Under a wide-spreading and drooping fig-tree in the lower part of the
gardens of the villa on the hill was seated a man who kept his eyes
steadily fixed upon a certain spot at the end of the terrace far
above. The distance in a direct line to the object toward which his
eyes were turned was some two hundred and fifty yards; it might be a
little more, but at all events, he could see distinctly all that
passed above.
At first it seemed as if there was but little to be seen. A
lady was seated, reading, in a small plot or garden, close by a
highly-ornamented doorway which led into the interior of the villa. It
was in an angle of the building, where a large mass of architecture
protruded beyond the general façade. Thus, when the sun was in the
west, a deeper shade was cast there than upon any other point of the
terrace. It was, perhaps, that the sun had nearly reached the horizon,
and that the shades of night were coming fast, which caused the lady
to lay the manuscript book upon her knee, and, looking up to the sky,
seem to contemplate a flight of tinted clouds, which looked like the
leaves of a shedding rose blown over a garden by the rifling wind.
But hark! what is that sound that strikes his ear? the fast footfalls
of horses coming along the road beneath the stone walls of the garden.
They pause close by him.
"Here! hold the horse, and wait till I return," said a voice, and the
next moment a cavalier vaulted over the wall, and stood within twenty
yards of where the watcher sat.
For a moment the stranger seemed uncertain which way to turn, but then
he forced his way through the vines to a path which led up to the main
entrance of the villa on the terrace. He looked up and around from
time to time as he ascended; but suddenly an object seemed to meet his
eyes to the right, and, striking away from the path, he took a course
direct toward it, regardless of any obstacle. The watcher kept his eye
upon him while he climbed the hill, mounted the steps of the terrace,
and stood by the lady's side.
Who can tell what words were spoken? Who can tell what feelings were
expressed! Who can tell what memories were re-awakened? Who can tell
what passions had power in that hour?
The watcher saw him stand beside her talking for several minutes, then
cast himself down on the ground by her side. A moment after, his arm
glided round her; and one could almost fancy that wafted on the air
came the words, "One--one kiss before we part."
Their lips evidently met, and God forgive them if it was a sin! The
next instant Leonora rose from her seat, and, hand in hand, they
entered the building by the door which led to her own saloon.
"Ha! ha!" said the watcher, with a bitter laugh. But two minutes had
not elapsed before lights flashed from the windows of that very room,
and the shadows of three figures passed across.
"What means this?" said the man who sat beneath the fig-tree; and,
creeping forth from his concealment, he stole up the hill. He reached
the terrace at some distance from the little garden, and then walked
along in the direction of the spot where he had seen Lorenzo and
Leonora. His sandalled foot made very little noise; and he kept so
close to the building that his gown brushed against the stone-work.
When he reached the first window of Leonora's saloon, he paused for an
instant, and by an effort--for he was short of stature--raised himself
sufficiently to look in. It was enough. Seated side by side were those
whom the Count de Rouvri had well termed the two most beautiful
persons in Italy. But at the farther side of the saloon was one of
Leonora's maids busily plying the needle.
Had Eve refused to taste the forbidden fruit in Eden, Satan could
hardly have felt more rancorous disappointment than that friar
experienced at what he saw.
That night passed, and the following day; but when evening came, the
villa on the hill blazed with lights; the gardens were illuminated,
and gay groups were seen in the long saloons and on the terrace, and
in many a part of the gardens. Many a tale of love was told that
night, and many a whispered word was spoken that decided fates for
ever. There was much pleasure, much joy, some happiness; but there
were pains and heartburning also.
It was toward the end of the entertainment that Eloise, passing along
with the young Marquis de Vibraye at her side, came suddenly upon her
husband leaning against one of the pillars of the door which led out
upon the terrace. De Vibraye was one of those peculiarly obnoxious to
Lorenzo, for there was a braggart spirit in him which sported with
woman's fame in the society of men with little heed of truth or
probability. There was a look of triumph on his face as he passed
Lorenzo with hardly an inclination of the head. But he went not far;
for his foot was not on the terrace ere Lorenzo's hand was on his
shoulder.
"A word with you, seigneur," said the young prefect, and drew him to
some distance.
"Well, my lord," said De Vibraye, with a cheek somewhat pale, "what do
you want with me?"
"But little," replied Lorenzo. "I gave you a sufficient hint in Rome
that your society was not desired within my doors. I find you here. If
you are in Imola to-morrow at noon, I will out off your ears, and turn
you out of the gates as a worthless cur. You had better go while you
are safe."
He waited no answer, but returned to the side of his wife, who greeted
him in a fretful tone, saying--
"Well, this is courteous in you two gentlemen to leave me standing
here alone like a chambermaid!"
"Madame, you shall be alone no longer," answered Lorenzo, drawing her
arm through his, and leading her back into the great saloon.
She did not venture to resist, for he spoke in a tone she had heard
once before, and she knew that when he used it he would bear no
opposition. But a few minutes after, a cry ran through the rooms that
the Countess Visconti had fainted.
"Bear her to my daughter's saloon!" cried Ramiro d'Orco, as Lorenzo
caught up Eloise in his arms; "bear her to my daughter's saloon! She
will soon recover. Here, follow me--make way, gentlemen! All the lady
requires is cooler air; the rooms are too crowded."
"This way, Signor Visconti," said Leonora; and in a few moments Eloise
was laid upon a couch, and the door closed to prevent the intrusion of
the crowd.
It was very like death; and Lorenzo and Leonora looked upon her with
strange and mingled sensations. There lay the only obstacle to their
happiness, pale and ashy as a faded flower. Seldom has the slumber of
the grave been better mocked; and yet the sight had a saddening and
heart-purifying effect on both. So young--so beautiful--so sweet and
innocent-looking in that still sleep! They could not, they did not
wish that so bright a link in the chain which bound both to the pillar
of an evil destiny should be rudely severed. The maids who had been
called tried in vain to bring her back to consciousness; and Ramiro
d'Orco, who had been gazing too with sensations differing from any in
the breasts of those around him, called the girls aside, and bade them
seek the friar.
"He is skilled in medicinal arts," he said; "fetch him instantly."
Leonora pointed to the inanimate form of her lover's wife, and said in
a low tone--
"Look there, Lorenzo! Is it not sad? There is but one thing to be
done. I will take refuge in a convent, lest evil dreams should come
into our hearts."
"O forbear! forbear yet awhile!" said Lorenzo; but, ere he could add
more, Ramiro d'Orco had returned to their side; and a few minutes
after, Friar Peter was in the room. He approached the couch with a
quiet, stealthy step, gazed on the face of Eloise, laid his hand upon
the pulse, and, taking a cup of water from one of the maids, dropped
some pale fluid into it from a phial, and, raising the head of his
patient, poured it into her mouth.
"She will revive in a moment," he said; "that is a sovereign cure for
such affections of this bodily frame. Oppression of the spirit may be
harder to reach, and, I should think, in this case there is something
weighing heavy on the heart or mind."
Lorenzo kept silence, though he thought that the friar had perhaps
divined aright.
At all events, his remedy, whatever it was, proved effectual. After
about a minute, Eloise opened her eyes, and looked around her faintly.
"Where am I?" she said. "Oh, is that you, Leonora?"
"How are you, madame," said Ramiro d'Orco; "you have swooned from the
crowded rooms and overheated air. I trust you will be quite well
shortly."
"I am better," she said, "much better, but very weak; I would fain go
home. Let some one bring my litter."
"I will go with you," said Lorenzo. "I beseech you, signor, have my
horses ordered. But, ere we go, I must thank this good friar for his
most serviceable aid. That for your convent, father," he said, drawing
him aside and giving him money. "I thank you for your skilful tendance
on my wife; but I think that perhaps your counsels might, as you
hinted even now, be as good for her mental condition as your drugs
have been for her bodily health. I will pray you, therefore, good
father, visit her tomorrow towards noon. You can explain your coming
as a visit to a patient rather than a penitent; but if you can inspire
her with somewhat more careful thought regarding her demeanour in the
world, you will do well."
"But the lady knows not yet that I tended on her," said Mardocchi;
"let me speak with her again before she goes."
He then approached the side of Eloise, and once more laid his fingers
on her pulse.
"Not quite recovered yet," he said, with a grave air; "give me some
water. A few more drops will, I trust, complete the cure, daughter;"
and he took the phial from his gown.
"Not here, friar--not here!" whispered Ramiro d'Orco.
But Mardocchi put him back with his hand, dropped out some more of the
liquid, and gave it to Eloise, saying:
"This will restore you perfectly for to-night. To-morrow I will see
you again, to know how you are then."
It was on the following day toward noon that Friar Peter entered the
Episcopal Square, and approached the palace which had been hired for
Lorenzo Visconti. He walked with downcast eyes and a thoughtful look,
but none of the townspeople who passed him attributed any very high or
holy meditations to the friar; for the Italians, especially of the
lower class, are the most clear-sighted persons in the world into the
depths of human character. "What is he calculating?" they thought;
"what is he scheming now?"
With a quiet, almost noiseless step, he approached the wide gates of
the palazzo, and asked for the signora.
"She is in the hall above with some French cavaliers, father," replied
the janitore; "you can go up."
"I would rather see her alone," answered the friar; "I attended upon
her last night when she fainted at the Villa Ramiro, and wish to speak
to her about her health. Can you not call her out of the hall for a
moment?"
The porter led him to the door of the hall, and, leaving him there,
entered alone. He was gone but a moment, and then returning, led the
friar up another flight of stairs to Eloise's chamber, where he left
him, saying that his lady would be up in a few minutes.
He closed the door when he departed, and Mardocchi gazed around him
with no small curiosity and interest. There were many ornaments
scattered round the room--little works of art, beautiful trifles and
invaluable gems. Mardocchi remarked all, examined all, and handled not
a few. Among the rest he took up the small picture of Lorenzo's
mother, which the young prefect had left there on the night of his
arrival. He gazed at the face for a moment or two, seeming to have
some faint remembrance of the features, and then examined the case
with some curiosity. He was not long in discovering the spring by
which the back opened, and the powders and inscription were exposed to
view.
"A cure for the ills of life!" he said: and then, as if something
which required thought suddenly struck him, he seated himself, and
with his eyes fixed upon the case, fell into profound meditation.
The reader will remember that there was a smaller chamber next to that
of Eloise; and a door of communication between the two. As the friar
sat there thinking, that door moved slightly on its hinges, and a
chink appeared through which one might have passed a Spanish crown
piece,--no larger.
A few minutes after, the countess entered. Mardocchi had the picture
with the case still open in his hand; but he laid it not down as might
have been expected. On the contrary, he rose from his seat, and,
bowing his head, said, with a humble air:
"I have committed a great indiscretion, Madonna, I took up this
beautiful portrait to look at it, when suddenly, I know not how, it
came open as you see."
"Oh! that is the picture of my husband's mother," said Eloise
carelessly; "I found it here two or three days ago. I cannot tell how
it came here, for he carries it usually in his bosom. But what is that
little box behind? I was puzzling over these powders and the
inscription only yesterday, but could make nothing of them."
"Let me see," said Mardocchi, carrying the case to the window, as if
for a better light.
He remained for a moment or two with his back to the lady, apparently
examining the powders, and then brought the case back, saying:
"They are apparently love powders."
"Then I will take one of them," said Eloise, laughing; "I am sure I
need them."
"For Heaven's sake, forbear, Madonna," said Mardocchi; "I don't, know
what they are--I only guess. God help us! they may contain poison, in
this wicked age."
"Well, well, I will put the case back in his dressing-room," said
Eloise; but the friar stayed her, saying, "Better leave them where he
left them, my daughter. I have but a few moments to stay, and I wish
to inquire after your health.
"Oh! my health in excellent, good father," replied the lady, lightly,
"thanks to your skill; I believe it never was better."
"Permit me to feel your pulse, Madonna," said Mardocchi. "Let me see.
This is the ninth day of the moon; and, from the eighth to the
fourteenth, some mild and calming remedies are useful. Your pulse is
somewhat agitated."
"Well it may be," said Eloise; "my husband is in a mighty sweet
humour, father. He takes offence at the slightest trifles; and, on my
life, if I did not know him noble at heart, I should think, as you
said, that these papers contained poisons, and that he had left them
here that I might try their virtues myself."
"That were easily tested," said Mardocchi, with an eager look. "Give
one of them to some of your maids; bid them put it in a piece of meat,
and throw it to a dog. If they be venomous, the venom will soon do its
work. Here, give her this one at the top;" and, taking one of the
powders out of the case, he laid it down on the table.
"And, now again, Madonna, as to your health," continued Mardocchi;
"you are not so well as you think yourself. A malady affects you
proceeding from some shock to the spirits, which will return at
intervals of sixteen hours, unless you do something to arrest its
course. It may be very violent indeed, and attended with sore pains
and terrible suffering; but I can prevent its having any fatal effect.
Let me calculate. Last night you had the first slight attack at about
ten o'clock; a stronger one will seize you at two to-day. It is now
too late to avert it entirely; but if in an hour's time, you will take
this powder which I now give you--mind! do not confound it with the
other, which is to be tried upon the dog--you will find the paroxysms
much mitigated. Do not be alarmed, though you may suffer much, for at
the moment when the convulsion seems most strong, it will suddenly
cease, and you will sleep quietly."
Eloise gazed at him with surprise and even alarm.
"I feel quite well," she thought; "what can this mean? And yet I felt
quite well five minutes before I fainted last night. Well, the monk
soon cured me then, and I will follow his counsel now. In an hour,
father, did you say?" she asked aloud.
"Ay, in an hour," replied the friar; "that will just give me time to
try one of those other powders on a dog. I shall like to hear the
result, and will see you again to-morrow, when I trust I shall find
this malady is quite vanquished. You then can tell whether those in
the case are safe. They are probably very idle drugs."
"I will have them tried, good father," replied Eloise; "and now
farewell."
"Shall I send one of your women to you, Madonna?" asked the friar; and
then he added with apparently a sudden change of thought, "It may be
as well not to say how you came by the powders, or why you wish this
trial made. It might lead to injurious suspicious."
"True--true," said Eloise, in an absent tone. "I will say nothing.
Send one of them here. You will find them in the end room of the
suite. Farewell."
Mardocchi left her, and speedily found the chamber where her women
were at work. His quick eye glanced over them, and fixed upon one he
thought suited to his purpose.
"I wish to speak to you, signora," he said, beckoning her into the
corridor; and when she laid down her work and followed him, he added
in a low tone, "The countess wants you in her chamber. She may say
little to you in her present mood, and therefore I wish to warn you to
be careful what you do. Her husband has left her some powders to take.
She is doubtful of what they are, and wishes to have one of them tried
upon a dog before she swallows them. Give it in some meat, and don't
lose sight of the animal till you see the effect. Then return to your
lady, and tell her what you have seen. But talk with her as little as
possible, for she is unwell."
In the meanwhile, Eloise sat alone in somewhat sad and solemn
meditations. If there be sympathies between the beings of this mortal
world and those unclogged with clay--if there be warnings conveyed
without voice, or impulses given from a higher sphere, it is natural
to suppose that they are more clearly heard, more keenly felt, when we
are approaching near the world from which they come. Eloise was very
sad--the lightness of her character was gone. She was serious now for
once, and thoughts unwonted, undesired, had full possession of her.
Who is there that can review even a few years of his past life without
finding many things to regret? And oh! what a sad retrospect did the
last two years afford to Eloise Visconti! How many an act worthy of
penitence, if not remorse--how many a blessing cast away--how many an
opportunity neglected!
She tried to shake off that painful, self-reproachful mood; but it
clung to her; and when the woman entered, she hardly saw her.
"What are your commands, Madonna?" asked the girl.
Eloise started, and then, taking one of two small packets which
lay at some distance from each other on the table, she held it out,
saying--
"Put that in a piece of meat, and give it to one of the dogs. Come
back and tell me if it lives or dies."
The girl took the paper and departed, but not without remarking that
there was another packet of much the same shape and size upon the
table.
Eloise fell into thought again, and was soon as completely absorbed in
meditation as ever. She knew not how long the girl was absent; but at
length she returned, saying, with a look of some consternation--
"Madam, the poor dog fell into great agonies and died in about three
minutes."
"Ha!" said the young countess; "thank God! I now know what they are."
"I thank God too, Madonna," answered the girl; "how can any one be so
cruel?"
"Cruel or kind, as the case may be, Giovanetta," replied her mistress,
"when life is a burden, he is kind who takes it off our shoulders."
"But oh! Madonna, for a husband to----!" said the girl.
But Eloise waved her away, saying, "Go, girl, go; you know not what
you talk of. Leave me!"
The girl went unwillingly, for she liked not the change from
light-hearted mirth to stern sadness in her gay mistress; and she
would fain have taken the other powder with her, but she dared not
disobey.
"What means this deep gloom that is upon me?" said Eloise to herself,
as soon as the girl was gone. "It must be the approach of the attack
the friar mentioned. It is time to take the medicine--nay, more than
time, I fear. I will swallow it at once, though I love not drugs. This
at least has life in it--not death;" and, with that conviction, she
mixed the powder Mardocchi had left with some water, and drank it.
"It is very sweet," she said, "but it burns my throat;" and, seating
herself, she took up a book of prayers and began to read.
Ten minutes after the silver bell rang violently once and again, for
the maids heard not the first summons. At the second, Giovenetta
started up and ran to the chamber of her mistress; but, as she
approached, she heard the sound of a heavy fall, and when the door was
opened, she and another who followed found Eloise upon the floor in
strong convulsions.
"Oh, she is poisoned!" cried Giovanetta, wringing her hands.
"My husband! my husband!" murmured Eloise, with a terrible effort: "my
husband; tell him I never sinned against him as he thought--tell him I
have been faithful to him--oh, girls, raise me up! I am choked--I
cannot breathe."
They raised her and laid her on her bed, and for a moment or two she
seemed relieved; but then a still more terrible paroxysm succeeded,
and, ere any assistance could be sought, the light, thoughtless spirit
passed away to seek mercy at the throne of God.