Glyndon thought seriously and deeply over all that the mysterious Zicci
had said to him relative to Isabel. His imagination was inflamed by the
vague and splendid promises that were connected with his marriage with
the poor actress. His fears, too, were naturally aroused by the threat
that by marriage alone could he save himself from the rivalry of
Zicci,--Zicci, born to dazzle and command; Zicci, who united to the
apparent wealth of a monarch the beauty of a god; Zicci, whose eye
seemed to foresee, whose hand to frustrate, every danger. What a rival,
and what a foe!
But Glyndon’s pride, as well as jealousy, was aroused. He was brave
comme son epee. Should he shrink from the power or the enmity of a man
mortal as himself? And why should Zicci desire him to give his name and
station to one of a calling so equivocal? Might there not be motives he
could not fathom? Might not the actress and the Corsican be in league
with each other? Might not all this jargon of prophecy--and menace be
but artifices to dupe him,--the tool, perhaps, of a mountebank and
his mistress! Mistress,--ah, no! If ever maidenhood wrote its modest
characters externally, that pure eye, that noble forehead, that mien
and manner so ingenuous even in their coquetry, their pride, assured him
that Isabel was not the base and guilty thing he had dared for a moment
to suspect her. Lost in a labyrinth of doubts and surmises, Glyndon
turned on the practical sense of the sober Merton to assist and
enlighten him.
As may be well supposed, his friend listened to his account of his
interview with Zicci with a half-suppressed and ironical smile.
“Excellent, my dear friend! This Zicci is another Apollonius of
Tyana,--nothing less will satisfy you. What! is it possible that you
are the Clarence Glyndon of whose career such glowing hopes are
entertained,--you the man whose genius has been extolled by all the
graybeards? Not a boy turned out from a village school but would laugh
you to scorn. And so because Signor Zicci tells you that you will be
a marvellously great man if you revolt all your friends and blight all
your prospects by marrying a Neapolitan actress, you begin already to
think of--By Jupiter! I cannot talk patiently on the subject. Let the
girl alone,--that would be the proper plan; or else--”
“You talk very sensibly,” interrupted Glyndon, “but you distract me. I
will go to Isabel’s house; I will see her; I will judge for myself.”
“That is certainly the best way to forget her,” said Merton. Glyndon
seized his hat and sword, and was gone.