The Prince di--was not a man whom Naples could suppose to be addicted
to superstitious fancies, neither was the age one in which the belief of
sorcery was prevalent. Still, in the South of Italy there was then, and
there still lingers, a certain spirit of credulity, which may, ever and
anon, be visible amidst the boldest dogmas of their philosophers and
sceptics. In his childhood the Prince had learned strange tales of the
ambition, the genius, and the career of his grandsire; and secretly,
perhaps influenced by ancestral example, in earlier youth he himself
had followed alchemy, not only through her legitimate course, but her
antiquated and erratic windings. I have, indeed, been shown in Naples
a little volume blazoned with the arms of the Visconti, and ascribed
to the nobleman I refer to, which treats of alchemy in a spirit half
mocking and half reverential.
Pleasure soon distracted him from such speculations, and his talents,
which were unquestionably great, were wholly perverted to extravagant
intrigues or to the embellishment of a gorgeous ostentation with
something of classic grace. His immense wealth, his imperious pride,
his unscrupulous and daring character, made him an object of no
inconsiderable fear to a feeble and timid court; and the ministers of
the indolent government willingly connived at excesses--, which allured
him at least from ambition. The strange visit and yet more strange
departure of Mejnour filled the breast of the Neapolitan with awe and
wonder, against which all the haughty arrogance and learned scepticism
of his maturer manhood combated in vain. The apparition of--Mejnour
served, indeed, to invest Zicci with a character in which the Prince had
not hitherto regarded him. He felt a strange alarm at the rival he had
braved, at the foe he had provoked. His night was sleepless, and the
next morning he came to the resolution of leaving Isabel in peace until
after the banquet of that day, to which he had invited Zicci. He felt
as if the death of the mysterious Corsican were necessary for the
preservation of his own life; and if at an earlier period of their
rivalry he had determined on the fate of Zicci, the warnings of--Mejnour
only served to confirm his resolve.
“We will try if his magic can invent an antidote to the bane,” said
he, half aloud and with a gloomy smile, as he summoned Mascari to his
presence. The poison which the Prince, with his own hands, mixed into
the wine intended for his guest was compounded from materials the secret
of which had been one of the proudest heir-looms of that able and evil
race which gave to Italy her wisest and fellest tyrants. Its operation
was quick, not sudden; it produced no pain, it left on the form no grim
convulsion, on the skin no purpling spot, to arouse suspicion; you might
have cut and carved every membrane and fibre of the corpse, but the
sharpest eyes of the leech would not have detected the presence of the
subtle life-queller. For twelve hours the victim felt nothing, save
a joyous and elated exhilaration of the blood; a delicious languor
followed,--the sure forerunner of apoplexy. No lancet then could save!
Apoplexy had run much in the families of the enemies of the Visconti!
The hour of the feast arrived, the guests assembled. There were the
flower of the Neapolitan seigneurie,--the descendants of the Norman, the
Teuton, the Goth; for Naples had then a nobility, but derived it from
the North, which has indeed been the Nutrix Leonum, the nurse of the
lion-hearted chivalry of the world.
Last of the guests came Zicci, and the crowd gave way as the dazzling
foreigner moved along to the lord of the palace. The Prince greeted
him with a meaning smile, to which Zicci answered by a whisper: “He who
plays with loaded dice does not always win.”
The Prince bit his lip; and Zicci, passing on, seemed deep in
conversation with the fawning Mascari.
“Who is the Prince’s heir?” asked the Corsican.
“A distant relation on the mother’s side; with his Excellency dies the
male line.”
“Is the heir present at our host’s banquet?”
“No; they are not friends.”
“No matter; he will be here to-morrow!”
Mascari stared in surprise; but the signal for the banquet was given,
and the guests were marshalled to the board. As was the custom, the
feast took place at midday. It was a long oval hall, the whole of one
side opening by a marble colonnade upon a court or garden, in which the
eye rested gratefully upon cool fountains and statues of whitest marble,
half sheltered by orange-trees. Every art that luxury could invent to
give freshness and coolness to the languid and breezeless heat of the
day without (a day on which the breath of the sirocco was abroad) had
been called into existence. Artificial currents of air through invisible
tubes, silken blinds waving to and fro as if to cheat the senses into
the belief of an April wind, and miniature jets d’eau in each corner of
the apartment gave to the Italians the same sense of exhilaration and
comfort (if I may use the word) which the well-drawn curtains and the
blazing hearth afford to the children of colder climes.
The conversation was somewhat more lively and intellectual than is
common among the languid pleasure-hunters of the South; for the Prince,
himself accomplished, sought his acquaintance not only amongst the beaux
esprits of his own country, but amongst the gay foreigners who adorned
and relieved the monotony of the Neapolitan circles. There were present
two or three of the brilliant Frenchmen of the old regime, and their
peculiar turn of thought and wit was well calculated for the meridian of
a society that made the dolce far niente at once its philosophy and
its faith. The Prince, however, was more silent than usual, and when he
sought to rouse himself, his spirits were forced and exaggerated. To the
manners of his host, those of Zicci afforded a striking contrast. The
bearing of this singular person was at all times characterized by a
calm and polished ease which was attributed by the courtiers to the long
habit of society. He could scarcely be called gay, yet few persons more
tended to animate the general spirits of a convivial circle. He seemed,
by a kind of intuition, to elicit from each companion the qualities
in which he most excelled; and a certain tone of latent mockery that
characterized his remarks upon the topics on which the conversation
fell, seemed to men who took nothing in earnest to be the language both
of wit and wisdom. To the Frenchmen in particular there was something
startling in his intimate knowledge of the minutest events in their
own capital and country, and his profound penetration (evinced but in
epigrams and sarcasms) into the eminent characters who were then playing
a part upon the great stage of Continental intrigue. It was while
this conversation grew animated, and the feast was at its height, that
Glyndon (who, as the reader will recollect, had resolved, on learning
from Cetoxa the capture of the actress, to seek the Prince himself)
arrived at the palace. The porter, perceiving by his dress that he was
not one of the invited guests, told him that his Excellency was engaged,
and on no account could be disturbed; and Glyndon then, for the first
time, became aware of how strange and embarrassing was the duty he had
taken on himself. To force an entrance into the banquet-hall of a great
and powerful noble surrounded by the rank of Naples, and to arraign him
for what to his boon companions would appear but an act of gallantry,
was an exploit that could not fail to be at once ludicrous and impotent.
He mused a moment; and remembering that Zicci was among the guests,
determined to apply himself to the Corsican. He therefore, slipping a
few crowns into the porter’s hand, said that he was commissioned to seek
the Signor Zicci upon an errand of life and death, and easily won his
way across the court and into the interior building. He passed up the
broad staircase, and the voices and merriment of the revellers smote
his ear at a distance. At the entrance of the reception-rooms he found
a page, whom he despatched with a message to Zicci. The page did the
errand; and the Corsican, on hearing the whispered name of Glyndon,
turned to his host.
“Pardon me, my lord, an English friend of mine, the Signor Glyndon (not
unknown by name to your Excellency), waits without. The business must
indeed be urgent on which he has sought me in such an hour. You will
forgive my momentary absence.”
“Nay, signor,” answered the Prince, courteously, but with a sinister
smile on his countenance, “would it not be better for your friend
to join us? An Englishman is welcome everywhere; and even were he a
Dutchman, your friendship would invest his presence with attraction.
Pray his attendance,--we would not spare you even for a moment.”
Zicci bowed. The page was despatched with all flattering messages
to Glyndon, a seat next to Zicci was placed for him, and the young
Englishman entered.
“You are most welcome, sir. I trust your business to our illustrious
guest is of good omen and pleasant import. If you bring evil news, defer
it, I pray you.”
Glyndon’s brow was sullen, and he was about to startle the guests by his
reply, when Zicci, touching his arm significantly, whispered in English,
“I know why you have sought me. Be silent, and witness what ensues.”
“You know, then, that Isabel, whom you boasted you had the power to save
from danger--”
“Is in this house? Yes. I know also that Murder sits at the right
hand of our host. Be still, and learn the fate that awaits the foes of
Zicci.”
“My lord,” said the Corsican, speaking aloud, “the Signor Glyndon has
indeed brought me tidings which, though not unexpected, are unwelcome.
I learn that which will oblige me to leave Naples to-morrow, though I
trust but for a short time. I have now a new motive to make the most of
the present hour.”
“And what, if I may venture to ask, may be the cause which brings such
affliction on the fair dames of Naples?”
“It is the approaching death of one who honored me with most loyal
friendship,” replied Zicci, gravely. “Let us not speak of it,--Grief
cannot put back the dial. As we supply by new flowers those that fade
in our vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to replace by fresh
friendships those that fade from our path.”
“True philosophy,” exclaimed the Prince. “‘Not to admire’ was the
Roman’s maxim; never to mourn is mine. There is nothing in life to
grieve for,--save, indeed, Signor Zicci, when some beauty on whom we
have set our heart slips from our grasp. In such a moment we have need
of all our wisdom not to succumb to despair and shake hands with death.
What say you, signor? You smile. Such never could be your lot. Pledge me
in a sentiment: ‘Long life; to the fortunate lover; a quick release to
the baffled suitor!’”
“I pledge you,” said Zicci. And as the fatal wine was poured into his
glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on the Prince, “I pledge you even in
this wine!”
He lifted the glass to his lips. The Prince seemed ghastly pale,
while the gaze of the Corsican bent upon him with an intent and stern
brightness that the conscience-stricken host cowered and quailed
beneath. Not till he had drained the draught and replaced the glass upon
the board did Zicci turn his eyes from the Prince; and he then said,
“Your wine has been kept too long,--it has lost its virtues. It might
disagree with many; but do not fear, it will not harm me, Prince. Signor
Mascari, you are a judge of the grape, will you favor us with your
opinion?”
“Nay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, “I like not the
wines of Cyprus, they are heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have
the same distaste. The English are said to love their potations warm and
pungent.”
“Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, Prince?” said Zicci.
“Recollect all cannot drink it with the same impunity as myself.”
“No,” said the Prince, hastily; “if you do not recommend the wine,
Heaven forbid that we should constrain our guests! My Lord Duke,”
turning to one of the Frenchmen, “yours is the true soil of Bacchus.
What think you of this cask from Burgundy,--has it borne the journey?”
“Ah!” said Zicci, “let us change both the wine and the theme.” With
that the Corsican grew more animated and brilliant. Never did wit more
sparkling, airy, exhilarating, flash from the lips of reveller. His
spirits fascinated all present, even the Prince himself, even Glyndon,
with a strange and wild contagion. The former, indeed, whom the words
and gaze of Zicci, when he drained the poison, had filled with fearful
misgivings, now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit a certain
sign of the operation of the bane. The wine circulated fast, but none
seemed conscious of its effects. One by one the rest of the party fell
into a charmed and spell-bound silence as Zicci continued to pour forth
sally upon sally, tale upon tale. They hung on his words, they almost
held their breath to listen. Yet how bitter was his mirth; how full
of contempt for all things; how deeply steeped in the coldness of the
derision that makes sport of life itself!
Night came on; the room grew dim, and the feast had lasted several hours
longer than was the customary duration of similar entertainments at
that day. Still the guests stirred not, and still Zicci continued, with
glittering eye and mocking lip, to lavish his stores of intellect
and anecdote, when suddenly the moon rose, and shed its rays over the
flowers and fountains in the court without, leaving the room itself half
in shadow and half tinged by a quiet and ghostly light.
It was then that Zicci rose. “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “we have not
yet wearied our host, I hope, and his garden offers a new temptation to
protract our stay. Have you no musicians among your train, Prince,
that might regale our ears while we inhale the fragrance of your
orange-trees?”
“An excellent thought,” said the Prince. “Mascari, see to the music.”
The party rose simultaneously to adjourn to the garden; and then, for
the first time, the effect of the wine they had drunk seemed to make
itself felt.
With flushed cheeks and unsteady steps they came into the open air,
which tended yet more to stimulate that glowing fever of the grape.
As if to make up for the silence with which the guests had hitherto
listened to Zicci, every tongue was now loosened; every man talked,
no man listened. In the serene beauty of the night and scene there was
something wild and fearful in the contrast of the hubbub and Babel of
these disorderly roysterers. One of the Frenchmen in especial, the
young Due de R--,--a nobleman of the highest rank, and of all the
quick, vivacious, and irascible temperament of his countrymen,--was
particularly noisy and excited. And as circumstances, the remembrance
of which is still preserved among certain circles of Naples, rendered it
afterwards necessary that the Due should himself give evidence of what
occurred, I will here translate the short account he drew up, and which
was kindly submitted to me some few years ago by my accomplished and
lively friend, il Cavaliere di B--.
I never remember [writes the Due] to have felt my spirits so
excited as on that evening; we were like so many boys released from
school, jostling each other as we reeled or ran down the flight of
seven or eight stairs that led from the colonnade into the garden,
--some laughing, some whooping, some scolding, some babbling. The
wine had brought out, as it were, each man’s inmost character.
Some were loud and quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining;
some, whom we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful; some, whom
we had ever regarded as discreet and taciturn, most garrulous and
uproarious. I remember that in the midst of our most clamorous
gayety my eye fell upon the foreign cavalier, Signor Zicci, whose
conversation had so enchanted us all, and I felt a certain chill
come over me to perceive that he bore the same calm and
unsympathizing smile upon his countenance which had characterized
it in his singular and curious stories of the court of Louis XV. I
felt, indeed, half inclined to seek a quarrel with one whose
composure was almost an insult to our disorder. Nor was such an
effect of this irritating and mocking tranquillity confined to
myself alone. Several of the party have told me since that on
looking at Zicci they felt their blood rise and their hands wander
to their sword-hilts. There seemed in the icy smile a very charm
to wound vanity and provoke rage. It was at this moment that the
Prince came up to me, and, passing his arm into mine, led me a
little apart from the rest he had certainly indulged in the same
excess as ourselves, but it did not produce the same effect of
noisy excitement. There was, on the contrary a certain cold
arrogance and supercilious scorn in his bearing and language,
which, even while affecting so much caressing courtesy towards me,
roused my self-love against him. He seemed as if Zicci had
infected him, and that in imitating the manner of his guest he
surpassed the original, he rallied me on some court gossip which
had honored my name by associating it with a certain beautiful and
distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat with contempt
that which, had it been true, I should have regarded as a boast.
He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered all the flowers of
Naples, and left us foreigners only the gleanings he had scorned;
at this my natural and national gallantry was piqued, and I
retorted by some sarcasms that I should certainly have spared had
my blood been cooler. He laughed heartily, and left me in a
strange fit of resentment and anger. Perhaps (I must own the
truth) the wine had produced in me a wild disposition to take
offence and provoke quarrel. As the Prince left me, I turned, and
saw Zicci at my side.
“The Prince is a braggart,” said he, with the same smile that
displeased me before. “He would monopolize all fortune and all
love. Let us take our revenge.”
“And how?”
“He has at this moment in his house the most enchanting singer in
Naples,--the celebrated Isabel di Pisani. She is here, it is true,
not by her own choice,--he carried her hither by force; but he will
pretend to swear that she adores him. Let us insist on his
producing the secret treasure; and when she enters, the Duc de Lt----
can have no doubt that his flatteries and attentions will charm the
lady and provoke all the jealous fears of our host. It would be a
fair revenge upon his imperious self conceit.”
This suggestion delighted me. I hastened to the Prince. At that
instant the musicians had just commenced. I waved my hand, ordered
the music to stop, and addressing the Prince, who was standing in
the centre of one of the gayest groups, complained of his want of
hospitality in affording to us such poor proficients in the art
while he reserved for his own solace the lute and voice of the
first performer in Naples. I demanded, half laughingly, half
seriously, that he should produce the Pisani. My demand was
received with shouts of applause by the rest. We drowned the
replies of our host with uproar, and would hear no denial.
“Gentlemen,” at last said the Prince, when he could obtain an
audience, “even were I to assent to your proposal, I could not
induce the signora to present herself before an assemblage as
riotous as they are noble. You have too much chivalry to use
compulsion with her, though the Due de R--forgets himself
sufficiently to administer it to inc.”
I was stung by this taunt, however well deserved. “Prince,” said
I, “I have for the indelicacy of compulsion so illustrious an
example that I cannot hesitate to pursue the path honored by your
own footsteps. All Naples knows that the Pisani despises at once
your gold and your love; that force alone could have brought her
under your roof; and that you refuse to produce her because you
fear her complaints, and know enough of the chivalry your vanity
sneers at to feel assured that the gentlemen of France are not more
disposed to worship beauty than to defend it from wrong.”
“You speak well, sir,” said Zicci, gravely;--“the Prince dare not
produce his prize.”
The Prince remained speechless for a few moments, as if with
indignation. At last he broke out into expressions the most
injurious and insulting against Signor Zicci and myself. Zicci
replied not; I was more hot and hasty. The guests appeared to
delight in our dispute. None except Mascari, whom we pushed aside
and disdained to hear, strove to conciliate; some took one side,
some another. The issue may be well foreseen. Swords were drawn.
I had left mine in the ante room; Zicci offered me his own,--I
seized it eagerly. There might be some six or eight persons
engaged in a strange and confused kind of melee, but the Prince and
myself only sought each other. The noise around us, the confusion
of the guests, the cries of the musicians, the clash of our own
swords, only served to stimulate our unhappy fury. We feared to be
interrupted by the attendants and fought like madmen, without skill
or method. I thrust and parried mechanically, blind and frantic as
if a demon had entered into me, till I saw the Prince stretched at
my feet, bathed in his blood, and Zicci bending over him and
whispering in his ear. The sight cooled us all; the strife ceased.
We gathered in shame, remorse, and horror round our ill-fated host;
but it was too late, his eyes rolled fearfully in his head, and
still he struggled to release himself from Zicci’s arms, who
continued to whisper (I trust divine comfort) in his ear. I have
seen men die, but, never one who wore such horror on his
countenance. At last all was over; Zicci rose from the corpse, and
taking, with great composure, his sword from my hand,--“Ye are
witnesses, gentlemen,” said he, calmly, “that the Prince brought
his fate upon himself. The last of that illustrious house has
perished in a brawl.”
I saw no more of Zicci. I hastened to the French ambassador to
narrate the event and abide the issue. I am grateful to the
Neapolitan government and to the illustrious heir of the
unfortunate nobleman for the lenient and generous, yet just,
interpretation put upon a misfortune the memory of which will
afflict me to the last hour of my life. (Signed) Louis Victor,
Duc de R.
In the above memorial the reader will find the most exact and minute
account yet given of an event which created the most lively sensation
at Naples in that day, and the narration of which first induced me to
collect the materials of this history, which the reader will perceive,
as it advances, is altogether different in its nature, its agencies,
and its aims from those tales of external terror, whether derived from
ingenious imposture or supernatural mystery, that have given life to
French melodrama or German romance.