night in the catacombs of San Gennaro, under Capo di Monte. In these
subterranean galleries were held the nightly meetings of the band of
desperate _bravi_ of whom Giorgio was in secret the chief. The entrance
to the catacombs is in a deserted vineyard, and is overgrown by huge
aloes; rooted in stones and sharp rocks, they lift their thorny leaves
above the opening, and conceal it effectually. A solitary fig-tree that
grows near renders the spot easily recognisable by those already
acquainted with the secret. The catacombs themselves are wide winding
caves, the burial-place of the dead of past ages. Piles of human bones,
white and bleached by time, are heaped along the rocky sides of these
caverns. In one of these walks, whilst they were friends, Giorgio had
shown the place to Marietta. In those days he feared not to entrust his
mysterious way of life to her; for although in all common concerns she
was wild and untractable, yet in all that touched the interests of those
few whom she loved, Marietta was silent and reserved as Epicharis
herself. The menaces Giorgio let fall in his visit on the preceding
forenoon had excited her highest alarm, and she determined, at any risk,
to learn the extent of the danger that hung over the stranger. After
waiting in vain for Idalie’s return till the close of evening, she had
hastened to Capo di Monte, entered the catacombs alone, and, concealed
behind a pile of bones, had awaited the arrival of the confederates.
They assembled at midnight. Their first subject of consultation was the
stranger. Giorgio acquainted them with his history, which he told them
had been communicated to him that very morning by a Russian lady of high
rank, who had likewise charged him with the business he had to unfold to
them. He described Ladislas as a fugitive, unprotected by any
Government; he bore about his person certain papers which had been found
in the palace of Warsaw, and were the confidential communications of the
Russian Autocrat to his brother the Viceroy of Poland, and were of such
a nature as to rouse all Europe against their writer. These papers had
been entrusted to Ladislas, whose intention was to proceed to Paris and
publish them there. Private business, however, of the greatest
importance, had forced him to visit Naples first. The Russian Government
had traced him to Naples, and had empowered a certain Russian lady to
take any step, or go any lengths, in order to obtain these papers from
Ladislas. This lady had made Giorgio her emissary; her name he carefully
concealed, but Marietta averred, from his description, that it could be
no other than the Princess Dashkhoff. After much consulting among the
band, the assassination of the Pole had been decided upon. This seemed
to be the only sure method; for he carried the papers ever about his
person, was distinguished for his bravery, and if openly attacked would
resist to the last. Giorgio was no stickler in the means he employed,
and told his companions he had the less reason to be so in this case, as
he had received assurances from the highest quarter that his crime
should go unpunished, and the reward be enormous. Ladislas was almost
unknown in Naples; the Government would not interest itself for a
fugitive, without passport, country or name; and what friends had he
here to inquire into the circumstances of his destruction, or to
interest themselves to avenge it?
Such was Marietta’s tale, and Ladislas instantly acknowledged the
necessity of flight. He was too well acquainted with Russian perfidy to
doubt that even a lady of a rank so distinguished as the Princess
Dashkhoff might be induced to undertake as foul a task as that
attributed to her by Marietta. The worldly and artificial manners of
this lady, in an Italian or a French-woman, would only have resulted
from habits of intrigue; but a Russian, unaccustomed to look on human
life as sacred, taught by the Government of her own country that cruelty
and treachery are venial offences, wholly destitute of a sense of
honour, concealed, under such an exterior, vices the most odious, and a
callousness to guilt unknown in more civilised lands. Ladislas knew
this; and he knew that the badness of the Neapolitan Government afforded
scope for crime, which could not exist elsewhere; and he felt that on
every account it were better to withdraw himself immediately from the
scene of danger.
While musing on these things, Idalie’s beseeching eyes were eloquent in
imploring him to fly. He consented; but a condition was annexed to his
consent, that Idalie should share his flight. He urged his suit with
fervour. It were easy for them on a very brief notice to seek the young
lady’s confessor, induce him to bestow on them the nuptial benediction,
and thus to sanctify their departure together. Marietta seconded the
lover’s entreaties, and Idalie, blushing and confused, could only
reply,—
“My accompanying you would but increase your danger, and facilitate the
bravo’s means of tracing you. How could I get a passport? How leave this
place?”
“I have a plan for all,” replied Ladislas; and he then related that the
_Sully_ steam-packet lay in the harbour of Naples, ready to sail on the
shortest notice; he would engage that for their conveyance, and so
speedily bid adieu to the shores of Naples, and all its perils.
“But that boat,” exclaimed Idalie, “is the very one engaged by the
Princess for the excursion to Pæstum.”
This, for a time, seemed to disarrange their schemes, but they
considered that no danger could happen to Ladislas while one of a party
of pleasure with the Princess, who from this act of his would be quite
unsuspicious of his intended departure. At night, upon their return from
Pæstum, when the rest of the party should have disembarked at Naples,
Ladislas and Idalie would remain on board, and the vessel immediately
commence its voyage for France. This plan thus assumed a very feasible
appearance, while Ladislas, in accents of fond reproach, asked Idalie
wherefore she refused to share his fortunes, and accompany him in his
journey; and Marietta, clapping her hands exclaimed, “She consents! she
consents! Do not ask any more, she has already yielded. We will all
return to Naples. Ladislas shall go immediately to seek out the captain
of the _Sully_, and arrange all with him; while, without loss of time,
we will proceed to the convent of Father Basil, and get everything ready
by the time Ladislas shall join us, which must be with as much speed as
he can contrive.”
Idalie silently acquiesced in this arrangement, and Ladislas kissed her
hand with warm and overflowing gratitude. They now contrived to stow
themselves in the little calessino, and as they proceeded on their way,
Ladislas said: “We seem to have forgotten the future destiny of our dear
Marietta all this time. The friendless condition in which we shall leave
her fills me with anxiety. She is the preserver of my life, and we are
both under the deepest obligations to her. What shall you do, Marietta,
when we are gone?”
“Fear not for me,” exclaimed the wild girl; “it is necessary I should
remain behind to arrange those things which Idalie’s sudden departure
will leave in sad disorder; but you will see me soon in Paris, for how
can I exist apart from my sister?”
When near to Naples, Ladislas alighted from the calessino, and directed
his steps towards the port, while the fair girls proceeded on their way
to the convent. What the bashful, conscious Idalie would have done
without her sister’s help, it is difficult to guess. Marietta busied
herself about all; won over the priest to the sudden marriage, contrived
to put up articles of dress for the fair bride’s journey, and thinking
of everything, seemed the guardian angel of the lovers. Ladislas arrived
at the convent; he had been successful with the master of the
steam-packet, and all was prepared. Marietta heard this from his own
lips, and carried the happy news to Idalie. He did not see her till they
met at the altar, where, kneeling before the venerable priest, they were
united for ever. And now time, as it sped on, gave them no moment to
indulge their various and overpowering feelings. Idalie embraced her
sister again and again, and entreating her to join them speedily in
Paris, made her promise to write, and then, escorted by her husband,
proceeded to the _Sully_, on board of which most of the party were
already assembled.
The steamer proceeded on its course. Farewell to Naples!—that elysian
city, as the poet justly calls it; that favourite of sea and land and
sky. The hills that surround it smooth their rugged summits, and descend
into gentle slopes and opening defiles, to receive its buildings and
habitations. Temples, domes, and marble palaces are ranged round the
crescent form of the bay, and above them arise dark masses, and wooded
clefts, and fair gardens, whose trees are ever vernal. Before it the
mighty sea binds its wild streams, and smoothes them into gentlest
waves, as they kiss the silver, pebbly shore, and linger with dulcet
murmur around the deep-based promontories. The sky—who has not heard of
the Italian sky?—one intense diffusion, one serene omnipresence, for
ever smiling above the boundless sea, and for ever bending in azure
mirth over the flowing outlines of the distant mountains.
They first passed Castel-a-Mare, and then the abrupt promontories on
which Sorrento and ancient Amalfi are situated. The sublimity and
intense loveliness of the scene wrapt in delight each bosom. The hills,
covered with ilex, dark laurel, and bright-leaved myrtle, were mirrored
in the pellucid waves, which the lower branches caressed and kissed as
the winds waved them. Behind arose other hills, also covered with wood;
and, more distant, forming the grand background, was sketched the huge
ridge of lofty Apennines. Still proceeding on their way to Pæstum, they
exchanged the rocky beach for a low and dreary shore. The dusky
mountains retired inland, and leaving a waste—the abode of malaria, and
the haunt of robbers—the landscape assumed a gloomy magnificence, in
place of the romantic and picturesque loveliness which had before
charmed their eyes. Ladislas leaned from the side of the vessel, and
gazed upon the beauty of nature with sentiments too disturbed for
happiness. He was annoyed by the unpropitious presence of the idle and
the gay. He saw Idalie in the midst of them, and did not even wish to
join her while thus situated. He shrank into himself, and tried,
forgetting the immediate discomforts of his position, to think only of
that paradise into which love had led him, to compensate for his
patriotic sorrows. He strove patiently to endure the tedious hours of
this never-ending day, during which he must play a false part, and see
his bride engaged by others. While his attention was thus occupied, the
voice of the Princess Dashkhoff startled him, and, looking up, he
wondered how a face that seemed so bland, and a voice that spoke so
fair, could hide so much wickedness and deceit. As the hours passed on,
his situation became irksome in the extreme. Once or twice he drew near
Idalie, and tried to disengage her from the crowd; but each time he saw
the Princess watching him stealthily, while his young bride, with
feminine prudence, avoided every opportunity of conversing apart with
him. Ladislas could ill endure this. He began to fancy that he had a
thousand things to say, and that their mutual safety depended on his
being able to communicate them to her. He wrote a few lines hastily on
the back of a letter with a pencil, conjuring her to find some means of
affording him a few minutes’ conversation, and telling her that if this
could not be done before, he should take occasion, while the rest of the
company were otherwise occupied, to steal from them that evening to the
larger temple, and there await her joining him, for that everything
depended on his being able to speak to her. He scarcely knew what he
meant as he wrote this; but, driven by contradiction and impatience, and
desirous of learning exactly how she meant to conduct herself on the
Princess’s disembarking at Naples, it seemed to him of the last
importance that his request should be complied with. He was folding the
paper when the Princess was at his side, and addressed him.
“A sonnet, Count Ladislas; surely a poetic imagination inspires you; may
I not see it?”
And she held out her hand. Taken unaware, Ladislas darted at her a look
which made her step back trembling and in surprise. Was she discovered?
The idea was fraught with terror. But Ladislas, perceiving the
indiscretion of his conduct, masked his sensations with a smile, and
replied: “They are words of a Polish song, which I wish Idalie to
translate for the amusement of your friends;” and, stepping forward, he
gave Idalie the paper, and made his request. All pressed to know what
the song was. Idalie glanced at the writing, and, changing colour, was
scarcely able to command her voice to make such an excuse as was
rendered necessary. She said that it required time and thought, and that
she could not at that moment comply; then crushing the paper between her
trembling fingers, began confusedly to talk of something else. The
company interchanged smiles, but even the Princess only suspected some
lover-like compliment to her protégée.
“Nay,” she said, “we must at least know the subject of these verses.
What is it? tell us, I entreat you.”
“Treachery,” said Ladislas, unable to control his feelings. The Princess
became ashy pale; all her self-possession fled, and she turned from the
searching glance of the Pole with sickness of heart.
They were now drawing near their destination. Idalie, grasping the
paper, longed to read it before they should reach the shore. She tried
to recede from the party, and Ladislas, watching her movements, in order
to facilitate her designs, entered into conversation with the Princess.
He had effectually roused her fears and her curiosity; and she eagerly
seized the opportunity which he offered her of conversing with him,
endeavouring to find out whether he indeed suspected anything, or
whether her own guilty conscience suggested the alarm with which his
strange expression had filled her. Ladislas thus contrived to engross
her entire attention, and led her insensibly towards the stern of the
vessel; and as they leant over its side, and gazed on the waters
beneath, Idalie was effectually relieved from all observation. She now
disengaged herself from the rest of the party, and, walking forward,
read the lines pencilled by Ladislas. Then, terrified by the secret they
contained, she tore the paper, as if fearful that its contents might be
guessed, and was about to throw the fragments into the sea, when she
perceived the position of the Princess and Ladislas, and was aware that
the lady’s quick eye would soon discern the floating scraps as the boat
passed on. Idalie feared the least shadow of danger, so she retreated
from the vessel’s side, but still anxious to get rid of the perilous
papers, she determined to throw them into the hold. She approached it,
and looked down. Had the form of a serpent met her eye, she had not been
more horror-struck. A shriek hovered on her lips, but with a strong
effort she repressed it, and, staggering on, leant against the mast,
trembling and aghast. She could not be deceived; it was Giorgio’s dark
and scowling eye that she had encountered—his sinister countenance,
upturned, could not be mistaken. Was danger, then, so near, so pressing,
or so inevitable? How could she convey the fatal intelligence to her
husband, and put him on his guard? She remembered his written request,
with which she had previously determined in prudence not to comply. But
it would now afford her an opportunity, should no other offer, of
informing him whom she had seen.
Thus perfidy, hate, and fear possessed the hearts of these human beings,
who, had a cursory observer seen them as they glided over that sea of
beauty, beneath the azure heaven, along that enchanted shore, attended
by every luxury, waited on by every obvious blessing of life—he would
have imagined that they had been selected from the world for the
enjoyment of perfect happiness. But sunny sky and laughing sea appeared
to Idalie only as the haunt and resort of tigers and serpents; a dark
mist seemed to blot the splendour of the sky, as the guilty souls of her
fellow-creatures cast their deforming shadows over its brightness.
They had now arrived close on the low shore, and horses and two or three
light open carriages were at the water’s edge to convey them to the
temples. They landed. Ladislas presented himself to hand Idalie across
the plank from the vessel to the beach. “Yes?”—he asked her in a voice
of entreaty, as he pressed her hand. She softly returned the pressure,
and the word “Beware” trembled on her lips, when the young Englishman
who had before admired her, and had endeavoured to engross her attention
the whole day, was again at her side, to tell her that the Princess was
waiting for her in her carriage, and entreated her not to delay.
The party proceeded to where those glorious relics stand, between the
mountains and the sea, rising from the waste and barren soil, alone on
the wide and dusky shore. A few sheep grazed at the base of the columns,
and two or three wild-eyed men, clothed in garments of undressed
sheepskin, loitered about. Exclamations of wonder and delight burst from
all, while Ladislas, stealing away to the more distant ruin, gladly
escaped from the crowd, to indulge in lonely reverie. “What is man in
his highest glory?” he thought. “Had we burst the bonds of Poland; and
had she, in her freedom, emulated the magical achievements of Greece;
nevertheless when time, with insidious serpent windings, had dragged its
length through a few more centuries, the monuments we had erected would
have fallen like these, and our monuments—a new Pæstum—have existed
merely to excite idle wonder and frivolous curiosity!”
Ladislas was certainly in no good-humour while he thus vented his
spleen; but was annoyed by two circumstances, sufficient to irritate a
young philosopher: he beheld a scene, whose majestic beauty filled his
soul with sensibility and awe, in the midst of a crowd of pretenders,
more intent on the prospect of their picnic dinner, than on regarding
the glories of art; and he saw his bride, surrounded by strangers,
engrossed by their conversation and flattery, and unable to interchange
one word or look of confidence with him. He sighed for the hours passed
under the portico of Idalie’s solitary pavilion, and the near prospect
of their voyage did not reconcile him to the present; for his soul was
disturbed by the necessity of interchanging courtesies with his enemy,
and haunted by images of treacherous attempts, from which his valour
could not protect him.
It had been arranged that the party should dine at the archbishop’s
palace, and not embark again until ten o’clock, when the moon would
rise. After a couple of hours spent among the ruins, the servants
informed them that their repast was ready; it was now nearly six
o’clock, and after they had dined, more than two hours must elapse
before they could depart. Night had fallen on the landscape, and the
darkness did not invite even the most romantic to wander again among the
ruins; the Princess, eager to provide for the amusement of her guests,
contrived to discover a violin, a flute, and a pipe, and with the
assistance of this music, which in the hands of Italian rustics was as
true to time and expression as if Weippert himself had presided, they
commenced dancing. Idalie’s hand was sought by the Englishman; she
looked round the room, Ladislas was not there; he had doubtless repaired
to the temple to wait for her, and ignorant of the presence of Giorgio,
wholly unsuspicious, and off his guard, to what dangers might he not be
exposed? Her blood ran cold at the thought; she decidedly refused to
dance, and perceiving the Princess whirling round in a waltz, she
hastily quitted the house, and hurried along over the grass towards the
ruins. When she first emerged into the night, the scene seemed wrapped
in impenetrable darkness, but the stars shed their faint rays, and in a
few moments she began to distinguish objects, and as she drew near the
temple, she saw a man’s form moving slowly among the columns; she did
not doubt that it was her husband, wrapped in his cloak, awaiting her.
She was hurrying towards him, when, leaning against one of the pillars,
she saw Ladislas himself, and the other, at the same moment, exchanging
his stealthy pace for a tiger-like spring. She saw a dagger flashing in
his hand; she darted forward to arrest his arm, and the blow descended
on her. With a faint shriek, she fell on the earth, when Ladislas turned
and closed with the assassin; a mortal struggle ensued; already had
Ladislas wrested the poignard from his grasp, when the villain drew
another knife. Ladislas warded off the blow, and plunged his own
stiletto in the bravo’s breast; he fell to earth with a heavy groan, and
then the silence of the tomb rested on the scene; the white robe of
Idalie, who lay fainting on the ground, directed Ladislas to her side.
He raised her up in speechless agony, as he beheld the blood which
stained her dress; but by this time she had recovered from her swoon;
she assured him her wound was slight, that it was nothing; but again
sank into his arms insensible. In a moment his plan was formed; ever
eager and impetuous, he executed it ere any second thought could change
it. He had before resolved not to rejoin the party in the archbishop’s
palace, but after his interview with Idalie, to hasten on board the
steamboat; he had therefore ordered his horse to be saddled, had led it
to the temple, and fastened it to one of the columns. He lifted the
senseless Idalie carefully in his arms, mounted his horse, and turning
his steps from the lighted and noisy palace, wound his way to the lonely
shore, where he found the captain and his crew already preparing for
their homeward voyage. With their help Idalie was taken on board, and
Ladislas gave orders for the instant heaving of the anchor, and their
immediate departure. The captain asked for the rest of the company.
“They return by land,” said Ladislas. As he spoke the words, he felt a
slight sensation of remorse, remembering the difficulty they would have
to get there; and how, during the darkness of night, they might fear to
proceed on their journey on a tract of country infested by banditti; but
the senseless and pale form of Idalie dissipated these thoughts: to
arrive at Naples, to procure assistance for her, and then if, as he
hoped, her wound was slight, to continue their voyage before the
Princess Dashkhoff’s return, were motives too paramount to allow him to
hesitate. The captain of the _Sully_ asked no more questions; the anchor
was weighed; and in the silver light of the moon, they stood off from
the shore, and made their swift way back to Naples. They had not gone
far before the care of Ladislas revived his fair bride. Her wound was in
her arm, and had merely grazed the skin. Terror for her husband, horror
for the mortal strife which had endangered his life, had caused her to
faint more than pain or loss of blood. She bound up her own arm; and
then, as there appeared no necessity for medical aid, Ladislas revoked
his orders for returning to Naples, but stretching out at once to sea,
they began their voyage to Marseilles.
Meanwhile, during a pause in the dance, the absence of Ladislas and
Idalie was observed by the feasters in the archbishop’s palace. It
excited some few sarcasms, which as it continued grow more bitter. The
Princess Dashkhoff joined in these, and yet she could not repress the
disquietude of her heart. Had Ladislas alone been absent, her knowledge
of the presence of Giorgio, and his designs, had sufficiently explained
its cause and its duration to her; but that Idalie also should not be
found might bring a witness to the crime committed, and discover her own
guilty share in the deed of blood perpetrated at her instigation. At
length the rising of the moon announced the hour when they were to
repair to the shore. The horses and carriages were brought to the door,
and then it was found that the steed of Ladislas was missing.
“But the Signora Idalie, had she not provided herself with a palfrey?”
asked the Englishman, sneering. They were now about to mount, when it
was proposed to take a last look of the temples by moonlight. The
Princess opposed this, but vainly; her conscience made her voice faint,
and took from her the usual decision of her manner; so she walked on
silently, half fearful that her foot might strike against some object of
terror, and at every word spoken by the party, anticipating an
exclamation of horror; the fitful moonbeams seemed to disclose here and
there ghastly countenances and mangled limbs, and the dew of night
appeared to her excited imagination as the slippery moisture of the
life-blood of her victim.