Tu vegga o per violenzia o per inganno
Patire o disonore o mortal danno.
“Orlando Furioso,” Cant. xlii. i.
(Thou art about, either through violence or artifice, to suffer
either dishonour or mortal loss.)
It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one of
which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of the palace.
Oh, yes! Zanoni was right. The painter IS a magician; the gold he at
least wrings from his crucible is no delusion. A Venetian noble might be
a fribble, or an assassin,--a scoundrel, or a dolt; worthless, or worse
than worthless, yet he might have sat to Titian, and his portrait may
be inestimable,--a few inches of painted canvas a thousand times more
valuable than a man with his veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and
intellect!
In this cabinet sat a man of about three-and-forty,--dark-eyed, sallow,
with short, prominent features, a massive conformation of jaw, and
thick, sensual, but resolute lips; this man was the Prince di --. His
form, above the middle height, and rather inclined to corpulence, was
clad in a loose dressing-robe of rich brocade. On a table before him lay
an old-fashioned sword and hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio,
and an inkstand of silver curiously carved.
“Well, Mascari,” said the prince, looking up towards his parasite, who
stood by the embrasure of the deep-set barricadoed window,--“well! the
Cardinal sleeps with his fathers. I require comfort for the loss of
so excellent a relation; and where a more dulcet voice than Viola
Pisani’s?”
“Is your Excellency serious? So soon after the death of his Eminence?”
“It will be the less talked of, and I the less suspected. Hast thou
ascertained the name of the insolent who baffled us that night, and
advised the Cardinal the next day?”
“Not yet.”
“Sapient Mascari! I will inform thee. It was the strange Unknown.”
“The Signor Zanoni! Are you sure, my prince?”
“Mascari, yes. There is a tone in that man’s voice that I never can
mistake; so clear, and so commanding, when I hear it I almost fancy
there is such a thing as conscience. However, we must rid ourselves of
an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zanoni hath not yet honoured our poor
house with his presence. He is a distinguished stranger,--we must give a
banquet in his honour.”
“Ah, and the Cyprus wine! The cypress is a proper emblem of the grave.”
“But this anon. I am superstitious; there are strange stories of
Zanoni’s power and foresight; remember the death of Ughelli. No matter,
though the Fiend were his ally, he should not rob me of my prize; no,
nor my revenge.”
“Your Excellency is infatuated; the actress has bewitched you.”
“Mascari,” said the prince, with a haughty smile, “through these veins
rolls the blood of the old Visconti--of those who boasted that no woman
ever escaped their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown of my
fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy,--their ambition and their
spirit are undecayed! My honour is now enlisted in this pursuit,--Viola
must be mine!”
“Another ambuscade?” said Mascari, inquiringly.
“Nay, why not enter the house itself?--the situation is lonely, and the
door is not made of iron.”
“But what if, on her return home, she tell the tale of our violence? A
house forced,--a virgin stolen! Reflect; though the feudal privileges
are not destroyed, even a Visconti is not now above the law.”
“Is he not, Mascari? Fool! in what age of the world, even if the Madmen
of France succeed in their chimeras, will the iron of law not bend
itself, like an osier twig, to the strong hand of power and gold? But
look not so pale, Mascari; I have foreplanned all things. The day that
she leaves this palace, she will leave it for France, with Monsieur Jean
Nicot.”
Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber announced the
Signor Zanoni.
The prince involuntarily laid his hand upon the sword placed on the
table, then with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met his visitor
at the threshold, with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of
Italian simulation.
“This is an honour highly prized,” said the prince. “I have long desired
to clasp the hand of one so distinguished.”
“And I give it in the spirit with which you seek it,” replied Zanoni.
The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it a
shiver came over him, and his heart stood still. Zanoni bent on him his
dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air.
“Thus it is signed and sealed; I mean our friendship, noble prince. And
now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, Excellency, that,
unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate out
pretensions!”
“Ah!” said the prince, carelessly, “you, then, were the cavalier who
robbed me of the reward of my chase. All stratagems fair in love, as in
war. Reconcile our pretensions! Well, here is the dice-box; let us throw
for her. He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim.”
“Is this a decision by which you will promise to be bound?”
“Yes, on my faith.”
“And for him who breaks his word so plighted, what shall be the
forfeit?”
“The sword lies next to the dice-box, Signor Zanoni. Let him who stands
not by his honour fall by the sword.”
“And you invoke that sentence if either of us fail his word? Be it so;
let Signor Mascari cast for us.”
“Well said!--Mascari, the dice!”
The prince threw himself back in his chair; and, world-hardened as he
was, could not suppress the glow of triumph and satisfaction that spread
itself over his features. Mascari took up the three dice, and rattled
them noisily in the box. Zanoni, leaning his cheek on his hand, and
bending over the table, fixed his eyes steadfastly on the parasite;
Mascari in vain struggled to extricate from that searching gaze; he grew
pale, and trembled, he put down the box.
“I give the first throw to your Excellency. Signor Mascari, be pleased
to terminate our suspense.”
Again Mascari took up the box; again his hand shook so that the dice
rattled within. He threw; the numbers were sixteen.
“It is a high throw,” said Zanoni, calmly; “nevertheless, Signor
Mascari, I do not despond.”
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents
once more on the table: the number was the highest that can be
thrown,--eighteen.
The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping
mouth, staring at the dice, and trembling from head to foot.
“I have won, you see,” said Zanoni; “may we be friends still?”
“Signor,” said the prince, obviously struggling with anger and
confusion, “the victory is yours. But pardon me, you have spoken lightly
of this young girl,--will anything tempt you to yield your claim?”
“Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry; and,” resumed Zanoni, with a
stern meaning in his voice, “forget not the forfeit your own lips have
named.”
The prince knit his brow, but constrained the haughty answer that was
his first impulse.
“Enough!” he said, forcing a smile; “I yield. Let me prove that I do not
yield ungraciously; will you favour me with your presence at a little
feast I propose to give in honour,” he added, with a sardonic mockery,
“of the elevation of my kinsman, the late Cardinal, of pious memory, to
the true seat of St. Peter?”
“It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one command of yours I can obey.”
Zanoni then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly, and soon
afterwards departed.
“Villain!” then exclaimed the prince, grasping Mascari by the collar,
“you betrayed me!”
“I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged; he
should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that’s the end of
it.”
“There is no time to be lost,” said the prince, quitting his hold of his
parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat.
“My blood is up,--I will win this girl, if I die for it! What noise is
that?”
“It is but the sword of your illustrious ancestor that has fallen from
the table.”