which your beauty rendered so
strange, and I became afraid of you. Yes, I felt I must avoid you, and I
did so resolutely. One day, however, you were, without my being aware of
it, in the audience I addressed, and Diana afterwards presented me to you.
The opinion of every one else immediately became indifferent to me. I only
cared to know what you thought of my discourse, and to ascertain if there
was any mental sympathy between us. I thought I discovered some in the few
words we exchanged, and my resolution to avoid you only became the more
fixed. I even resisted my mother’s entreaties to join some of the
excursions she made with you. Consequently, I only met you once, as you
are aware, madame, and that was at home, where I could not avoid the
happiness of being beside you.
“I perceived you were sad that evening, in spite of your charming smile
and gayety of manner, which were no less dangerous to me than your tears.
I saw it, and was terribly agitated. And when at last the time came to bid
you farewell, I could not summon the resolution, but said instead ‘_au
revoir_.’
“Nevertheless, I allowed long months to pass. I waited till time had
somewhat effaced the vividness of my recent impressions, so I should no
longer fear to meet you, and then I made an excuse to stop at Naples a few
days on my way to Egypt. The day I arrived here, though I detest balls, I
could not avoid attending that given by the French ambassador, and there I
saw you once more!
“Shall I acknowledge it? When I saw you in all the splendor of your
dazzling beauty, enhanced by your dress, and surrounded by adorers, I felt
a momentary relief. I congratulated myself on having braved the danger of
seeing you again. It seemed to me at that moment the image I had so
cherished in my heart was effaced, and I was no longer in any danger.
Alas! the next day you were no longer the same. I found you as you once
were, but I had not the courage to fly from you. My stay was to be short,
and I yielded to the happiness allotted me, persuading myself the habit of
seeing you daily might diminish the effect of your influence.
“At length, madame, in good faith, as I thought, I ventured one day to ask
you to regard me as a friend, and promised to be worthy of the favor. I
firmly believed I promised you nothing beyond my strength. A single
instant was sufficient to reveal to me, even more clearly than to you, the
extent of my illusion. You see I make no attempt to conceal anything from
you now. I no longer try to deceive you. But in spite of all I have said,
I implore you not to bid me depart. In asking this I feel sure of never
offending you again. I cannot hope for the return of your confidence. I no
longer claim to be regarded as a friend. I even promise to speak to you
henceforth but seldom. But I beseech you not to deprive me of the
happiness of seeing you! Do not punish me so severely! Do not yet command
me to _go_. That word would be an order I should at once obey, or rather a
sentence I should submit to without a murmur; but there is no criminal who
has not the right to petition for mercy, and that mercy I now implore at
your feet.
“_Gilbert._”