The following day Lando, at an unusually early hour, entered the little
sitting‐room next my chamber where I commonly remained in the morning. He
looked so much graver than usual that I thought he had come to tell me
there was some obstacle in the way of his matrimonial prospects. But it
was once more of my affairs, and not of his, he wished to speak.
“Dear cousin,” said he without any preamble, “I come at this unusual hour
because I wish to see you alone. I have something important to tell you.”
“Something that concerns you, Lando?”
“No, it concerns you and Lorenzo.”
My heart gave a leap. What was he about to tell me? What new hope was to
be dashed to the ground?
“Great goodness!” said I, giving immediate utterance to the only object of
my mortal terror, “have you come to tell me Donna Faustina is at Naples,
and Lorenzo has left me again?”
“Donna Faustina? Oh! no. Would to heaven it were merely a question of her,
and that you had nothing more serious to apprehend on Lorenzo’s part than
another foolish journey, were she to lead him beyond the Black Sea! No, it
is not a question of your husband’s heart, which preoccupies you more than
he deserves, but of his property and yours.”
I breathed once more as I heard these words, and my relief was so visible
that Lando was out of patience.
“How singular and unpractical women are!” exclaimed he. “Here you are
apparently grown calm because I have reassured you on a point less
important in reality than the affair in question.”
“I ought to be the judge of that, ought I not, Lando?” said I gravely.
“Of course. I will not discuss their merits with you. But remember, my
dear cousin, if I am correctly informed, it is a question of losing all
you possess! Lorenzo has been playing to a frightful degree! He made such
good resolutions before me, as he was leaving Paris, that he does me the
honor of concealing himself as much from me as from you. He had gone quite
far enough before he went to Milan; but, since his return—influenced, I
suppose, by a mad wish of diverting his mind from other things, and
perhaps of repairing the breaches that had begun to alarm even him—he has
added stock‐gambling to the rest. Some one heard him say the other day
that he expected to triple his fortune, or lose all he possessed. One of
the two was indeed to happen. My dear cousin!... he has not tripled it,
and the other alternative is seriously to be feared.”
I listened with attention, but likewise with a calmness that was not
merely exterior.
“You do not seem to understand,” said he with more impatience than before,
“that you are in danger of losing everything you have? Yes,
_everything_!... What would you say, for example,” continued he, looking
around, “if you were to see all the magnificence that now surrounds you,
and to which you are accustomed, disappear; if this house and all the
precious objects it contains were to vanish for ever from your sight?”
“I should say.... But it is of little consequence what I should say or
think in such a case. For the moment nothing is lost, and, when our
lawsuit in Sicily is once gained, all fear of ruin will be chimerical.
Allow me, therefore, to decline meanwhile participating in your fears.”
“Yes, I know you are certain of gaining your cause, as it is in your
father’s hands. But if some radical change does not take place in
Lorenzo’s habits, the immense fortune that awaits him will share the fate
of that he has just squandered.”
“Therefore, Lando, as soon as the lawsuit is decided, I have formed the
plan of inducing him to undertake one of those long journeys to some
distant land, such as he has made so many of, and to take me with him. We
shall soon come to a region where cards are unknown, and where he will
never hear of dice, roulette, or of stocks.”
“Nor of Donna Faustina, either, eh, cousin?” said he, laughing. “But you
are not in earnest about banishing yourself in this way for an indefinite
period, leaving the civilized world, and sharing the life he leads in
these interminable journeys?”
“I shall not hesitate a single instant, I assure you,” replied I warmly.
“I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world if I can induce him
to accede to my wish.”
“Then,” replied he with emotion, “you can really save him; for he now
needs a powerful distraction, a complete and radical change, that will
really give a new turn to his whole life. Nothing less than this can save
him. But you are admirable, Cousin Ginevra, it must be confessed.”
“Wherein, Lando, I beg? In the course of a year you will consider my
conduct very natural, and I hope Teresina will be of the same opinion.”
“Perhaps so. But I assure you I intend to take a very different course
from Lorenzo. I have done many foolish things, heaven knows; but there is
a limit to everything, and I hope never to follow his example.”
“Enough, Lando; you hurt my feelings and distress me.”
He stopped, and soon after went away, leaving me preoccupied with what he
had told me, though I was not troubled. Oh! what life, what repose, I
found in the secret love that had been made manifest to me! The excitement
of my first moment of transport had died away, but I had not become
indifferent. I clearly saw the gathering clouds. I felt I was surrounded
by dangers of all kinds; but I had nothing of the vague fear often
produced by anxiety with respect to the future. What could happen to me?
What tempests, what dangers, had I to fear with the clear, unmistakable
assurance of an unfailing support, constant assistance, and a love ever
faithful and vigilant, and more tender than any human affection—a love
that _is infinite_, which no earthly love can be? We sleep in peace on the
stormiest sea when we are sure of the hand that guides us. How much more
when we know that hand controls the waves themselves, and can still them
at its will!
This conversation with Lando only served to increase my desire to leave
Naples, and it was with real joy I saw the day of our departure arrive at
last. I was joyfully making my preparations at an early hour in my room,
which Lorenzo very seldom entered now, when he suddenly made his
appearance. Of course I was doubly moved. But as soon as I glanced at his
pale, agitated face, I knew he had come to impart some terrible news. But
I only thought of what Lando had communicated, and exclaimed:
“Speak without any fear, Lorenzo. I have courage enough to hear it all.”
But when he replied, it was my turn to grow pale; I uttered a cry of
anguish, and fell at his feet, overcome with horror and grief.
My father was no more! At the very hour when he was arranging the final
documents for his cause, on the very spot where he so long kept me at his
side, he had fallen dead. No one was with him. At the sound of his fall
the old servant, who always remained in the next room, hurried to his
assistance, but in vain. Nothing could recall him to life!
This blow was terrible—terrible in itself and in its effect on my hopes.
In the first place, it put an immediate stop to all my new plans. Lorenzo
felt it more necessary than ever to go to Sicily, but now absolutely
refused to take me with him. He did not seem to understand how I could
desire to go. In his eyes, the sole motive for such a journey no longer
existed. I should now only expose myself to the most harrowing grief,
which it was his duty to spare me. I did not dare insist on going, for
fear of irritating him at a moment when the very pity I inspired might
increase the dawn of returning affection I thought I discovered. Besides,
I had but little time for reflection. Only a few hours intervened between
the arrival of this fatal news and Lorenzo’s departure, which left me
alone, abandoned to my grief and the bitterness of a disappointment I had
not anticipated in the least, mingled with the remembrance of Lorenzo’s
inexplicable farewell!
It was evident he attributed my tears solely to filial emotion. I had seen
him go away so many times without shedding any, that he had no reason to
suppose his departure this time caused them to flow almost as much as the
calamity that had befallen me. He even seemed surprised that I should
insist on accompanying him to the boat and remaining with him till the
last minute.
He had no idea how I longed to be permitted to forgive him on my knees;
how I wished to implore permission to aid him in breaking the fearful
bonds that fettered his noble faculties; to tear off, so to speak, the
mask that seemed to change the very expression of his face! Oh! how I
longed to save him. How I longed to bring this soul, so closely linked
with mine, to itself! The strong desire I once felt, that had been
extinguished by jealousy, frivolity, and temptation, now sprang up again
with a new force that was never to be destroyed. I was ready for any
sacrifice in order to have it realized—yes, even for that of knowing my
sacrifice for ever ignored! Not that I did not aspire to win his heart
once more! It belonged to me by the same divine right that had given mine
to him. I wished to claim it, and I felt that this desire, however ardent
it might be, by no means diminished the divine flame within that now
kindled all my desires—those of earth as well as those of heaven!
He did not, alas! have any suspicion of all this. And yet, when I raised
my eyes in bidding him farewell, he perhaps saw the look of affection and
sorrowful regret I was unable to repress; for he looked at me an instant
with an expression which made me suddenly thrill with hope! One would have
almost said an electric spark enabled our souls to comprehend each other
without the aid of words. But this moment was as fleeting as that
spark—more transitory than the quickest flash that leaves the night as
dark as before!
His face became graver than ever; his brow more gloomy and anxious, as if
some terrible thought had been awakened. He continued to gaze at me, as he
put up the little straw hat I wore, and, pushing back my hair with the
caressing air of protection once so familiar, he kissed my forehead and
cheek, and, pressing me a moment against his heart, he uttered these
strange words: “Whatever happens, I wish you to be happy, Ginevra. Promise
me you will!...”
I had been at home a long time, and seen the last trace of smoke from the
steamboat disappear between Capri and the coast beyond Sorrento, without
having resolution enough to leave that side of the terrace which commanded
the most distant view of the sea. I remained with my eyes fastened on the
horizon, looking at the waves, agitated by the mournful sirocco, whose
dull, sad moans afar off add so much to the gloom felt at Naples when the
bright sun and blue sky are obscured. Elsewhere bad weather is nothing
surprising, but at Naples it always astonishes and creates anxiety, as if
it were abnormal, as the sudden gravity of a smiling face affects and
alarms us more than that of one naturally austere.
I remained, therefore, in my seat, dwelling on my recent hopes, my sudden
disappointment and its distressing cause, on Lorenzo’s departure without
me, his look, his mysterious words, and his affectionate manner as he bade
me farewell.
Oh! why, at whatever cost, had I not gone with him? And then I followed
him in thought to the dear place I was never to behold again—to the old
palace at Messina where I had passed my childhood, happy and idolized,
under the eye of her who always seemed to me like some heavenly vision.
Beside her I saw my father—“my beloved father.” I uttered these last words
aloud, looking, with eyes full of tears, towards the wild gloomy sea that
separated me from him in death as it had in life.
At that instant I heard Lando’s voice beside me. He had approached without
my hearing him. He had a kind heart that redeemed many of his faults, and
had come to pity and console me in his way.
“My poor cousin! I am over‐whelmed.... What a frightful, irreparable
misfortune! I feel as if it concerned me almost as much as you.”
After a moment’s pause he continued:
“And what is to be done now? In three days that great trial is to take
place and your cause is to be decided! What advocate, good heavens! can be
found that can, I will not say equal, but replace, the able and
illustrious Fabrizio dei Monti?”