The last lingering taper had disappeared from the windows of the palace,
and the clock of the tower had struck the hour of three, when the figure
of a man might have been descried, cautiously clambering over the wall
which enclosed the ducal gardens. Passing rapidly through the ornamental
parterre, he stopped beneath a window which opened upon the gardens, and
threw a pebble against the lattice. The signal having been again
repeated, the casement opened, and a female form advanced upon the
balcony.
“Is it thou, Ugolino?” demanded a voice, the silvery sweetness of whose
tone was so clear and distinct, that it almost startled the count.
“It is I, dearest Rosabelle,” he replied. “I have much to communicate
with thee, and the night wanes fast. Throw down the rope, that I may
ascend to thee, for the tidings I have to tell thee may brook no ears
save thine, for whose only they are intended.”
The Princess D’Este retired for a moment and returned, bearing a silken
cord, one end of which she attached to the balcony, and threw the other
to the count. Ugolino ascended, and the princess in a moment was in his
embrace.
“Quick, let us raise the robe, and close thy chamber carefully, for I
have much to say and speedily.” With these words they entered the
apartment.
It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, and sumptuously
furnished, as became the rank of its mistress. Large and costly
ottomans, oaken seats richly carved and ornamented with the armorial
bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set in massive frames, and
richly chiselled stands of colored marble, upon which heavy silver
candelabra were placed, added to the magnificence of the apartment,
which was lit by a swinging lamp of silver, from whence exhaled a
delicate perfume. The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, and
covered his face with his hands.
“Ugolino!” said the princess, passing her small white hand through the
curled locks of the count, “why are you thus agitated? Are we
discovered? Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? If so,
impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, that she may, at least,
participate in them, if she cannot console thee.”
“I am come,” said the count, and a pang of agony shot across his noble
features, “to prove myself a most foul traitor.”
“Traitor!” said Rosabelle. “Ugolino! can the name of a traitor associate
with thine?”
“Aye. It can—it must! Thou knowest, Rosabelle, the price I paid for
thee ere now. Thou art yet doomed to exact from me a sterner sacrifice.
When I saw thee first, the fairest dame in France, at the gay field of
Poictou, I drew in love for thee with my first breath. Thou wert then
the wife of Julian D’Este. What I suffered for thee then, my
recollection brings too vividly to light. What agonies I now experience,
knowing the barbarous revenge which my already too deeply oppressed
countryman must undergo, when my tale is told to the duke—yet all for
thy sake—no human imagination can depict. Then I languished beneath the
load of an affection, which honor, reason, duty, chivalry, all combined
to oppose. Powerless opposition! The deity of love scorns all defensive
armor. I sought, impelled by fate, the charms of thy society. For thee,
Julian D’Este was no fitting spouse. Harsh and unrefined, he repelled
thine youthful affections, while I, unhappy, too surely was the magnet
which did attract them. Then followed our fatal step. Was it folly? My
heart still tells me it is no folly to adore thee. Was it madness?
Madness never spoke in so clear a tone of reason as in that, which on
the day, hallowed to my remembrance, as we perused that antique volume,
displayed all our feelings—disclosed the secret emotions of our
hearts—gave us soul to soul—and formed our future bliss—our future
woe! No base and vicious inclinations—no vulgar voluptuousness
disgraced our union. We felt that we were made for each other, and when
Julian D’Este fell beneath my poniard, I thought it no crime added to my
account, when I endeavored, by compassing his death, to confer happiness
upon thee.”
Rosabelle answered nought, but hung more devotedly around the neck of
the count, while the soft blue of her eyes was dimmed with the rising
tear.
“What ensued—the impossibility of discovering the murderer of
Julian—our farther intercourse—your brother’s hearty refusal of my
suit, and the suspicion attached to our names, were but matters, which,
had prudence been consulted ere the deed was done, she would have
foretold. But who advises calmly when the burning fire of love threatens
to consume him? In fine, the tyrant brought thee with him here to
Florence, upon his election as captain and signor of the city. Here,
secluded by him from the world, I had given thee up as lost. My faithful
Spalatro discovered thy retreat, and as yet we had hoped that our secret
interviews were undiscovered. Fatal infatuation! This very night has
Pompeo Medici thrown out hints, nay, open assertions of his knowledge of
our situation. Thanks to the death of Giovanni, else all had been
discovered to the duke!”
“Let me counsel thee to fly!” said Rosabelle, “as I have done before.
There is no time to be lost. Myself will be companion of thy flight.”
“It is, I fear, too late. Now listen to the conclusion of my tale. A
great conspiracy is on foot against the rule of the duke. It will break
out into revolt ere morning. All is prepared. The fierce Medici swears
utter ruin to thy race. Even though forewarned, I doubt that Gualtieri
will be overwhelmed. Adimari, equally exasperated with the Medici
against thy brother, dare not check Pompeo in his chase of blood, lest
he fall off and irretrievably ruin the fabric of the conspiracy. Pino
D’Rossi vows death to the minions of the duke, who, as I am a Christian
man, have well deserved it. Ere day-break, confusion will begin. Thou
must fly to thy brother, and advise him of the plot. My name must be
known as the traitor to my country, else thy tale will not be believed.
My charge lies at the church of Santa Mario del Fiore. Ere the palace is
invested, do thou devise means to escape, which may readily be done in
the confusion. Spalatro will conduct thee to the hotel of San Giovanni,
in the Primo Cerchio. There have I prepared disguises and horses. The
chances of escape then lie before us, and if fortune befriend us, we
will fly to some happier clime. At all events, death is the worst which
can betide us, and death ends all woes and calms every distress forever.
Art thou willing, my Rosabelle, to trust thus blindly to fate?”
“Rosabelle can only live or die with Ugolino!” cried the princess,
throwing herself into the arms of the count.
“Now, Rosabelle, fly to the duke. I hear already a distant sound—a far
murmuring, as of the gathering of throngs. This last sacrifice,
imperious love, will I make to thee! Remember! the hotel of San
Giovanni! Escape or happy death!”
He imprinted an ardent kiss upon the lips of the beautiful princess, and
descending from the balcony was lost to her sight.