astonishing events of the Napoleonic wars; and the very names of
Europe’s conquerors are becoming antiquated to the ears of our children.
Those were more romantic days than these; for the revulsions occasioned
by revolution or invasion were full of romance; and travellers in those
countries in which these scenes had place hear strange and wonderful
stories, whose truth so much resembles fiction, that, while interested
in the narration, we never give implicit credence to the narrator. Of
this kind is a tale I heard at Naples. The fortunes of war perhaps did
not influence its actors, yet it appears improbable that any
circumstances so out of the usual routine could have had place under the
garish daylight that peace sheds upon the world.
When Murat, then called Gioacchino, king of Naples, raised his Italian
regiments, several young nobles, who had before been scarcely more than
vine-dressers on the soil, were inspired with a love of arms, and
presented themselves as candidates for military honours. Among these was
the young Count Eboli. The father of this youthful noble had followed
Ferdinand to Sicily; but his estates lay principally near Salerno, and
he was naturally desirous of preserving them; while the hopes that the
French government held out of glory and prosperity to his country made
him often regret that he had followed his legitimate but imbecile king
to exile. When he died, therefore, he recommended his son to return to
Naples, to present himself to his old and tried friend, the Marchese
Spina, who held a high office in Murat’s government, and through his
means to reconcile himself to the new king. All this was easily
achieved. The young and gallant Count was permitted to possess his
patrimony; and, as a further pledge of good fortune, he was betrothed to
the only child of the Marchese Spina. The nuptials were deferred till
the end of the ensuing campaign.
Meanwhile the army was put in motion, and Count Eboli only obtained such
short leave of absence as permitted him to visit for a few hours the
villa of his future father-in-law, there to take leave of him and his
affianced bride. The villa was situated on one of the Apennines to the
north of Salerno, and looked down, over the plain of Calabria, in which
Pæstum is situated, on to the blue Mediterranean. A precipice on one
side, a brawling mountain torrent, and a thick grove of ilex, added
beauty to the sublimity of its site. Count Eboli ascended the
mountain-path in all the joy of youth and hope. His stay was brief. An
exhortation and a blessing from the Marchese, a tender farewell, graced
by gentle tears, from the fair Adalinda, were the recollections he was
to bear with him, to inspire him with courage and hope in danger and
absence. The sun had just sunk behind the distant isle of Istria, when,
kissing his lady’s hand, he said a last “Addio,” and with slower steps,
and more melancholy mien, rode down the mountain on his road to Naples.
That same night Adalinda retired early to her apartment, dismissing her
attendants; and then, restless from mingled fear and hope, she threw
open the glass-door that led to a balcony looking over the edge of the
hill upon the torrent, whose loud rushing often lulled her to sleep, but
whose waters were concealed from sight by the ilex trees, which lifted
their topmost branches above the guarding parapet of the balcony.
Leaning her cheek upon her hand, she thought of the dangers her lover
would encounter, of her loneliness the while, of his letters, and of his
return. A rustling sound now caught her ear. Was it the breeze among the
ilex trees? Her own veil was unwaved by every wind, her tresses even,
heavy in their own rich beauty only, were not lifted from her cheek.
Again those sounds. Her blood retreated to her heart, and her limbs
trembled. What could it mean? Suddenly the upper branches of the nearest
tree were disturbed; they opened, and the faint starlight showed a man’s
figure among them. He prepared to spring from his hold on to the wall.
It was a feat of peril. First the soft voice of her lover bade her “Fear
not,” and on the next instant he was at her side, calming her terrors,
and recalling her spirits, that almost left her gentle frame, from
mingled surprise, dread, and joy. He encircled her waist with his arm,
and pouring forth a thousand passionate expressions of love, she leant
on his shoulder, and wept from agitation, while he covered her hands
with kisses, and gazed on her with ardent adoration.
Then in calmer mood they sat together; triumph and joy lighted up his
eyes, and a modest blush glowed on her cheek: for never before had she
sat alone with him, nor heard unrestrained his impassioned assurances of
affection. It was, indeed, Love’s own hour. The stars trembled on the
roof of his eternal temple; the dashing of the torrent, the mild summer
atmosphere, and the mysterious aspect of the darkened scenery, were all
in unison to inspire security and voluptuous hope. They talked of how
their hearts, through the medium of divine nature, might hold commune
during absence; of the joys of reunion, and of their prospect of perfect
happiness.
The moment at last arrived when he must depart. “One tress of this
silken hair,” said he, raising one of the many curls that clustered on
her neck. “I will place it on my heart, a shield to protect me against
the swords and balls of the enemy.” He drew his keen-edged dagger from
its sheath. “Ill weapon for so gentle a deed,” he said, severing the
lock, and at the same moment many drops of blood fell fast on the fair
arm of the lady. He answered her fearful inquiries by showing a gash he
had awkwardly inflicted on his left hand. First he insisted on securing
his prize, and then he permitted her to bind his wound, which she did
half laughing, half in sorrow, winding round his hand a riband loosened
from her own arm. “Now, farewell,” he cried; “I must ride twenty miles
ere dawn, and the descending Bear shows that midnight is past.” His
descent was difficult, but he achieved it happily, and the stave of a
song—whose soft sounds rose like the smoke of incense from an altar—from
the dell below, to her impatient ear, assured her of his safety.
As is always the case when an account is gathered from eye-witnesses, I
never could ascertain the exact date of these events. They occurred,
however, while Murat was king of Naples; and when he raised his Italian
regiments, Count Eboli, as aforesaid, became a junior officer in them,
and served with much distinction, though I cannot name either the
country or the battle in which he acted so conspicuous a part that he
was on the spot promoted to a troop.
Not long after this event, and while he was stationed in the north of
Italy, Gioacchino, sending for him to headquarters late one evening,
entrusted him with a confidential mission, across a country occupied by
the enemy’s troops, to a town possessed by the French. It was necessary
to undertake the expedition during the night, and he was expected to
return on that succeeding the following day. The king himself gave him
his despatches and the word; and the noble youth, with modest firmness,
protested that he would succeed, or die, in the fulfilment of his trust.
It was already night, and the crescent moon was low in the west, when
Count Ferdinando Eboli, mounting his favourite horse, at a quick gallop
cleared the streets of the town; and then, following the directions
given him, crossed the country among the fields planted with vines,
carefully avoiding the main road. It was a beauteous and still night;
calm and sleep occupied the earth; war, the blood-hound, slumbered; the
spirit of love alone had life at that silent hour. Exulting in the hope
of glory, our young hero commenced his journey, and visions of
aggrandizement and love formed his reveries. A distant sound roused him:
he checked his horse and listened; voices approached. When recognising
the speech of a German, he turned from the path he was following, to a
still straighter way. But again the tone of an enemy was heard, and the
trampling of horses. Eboli did not hesitate; he dismounted, tied his
steed to a tree, and, skirting along the enclosure of the field, trusted
to escape thus unobserved. He succeeded after an hour’s painful
progress, and arrived on the borders of a stream, which, as the boundary
between two states, was the mark of his having finally escaped danger.
Descending the steep bank of the river, which, with his horse, he might
perhaps have forded, he now prepared to swim. He held his despatch in
one hand, threw away his cloak, and was about to plunge into the water,
when from under the dark shade of the _argine_, which had concealed
them, he was suddenly arrested by unseen hands, cast on the ground,
bound, gagged, and blinded, and then placed into a little boat, which
was sculled with infinite rapidity down the stream.
There seemed so much of premeditation in the act that it baffled
conjecture, yet he must believe himself a prisoner to the Austrian.
While, however, he still vainly reflected, the boat was moored, he was
lifted out, and the change of atmosphere made him aware that they
entered some house. With extreme care and celerity, yet in the utmost
silence, he was stripped of his clothes, and two rings he wore drawn
from his fingers; other habiliments were thrown over him; and then no
departing footstep was audible; but soon he heard the splash of a single
oar, and he felt himself alone. He lay perfectly unable to move, the
only relief his captor or captors had afforded him being the exchange of
the gag for a tightly-bound handkerchief. For hours he thus remained,
with a tortured mind, bursting with rage, impatience, and
disappointment; now writhing as well as he could in his endeavours to
free himself, now still in despair. His despatches were taken away, and
the period was swiftly passing when he could by his presence have
remedied in some degree this evil. The morning dawned, and, though the
full glare of the sun could not visit his eyes, he felt it play upon his
limbs. As the day advanced, hunger preyed on him, and, though amidst the
visitation of mightier, he at first disdained this minor, evil, towards
evening it became, in spite of himself, the predominant sensation. Night
approached, and the fear that he should remain, and even starve, in this
unvisited solitude had more than once thrilled through his frame, when
feminine voices and a child’s gay laugh met his ear. He heard persons
enter the apartment, and he was asked in his native language, while the
ligature was taken from his mouth, the cause of his present situation.
He attributed it to banditti. His bonds were quickly cut, and his banded
eyes restored to sight. It was long before he recovered himself. Water
brought from the stream, however, was some refreshment, and by degrees
he resumed the use of his senses, and saw that he was in a dilapidated
shepherd’s cot, with no one near him save the peasant girl and a child,
who had liberated him. They rubbed his ankles and wrists, and the little
fellow offered him some bread and eggs, after which refreshment and an
hour’s repose Ferdinando felt himself sufficiently restored to revolve
his adventure in his mind, and to determine on the conduct he was to
pursue.
He looked at the dress which had been given him in exchange for that
which he had worn. It was of the plainest and meanest description. Still
no time was to be lost; and he felt assured that the only step he could
take was to return with all speed to the headquarters of the Neapolitan
army, and inform the king of his disasters and his loss.
It were long to follow his backward steps, and to tell all of
indignation and disappointment that swelled his heart. He walked
painfully but resolutely all night, and by three in the morning entered
the town where Gioacchino then was. He was challenged by the sentinels;
he gave the word confided to him by Murat, and was instantly made
prisoner by the soldiers. He declared to them his name and rank, and the
necessity he was under of immediately seeing the king. He was taken to
the guard-house, and the officer on duty there listened with contempt to
his representations, telling him that Count Ferdinando Eboli had
returned three hours before, ordering him to be confined for further
examination as a spy. Eboli loudly insisted that some impostor had taken
his name; and while he related the story of his capture, another officer
came in, who recognised his person; other individuals acquainted with
him joined the party; and as the impostor had been seen by none but the
officer of the night, his tale gained ground.
A young Frenchman of superior rank, who had orders to attend the king
early in the morning, carried a report of what was going forward to
Murat himself. The tale was so strange that the king sent for the young
Count; and then, in spite of having seen and believed in his counterfeit
a few hours before, and having received from him an account of his
mission, which had been faithfully executed, the appearance of the youth
staggered him, and he commanded the presence of him who, as Count Eboli,
had appeared before him a few hours previously. As Ferdinand stood
beside the king, his eye glanced at a large and splendid mirror. His
matted hair, his bloodshot eyes, his haggard looks, and torn and mean
dress, derogated from the nobility of his appearance; and still less did
he appear like the magnificent Count Eboli, when, to his utter confusion
and astonishment, his counterfeit stood beside him.
He was perfect in all the outward signs that denoted high birth; and so
like him whom he represented, that it would have been impossible to
discern one from the other apart. The same chestnut hair clustered on
his brow; the sweet and animated hazel eyes were the same; the one voice
was the echo of the other. The composure and dignity of the pretender
gained the suffrages of those around. When he was told of the strange
appearance of another Count Eboli, he laughed in a frank good-humoured
manner, and, turning to Ferdinand, said, “You honour me much in
selecting me for your personation; but there are two or three things I
like about myself so well, that you must excuse my unwillingness to
exchange myself for you.” Ferdinand would have answered, but the false
Count, with greater haughtiness, turning to the king, said, “Will your
majesty decide between us? I cannot bandy words with a fellow of this
sort.” Irritated by scorn, Ferdinand demanded leave to challenge the
pretender; who said, that if the king and his brother-officers did not
think that he should degrade himself and disgrace the army by going out
with a common vagabond, he was willing to chastise him, even at the
peril of his own life. But the king, after a few more questions, feeling
assured that the unhappy noble was an impostor, in severe and menacing
terms reprehended him for his insolence, telling him that he owed it to
his mercy alone that he was not executed as a spy, ordering him
instantly to be conducted without the walls of the town, with threats of
weighty punishment if he ever dared to subject his impostures to further
trial.
It requires a strong imagination, and the experience of much misery,
fully to enter into Ferdinand’s feelings. From high rank, glory, hope,
and love, he was hurled to utter beggary and disgrace. The insulting
words of his triumphant rival, and the degrading menaces of his so
lately gracious sovereign, rang in his ears; every nerve in his frame
writhed with agony. But, fortunately for the endurance of human life,
the worst misery in early youth is often but a painful dream, which we
cast off when slumber quits our eyes. After a struggle with intolerable
anguish, hope and courage revived in his heart. His resolution was
quickly made. He would return to Naples, relate his story to the
Marchese Spina, and through his influence obtain at least an impartial
hearing from the king. It was not, however, in his peculiar situation,
an easy task to put his determination into effect. He was penniless; his
dress bespoke poverty; he had neither friend nor kinsman near, but such
as would behold in him the most impudent of swindlers. Still his courage
did not fail him. The kind Italian soil, in the autumnal season now
advanced, furnished him with chestnuts, arbutus berries, and grapes. He
took the most direct road over the hills, avoiding towns, and indeed
every habitation; travelling principally in the night, when, except in
cities, the officers of government had retired from their stations. How
he succeeded in getting from one end of Italy to the other it is
difficult to say; but certain it is, that, after the interval of a few
weeks, he presented himself at the Villa Spina.
With considerable difficulty he obtained admission to the presence of
the Marchese, who received him standing, with an inquiring look, not at
all recognising the noble youth. Ferdinand requested a private
interview, for there were several visitors present. His voice startled
the Marchese, who complied, taking him into another apartment. Here
Ferdinand disclosed himself, and, with rapid and agitated utterance, was
relating the history of his misfortunes, when the tramp of horses was
heard, the great bell rang, and a domestic announced “Count Ferdinando
Eboli.” “It is himself,” cried the youth, turning pale. The words were
strange, and they appeared still more so when the person announced
entered; the perfect semblance of the young noble, whose name he
assumed, as he had appeared when last at his departure, he trod the
pavement of the hall. He inclined his head gracefully to the baron,
turning with a glance of some surprise, but more disdain, towards
Ferdinand, exclaiming, “Thou here!”
Ferdinand drew himself up to his full height. In spite of fatigue,
ill-fare, and coarse garments, his manner was full of dignity. The
Marchese looked at him fixedly, and started as he marked his proud mien,
and saw in his expressive features the very face of Eboli. But again he
was perplexed when he turned and discerned, as in a mirror, the same
countenance reflected by the new-comer, who underwent this scrutiny
somewhat impatiently. In brief and scornful words he told the Marchese
that this was a second attempt in the intruder to impose himself as
Count Eboli; that the trick had failed before, and would again; adding,
laughing, that it was hard to be brought to prove himself to be himself,
against the assertion of a _briccone_, whose likeness to him, and
matchless impudence, were his whole stock-in-trade.
“Why, my good fellow,” continued he, sneeringly, “you put me out of
conceit with myself, to think that one, apparently so like me, should
get on no better in the world.”
The blood mounted into Ferdinand’s cheeks on his enemy’s bitter taunts;
with difficulty he restrained himself from closing with his foe, while
the words “traitorous impostor!” burst from his lips. The baron
commanded the fierce youth to be silent, and, moved by a look that he
remembered to be Ferdinand’s, he said gently, “By your respect for me, I
adjure you to be patient; fear not but that I will deal impartially.”
Then turning to the pretended Eboli, he added that he could not doubt
but that he was the true Count, and asked excuse for his previous
indecision. At first the latter appeared angry, but at length he burst
into a laugh, and then, apologising for his ill-breeding, continued
laughing heartily at the perplexity of the Marchese. It is certain his
gaiety gained more credit with his auditor than the indignant glances of
poor Ferdinand. The false Count then said that, after the king’s
menaces, he had entertained no expectation that the farce was to be
played over again. He had obtained leave of absence, of which he
profited to visit his future father-in-law, after having spent a few
days in his own palazzo at Naples. Until now Ferdinand had listened
silently, with a feeling of curiosity, anxious to learn all he could of
the actions and motives of his rival; but at these last words he could
no longer contain himself.
“What!” cried he, “hast thou usurped my place in my own father’s house,
and dared assume my power in my ancestral halls?”
A gush of tears overpowered the youth; he hid his face in his hands.
Fierceness and pride lit up the countenance of the pretender.
“By the eternal God and the sacred cross, I swear,” he exclaimed, “that
palace is my father’s palace; those halls the halls of my ancestors!”
Ferdinand looked up with surprise: “And the earth opens not,” he said,
“to swallow the perjured man.”
He then, at the call of the Marchese, related his adventures, while
scorn mantled on the features of his rival. The Marchese, looking at
both, could not free himself from doubt. He turned from one to the
other: in spite of the wild and disordered appearance of poor Ferdinand,
there was something in him that forbade his friend to condemn him as the
impostor; but then it was utterly impossible to pronounce such the
gallant and noble-looking youth, who could only be acknowledged as the
real Count by the disbelief of the other’s tale. The Marchese, calling
an attendant, sent for his fair daughter.
“This decision,” said he, “shall be made over to the subtle judgment of
a woman, and the keen penetration of one who loves.”
Both the youths now smiled—the same smile; the same expression—that of
anticipated triumph. The baron was more perplexed than ever.
Adalinda had heard of the arrival of Count Eboli, and entered,
resplendent in youth and happiness. She turned quickly towards him who
resembled most the person she expected to see; when a well-known voice
pronounced her name, and she gazed aghast on the double appearance of
the lover. Her father, taking her hand, briefly explained the mystery,
and bade her assure herself which was her affianced husband.
“Signorina,” said Ferdinand, “disdain me not because I appear before you
thus in disgrace and misery. Your love, your goodness will restore me to
prosperity and happiness.”
“I know not by what means,” said the wondering girl, “but surely you are
Count Eboli.”
“Adalinda,” said the rival youth, “waste not your words on a villain.
Lovely and deceived one, I trust, trembling I say it, that I can with
one word assure you that I am Eboli.”
“Adalinda,” said Ferdinand, “I placed the nuptial ring on your finger;
before God your vows were given to me.”
The false Count approached the lady, and, bending one knee, took from
his heart a locket, enclosing hair tied with a green riband, which she
recognised to have worn, and pointed to a slight scar on his left hand.
Adalinda blushed deeply, and, turning to her father, said, motioning
towards the kneeling youth,—
“He is Ferdinand.”
All protestations now from the unhappy Eboli were vain. The Marchese
would have cast him into a dungeon; but at the earnest request of his
rival, he was not detained, but thrust ignominiously from the villa. The
rage of a wild beast newly chained was less than the tempest of
indignation that now filled the heart of Ferdinand. Physical suffering,
from the fatigue and fasting, was added to his internal anguish; for
some hours madness, if that were madness which never forgets its ill,
possessed him. In a tumult of feelings there was one predominant idea:
it was to take possession of his father’s house, and to try, by
ameliorating the fortuitous circumstances of his lot, to gain the upper
hand of his adversary. He expended his remaining strength in reaching
Naples, entered his family palace, and was received and acknowledged by
his astonished domestics.
One of his first acts was to take from a cabinet a miniature of his
father encircled with jewels, and to invoke the aid of the paternal
spirit. Refreshment and a bath restored him to some of his usual
strength; and he looked forward with almost childish delight to one
night to be spent in peace under the roof of his father’s house. This
was not permitted. Ere midnight the great bell sounded: his rival
entered as master, with the Marchese Spina. The result may be divined.
The Marchese appeared more indignant than the false Eboli. He insisted
that the unfortunate youth should be imprisoned. The portrait, whose
setting was costly, found on him, proved him guilty of robbery. He was
given into the hands of the police, and thrown into a dungeon. I will
not dwell on the subsequent scenes. He was tried by the tribunal,
condemned as guilty, and sentenced to the galleys for life.