CHAPTER VII.

“My father was descended from an ancient and noble family; one of the

most aristocratic in France. Our family chateau was in Normandy; there

we spent the principal part of the year, with the exception of visits to

Paris at distant intervals of time.

“Our chateau was beautifully and romantically situated on a gentle

plain. From its fine grounds I have often watched the sun decline behind

the distant mountains, which bordered on the east our valley-home; on

the west a gentle river glided by: along its flowery banks, oft, when

a child, have I, my two brothers, and little sister, played. I shall

never see its quiet waters more,—nor would I: they would revive too many

painful associations. Yet sometimes in fancy I transport myself back to

its loved shores; and again I see Francois, Pierre, myself, and Lelia,

all animated by the same childish love of fun, playing hide and seek, or

running races.

“Francois was the eldest, myself next, then Pierre, then our sweet

sister Lelia. My beloved mother, to whose memory I have ever retained,

through all my dissipations and frivolities, so great a veneration, was

in declining health. She was a tall, beautiful blonde; her gentle face

was the index to her soul,—all purity, sweetness and sincerity; were I

to live a thousand years, never could I forget my mother’s amiability,

her true nobility of soul. I was her favorite child, her ‘dear Rinaldo.’

At my birth, in a fit of romantic admiration of the fabulous Rinaldo,

of Italian story, she named me after him, and with woman’s romance,

fondly pictured to herself the great deeds I should one day perform. In

emulation of this poetical demi-god, what would not children become were

they to realize their parents’ wishes and expectations.

“My father and mother lived together in the greatest love and unanimity

of feeling, until the advent of a governess, when Lelia was eight years

old, to superintend her education. This woman, as sly and insinuating, as

she was bold and unprincipled, soon sowed the seeds of contention between

my parents, and alienated from the forsaken wife the lawful affections of

her husband. She was not handsome, but she succeeded by art, in acquiring

over my father’s mind an almost unlimited control. He forsook my mother’s

society, and surrendered himself to the fatal influence of Mademoiselle

Desportes. My mother was left to linger on and die alone, in her own

solitary apartments of the chateau.

“Little Lelia became fonder of her governess than of her mother, and

preferred at all times being with Mademoiselle, than with the desolate

and despairing Madame de Serval. Francois and Pierre, seduced by presents

and unlimited indulgence, grew to love her. I alone, of the whole family,

remained firm in my allegiance to my best parent. I alone spent hour

after hour, day after day, by her lone bedside, endeavoring to soothe

the saddened spirit, and calm its approach to eternity. My unfailing

devotion to her, gained me the bitter enmity of our governess; but I

defied and despised her malice. My father from that time henceforward,

till his death, regarded me with an eye of distrust; but for that too I

did not care: I felt convinced that he had forfeited all claim to the

title of husband or father; that he had debased himself by a vulgar,

dishonorable connection; disgraceful alike to himself and the ancient

name he bore. I owed my first duty to the deserted, not to the deserter;

I saw that this disgrace to her sex, aimed at my father’s hand; that she

wished to establish herself firmly in a high position; who the man was

mattered little to her, so long as he possessed rank and wealth; and,

unfortunately, for my opinion of women, I have seen but too many others

like unto her. My mother was a stumbling block to her ambition; I saw

all the manœuvring that was constantly going on through this woman’s

influence; yet what could I do, a young boy, without money or influence

in society? If a man chooses to turn against his own wife, the mother of

his children; abuse, neglect her, and take instead, a bad, intriguing

woman, as confidant and companion, what can the world say or do? nothing,

it is their own affair: every one says, let them settle it between them:

the public have nothing to do with family quarrels.

“Thus defenceless and unprotected, her parents dead, her relations

far away, my mother became a victim to this vile creature. Her health

declined with amazing rapidity during the first year of this woman’s

arrival; her hectic cough increased daily; her pale and hollow cheeks,

glassy eyes, and shrunken form, like a scroll of shriveled parchment,

showed the ravages of disease and gloom, preying upon both mind and body.

A little incident first gave me a horrid suspicion of the secret cause of

this decay.

“A physician from the village, and a mysterious looking monk from a

neighboring convent, regularly visited my mother twice a week; the one to

attend to her spiritual welfare, the other to administer to her wreck of

mortal frame. Father Ignatius I never liked; no love was lost between

us; my sentiments were freely returned; his step, gliding and noiseless;

his large eyes, always downcast with mock humility, and hands clasped

upon his breast, always inspired me with a presentiment of the vicinage

of some evil genius. Mystery, I have observed, is generally the cloak

of ignorant or knavish minds; in this case it was the latter. I felt

relieved when I saw his draperied form leave the chateau, as if some evil

influence had been withdrawn. Notwithstanding my dislike, he seemed to be

a favorite of my mother’s, and to please her I forbore saying any thing

to his disparagement. His conversation seemed to amuse and momentarily

enliven her; his voice was soft and low, and manner insinuating and

jesuitical. I said nothing against him to her or any one else, though

secretly distrustful, for I would not have added to her gloom, around

whose soul were gathering fast the shadows of the tomb.

“I was retiring to my mother’s room one evening at dusk, when as I

neared the anti-chamber, I heard voices within conversing, and my own

name mentioned; pausing at the door, and concealed by its deep shadow, I

listened; the speakers were Doctor Theodori, and Father Ignatius; they

appeared to have met accidentally.

“‘Well, Doctor,’ was the jocose salutation of Ignatius, ‘how fares thy

patient?’

“‘And may I not ask the same question of thee, oh, physician of the

soul?’ was the laughing reply of the fat, shrewd-looking Theodori.

“‘Between us two,’ said the monk, glancing round the anti-chamber, as if

to observe they were free from notice; the dusk of twilight far advanced,

reigned, and they could not see me; ‘between us, I say, she is failing

fast: the last few months have wrought a great change.’

“‘I plainly perceive it,’ was the cool reply of his worthy colleague;

‘she will not cumber the earth long, nor be in the way of Monsieur and

Mademoiselle Desportes.’

“‘You should be careful not to give the powders too often,—their effect

will excite suspicion,’ was the next remark of the holy father.

“‘Trust me, I know what I am doing; this is not the first case of the

kind I have managed; there will be no outward sign except the usual

appearance of disease; what has been promised you as reward, may I ask?’

“‘His influence at Rome with the college of cardinals, to obtain me

the position of the nuncio to the court of Vienna, and yours, _worthy_

Theodori?’

“‘When all is over, I shall accompany the naval expedition to Algiers;

in truth I scarcely feel safe in this affair; I sometimes catch myself

feeling my head, to ascertain if that important member still performs its

functions.’

“‘No matter, ejaculated the man of prayer, penance and fasting, so long

as we are rewarded for our services, and get safe out of the country,

which I am very desirous of leaving. But does not his infatuation appear

strange to you?—to me it is a riddle.’

“‘A problem, in my opinion, which I could never solve; but these sly

women do sometimes, you know, obtain great influence; he is weak and

infatuated; but men have been fooled before his time, and will be so for

ages yet unborn.’

“‘How long do you think she will live?’ asked the monk; and he drew his

cowl over his dark visage, and took a step forward toward the door, where

I stood concealed.

“‘Not longer than three months, if I am anything of a physician.’ They

both laughed, as two fiends may be supposed to laugh over a captured

soul, and withdrew through a side door, leading to my father’s part of

the mansion.

“The last echo of their footsteps died upon my ear, ere I tremblingly

emerged from my concealment; pale as a ghost from the tomb, and quivering

like an aspen, I comprehended perfectly well that some dark plot was

hatching to expedite my mother’s mortal doom. I tried to think of some

means to counter-work this devilish intention; but at that time almost

a child, my mind was not fertile in expedients, and even had I equaled

Mephistopheles at planning, what is the use of invention without the

power to execute. I determined to watch and endeavor to detect any

attempt this triumvirate of wickedness should make upon her life. I

childishly supposed I should _see_ something to expose; I did not know

their secret wiles, though I watched constantly, and was always with my

mother; yet I saw no powders given, nothing visible indicated _their_

secret malice, and _her_ onward progress to the grave.

“Mademoiselle Desportes, with cunning hypocrisy, came often with

professions of regard, to see Madame de Serval. Could I have had my way,

I would have kicked her out the room; but perhaps she chose the better

part, in treating with contempt so unworthy a creature; for that pure

soul, which was all harmony and love, could surely feel no rivalry with

one so immeasurably beneath her.

“My father seldom came to our apartment. I should have thought shame

would have deterred him from brazenly insulting the deserted wife with

his presence. I forgot that the man who could act thus, would of

necessity be incapable of shame. Thus lingered for three months longer my

gentle, lovely mother, and then she died, devoutly hoping to be reunited

to her loved ones in a future state of being. She died at midnight; we,

her children, and the nurse, her only attendants; it was in the autumn

time, and the wind blew in fitful gusts around the isolated chateau; the

mournful sound, as the blast rose and fell, and whistled through the

forest trees, and through the cracks and crevices of the wainscotting,

seemed in harmony with the sad departing soul.

“She sat upright in bed, supported by pillows: her hands convulsively

clasped on her sunken chest, her sad blue eyes fixed on vacancy, as if

seeking to penetrate the impenetrable mysteries of eternity; her long

hair, escaped from its confinement, strayed wildly around her shoulders:

thus she sat, motionless and silent, for several hours, though not

speechless; she retained her voice and senses to the last.

“Little Lelia sat on the bed by my mother’s side, and with tearful

eyes gazed wonderingly on her parent; my brothers and I stood by the

bedside; I, speechless, tearless, from intense grief: they, sobbing

in loud lamentation; and the old nurse sat in the chimney corner, an

uninterested, yet sympathizing spectator of the death bed. My father had

made an excuse of going on a hunting party, some days previous, to avoid

witnessing his wife’s last sufferings; and his wicked favorite had shut

herself in her own rooms: we, therefore, were the sole attendants. And

the priest and his delightful friend had gone, I know not where—probably

departed for their respective places of destination—apprehensive of

discovery.

“The old brass clock in the anti-chamber struck the midnight hour, and

its hoarse, reverberating tone, had scarcely ceased, ere Madame de Serval

aroused herself from her stupor; decaying life appeared to resuscitate,

momentarily, in that attenuated form, like the spasmodic flicker of a

lamp, whose flame is about to be extinguished. She extended her arms,

as if beckoning to the shades—uplifted her eyes, as if praying for

grace—then, suddenly breaking the portentous silence which had hung over

us so long, she said, ‘Dear children, beloved little ones, come close to

me.’ We gathered close around her. ‘Your poor mother is going the way of

all the earth—she is going to leave you—and her memory will be as though

she never had been. I entreat you to be kind to each other; to love and

cherish each other’s friendship, practice virtue and good works, that ye

may become worthy of heavenly rewards, and meet your mother above.’

“Her face was animated with almost supernatural energy for an instant;

she pointed upwards with her finger for an instant, then her clay-cold

fingers shrank from my clasp: she fell backward on her pillow; her

eyes were glazed in the mists of death; and they, hardened in their

expression, became fixed and cold; her arms stiffened, and fell rigid to

her side: her whole form collapsed and changed. Death had claimed its

own; all was over: the wrongs she had endured, her joys, her sorrows,

were like a tale that is told; they were lost in the womb of time—past

and forgotten.

“Petrified with fear to the spot—horror struck—we gazed upon the

inanimate clay; then, after the first spasm of terror was past, we rushed

to the nurse, and gathered round her, seeking consolation for that loss,

which no power—mortal, or immortal—could restore to us.

“We wept ourselves to sleep that night, in our respective chambers. I,

more than all the rest, felt wretched. God alone knows how miserable I

was. And when I recalled my mother’s gentleness, her forbearance, her

enduring love for a worthless man, _and its reward_, oh! that added the

last bitter drop in the cup of wo!

“My father returned next day; he seemed neither surprised nor grieved

when told of her death: how should he be, when he had planned, and

premeditated it: ‘her health had been so feeble within the last two

years,’ he said, ‘the event was not an unexpected one.’ Mademoiselle came

not near us, and, absorbed in grief, I had forgotten her very existence.

“When the corpse was laid out, we all went to take a last fond look of

that loved form, and bid it a temporary, perhaps eternal, adieu.

“She lay in state upon a costly bier, dressed as for a bridal. The white

satin robe she was attired in, was not whiter than her marble face and

hands: the wreath upon her hair scarcely outvied them in purity of color;

and her face bore that expression of almost unearthly beauty, which rests

upon the faces of the dead the first few hours after death. So calm,

so pure and beautiful did she look, I almost thought her sleeping, and

imagined I saw the grave-clothes rise and fall, with the respiration of

life, upon that dead bosom. Oh, my mother! wert thou conscious of the

tears I shed, thou wouldst have pitied me!”

Monsieur de Serval paused; his voice was inarticulate from emotion.

Dropping my hand, he covered his face with both his, and trembled with

grief. A man is generally ashamed to show such feelings before a woman;

but the recollections of his youth had completely unmanned him. I thought

it indelicate to proffer words of condolence, and, therefore, waited till

he became quieted, and went on.

“The grief of my two brothers and sister partook more of wonder and fear

than sorrow; but my soul was literally devoured with despair, and at that

moment I most sincerely wished myself dead and buried with her. I had

lost my best friend: the only one who could console my boyish vexations

and advise my actions.

“A splendid marble tomb was erected over the broken heart it enshrined,

in the cemetery of the church belonging to the chateau, and an

epitaph inscribed, testifying to the virtues of the departed, and the

inconsolability of the bereaved widower. How I despised the man, even

though my own father, who could thus add hypocrisy to villany!

“Within three months after her death, he outraged even the usual

conventional forms of mourning, and espoused the governess. From that

time henceforth, completely throwing off the mask of affection she had

previously worn, my brothers and sister, as well as myself, felt her

iron rule. We were aliens and strangers in our own home: all obeyed the

imperious will of the new Madame de Serval;—we were neglected and left

alone.

“Through her influence on the mind of her husband, he decided on

sending me away to college. Me she most particularly disliked, and

on all occasions treated me with studied contempt. There was a tacit

understanding between us that we mutually understood each other. _She_

knew me to possess penetration: _I felt_ that she was a vile intriguante.

She saw it would be far better for her control over my brothers and

sister, that I should be away. My elder brother, Francois, was never very

bright. Pierre (younger than myself) was no more so than need be: he was

extremely amiable and easily influenced; and Lelia, any one could manage.

Of the whole four I was most capable of resistance; consequently it was

most desirable to get me out of the way.

“A celebrated college, in a distant district, was selected as my

destination, and the day appointed for my departure. I asked if Francois

could not be sent to the same college for the completion of his

education, that we might be companions to each other in our studies. My

request was sternly refused by my father, and I was bade attend to my

own business, and not trouble myself about Francois’s movements. Thus

silenced, I made a merit of necessity, and obeyed, because I could not

help myself, resolving mentally, however, that, when grown to man’s

estate, I would shake off the underhand tyranny of this woman, and enlist

in the army as a foot soldier, sooner than submit to her petty malice.

She planned this merely to annoy me, knowing the society of my brother

would be pleasing to me. What my father intended doing with either

him or Pierre, neither they nor I knew: Lelia would remain under the

guardianship of her former governess.

“Thus were we separated. I bade them farewell and departed, glad to be

removed from the evil atmosphere of a depraved woman.

“I soon became a favorite with my preceptors at the institution. Francois

corresponded with me regularly the first year. Little Lelia, he said,

was in delicate health; her stepmother treated her with harshness and

severity; Pierre drooped in listless languor. He was in daily expectation

of being ordered off to join his regiment,—father having bought him

a commission in the 49th hussars. Of his own feelings, or the state

of affairs between Monsieur de Serval and his wife, he never spoke;

perhaps, I thought, he had forgotten our mother’s wrongs, grown politic,

conciliated the kindness of his stepmother, and consequently was more

tolerated; but I hoped not. I trusted the remembrance of the injuries of

that angel-woman were too deeply impressed on his mind, to allow him to

be so easily seduced into love or kindness to her betrayer. The tone of

his letters was reckless and gloomy: these feelings I regretted seeing in

one so young, and wished he were within the sphere of my influence, that

I might win him to better things.

“Subsequently I heard from him after his arrival in the Barbary

States, whither he had been ordered. He described the climate as being

insupportably hot, and a soldier’s life a hard one; yet, having entered

the service, was determined to remain and fight his way to distinction.

“The large patrimony my mother brought my father, had, upon her

ill-starred marriage, been exclusively settled on herself (subject to her

control alone), and, at her death, she bequeathed it to her children,

divided equally amongst us. Upon the completion of my education, I paid a

short visit home, to claim my share of the patrimony, and see my brother

and sister. Lelia, grown tall and graceful, welcomed me with joy; my

father, with cold civility; the ex-governess, with haughty coldness.

When I inquired for Pierre, they directed me to the church-yard where my

mother reposed, and where her youngest son now slumbered by her side, in

the blessed sleep of forgetfulness. I did not weep over his grave with

the same wild lamentation with which I had bewailed her loss: on the

contrary, as I stood over the little mound which held the human earth, I

almost felt a secret satisfaction that the boy had been taken away from

the evils to come; that his pure young mind had not remained here to

become contaminated by mingling with inferior, less elevated souls.

“Lelia told me how he died of a fever, and how he had wished to see me;

but was ungratified in the wish in his dying hour. Father had commanded

that no word should be sent me of his illness or death; thus I had

remained in ignorance of either. When she told me this, a suspicion

flashed across me, that, perhaps, he had been dealt with like his poor

mother; but reflection convinced me that his stepmother could have had no

object in putting him out of the world. He was an amiable, inoffensive

boy; he interfered with her in no way; and as she was a woman of strong

mind and good reasoning faculties, it was not probable she would have

committed a deed, the execution of which could in no way have benefited

her. At any rate he was dead; and as I looked on Lelia, her youth, her

beauty, and the atmosphere of innocence and grace which seemed to hover

round and adorn her, I wondered what destiny had in store for her, and I

prayed that the angel-shade of our mutual parent—or some other invisible

inhabitant of a better land—might preside over her future years, and

shield them from all evil.

“But the halls of my ancestors were no longer a home for me, and I felt

it strongly during the few days I spent there. The absurd spectacle of

the blind infatuation of a man, already on the decline of life, who fed

and cherished his vanity into the ridiculous belief that he was still

loveable and beloved by a young and artful woman, was—had I been an

uninterested spectator of the farce—more laughable than anything else;

but, as it was, indignation, instead of merriment, stirred my feelings,

and I wished to be out of sight of so disgraceful an exhibition of

superannuated folly; and my father, while doting upon his minion, and

squandering his fortune upon her in every description of extravagance,

actually believed himself to be as attractive and fascinating as any

young man of twenty-five. When I recurred to this portion of my father’s

life in after years, I always thought of what a young Parisian girl once

said to me: ‘Are not those two words, man and vanity, synonymous?’ That

young and handsome men should be vain of conquest is not astonishing; but

that old men, hackneyed and worn, from misuse of the senses, possessing

all the vices of the young, without their personal attractions or their

virtues,—that _such_ men should be candidates for the affections of young

women, or dare to suppose they can obtain or possess them, is scarcely

more reprehensible than ridiculous. The world has always seemed to me a

perfect farce—a play: a stage on which all act, and those who play the

best are thought the best in the eyes of the undiscriminating world.

What part my father and his favorite would have taken in the drama, I am

unable to say; but my own opinion is, that a fool’s cap for him, and the

symbol of knavery for her, would have suited to a charm.

“Lelia was liberally provided with many attendants, teachers for various

languages, and every thing the child could wish in the way of dress or

equipage. Being satisfied that her welfare and comfort was attended to, I

arranged with father to draw upon his banker in Paris for my means; and,

bidding Lelia farewell—who sobbed and wept grievously at my departure—I

glanced good-bye to the turreted towers, the lofty archways and imposing

battlements of the homes of my forefathers, and took my way to the

capital of France, intending to pursue the study of the law.

“But, alas! for the self-promised virtue of youth and inexperience! I had

not been in the gay city many weeks before the giddy vortex of Parisian

society had enthralled me, and overcame many of my stoical resolves: so

little do we know what we shall do until tasked by practice. I at first

wondered at the wild and unrestrained dissipations of the youth of the

metropolis; but, insensibly, by degrees this wonderment ceased, as I

became accustomed to, and shared in these frivolities.

“An old lawyer—in former years a devoted friend of my father—now, in

turn, performed the offices of friend to me; _i. e._ gave me good advice

on the temptations and snares of life; the dangers of love affairs,

particularly illicit ones; the beauty of propriety of demeanor; the

respectability of religion—at least its external appearance, no matter

about the _sincerity_ of the heart; and, lastly, the propriety of placing

myself under his guidance, and steadfastly following his counsels.

Fortunately, I did not take advantage of the kindness extended me; for,

had I followed his counsels—or, rather, what one might suppose _would_

have been his counsels, twenty years before—I should have been engulphed

in ruin long ago. I followed the dictates of a young, and, at that time,

pure heart; and pursued my own way, naturally enough concluding, that

every man has a right to his own way of thinking, and his own rule of

action, provided he interfered with no one else.

“I studied law with my _moral_ friend for some time; and might at this

moment, perhaps, have been an advocate, had not unforeseen events changed

the current of my life otherwise.

“While in Paris I became acquainted with a lady of noble rank and ancient

family; and, since I am giving you a faithful chronicle of my days,

Genevra, I will not conceal from you, that once, and once only, have I

loved, in by gone years, a lady, as beautiful, though not as virtuous, or

talented, as yourself—loved, I say, as fondly, as blindly, as I now love

you.

“Her name was Madame Anacharsis Valliere; and she was the youthful wife

of an old banker; she was then one of the most fashionable and admired

of any in Paris. I first met her at a ball, and afterwards visited her

at her house constantly. I cannot describe the artlessness and playful

witchery of her ways, nor that light and play of feature which allured

and captivated me—even though I saw the risk I ran, both for myself and

her: the remembrance of her haunted me for years after the love had died

away, and both passion, and the reciprocity it had met with from her

confiding fondness, had faded from my mind.

“That was my first ‘grande passion!’ The woman who pleased me then, would

not please me now: so do our tastes and habits change as we go onward:

but then, young and warm, yet shy, I required to be led on to love: now,

I would rather seek it myself: consequently, I prefer one who rather

shrinks from than advances to me.

“Her husband, absorbed in business, and money speculations could not

find time to devote much attention to his fair wife; and, trusting to

her honor, her sense of duty, and shrinking modesty, to preserve her in

the right way, he allowed her to do as she pleased, and go with whom she

pleased; it often pleased her then to go with me. He had great confidence

in me; I am sorry to say it was misplaced; but undesignedly, at least,

I can with conscience say that, I did not intend to love the wife, or

injure the husband. When I first became acquainted with them, little by

little she grew to love me; if I did not come at the appointed hour,

Madame Anacharsis, forgetting her embroidery, music, flowers, visitors,

everything, would sit at the window facing the street, whence she

regularly expected me, and muse and watch for me; then the sudden start,

the smile of welcome when I came, the tears which suffused her eyes when

I departed, by all these tokens, and a hundred others, I knew as well as

words could speak it, that she loved me; what man is virtuous enough to

slight the manifest love of a beautiful woman? I saw my triumph and I

felt happy, for my feelings echoed hers.

“I then became her constant visitor, her devoted admirer; I was with her

continually, at her morning concerts, her evening soirees: I was ever at

her side. The old husband, infatuated in his idolatry of his young wife,

saw nothing, suspected nothing; thus we went on till passion crowned

the whole; nothing was left for me to wish for. Was I happy then? In the

possession of all that I had thought so admirable, so angelic, I have

often asked myself that question, and never have been able to answer it

satisfactorily. I lost myself then in the mysteries of love, and forgot

everything but her.

“We had been wrapt up, bound up in each other for the space of three

months, and the old man still blundered on in confidence, though I was

ever at his wife’s side like her shadow. He frequently consulted me on

business matters, and both in public and private, expressed the highest

opinion of me. I could not but regret the moment when he would be

undeceived, and perceive the _real_ state of things; yet the whole affair

had been involuntarily on both sides. Society, which always decides so

arbitrarily in these matters, would at once have pronounced that either

I was a rake, or she a bold, frail woman. Neither was the case, a woman

possessed of more true modesty and integrity than Madame Anacharsis I

have never seen; her fault was over self-confidence, and reliance on me;

and I, not dreaming of love, cherished to maturity the germ of a passion

with which I had already inspired her.

“We had been planning a fête champêtre, and one evening I bent my steps

to her house, with a portfolio of beautiful costumes; one, handsomer than

the others, I had chosen, and wished to induce her to adopt it for the

occasion.

“The attendants were absent from the anti-chamber, and I entered the

salon de reception unannounced; Madame was there, alone. She sat upon a

low ottoman, her profile toward me; she wore a blue satin dress, made

so low in the neck that half her fair bosom was exposed; but it was the

fashion then, and when fashion countenances an impropriety, it no longer

seems one. She seemed absorbed in thought, for she had slid half off the

stool, her small hands clasped, and brown eyes upward fixed in thought,

or absentness.

“She started, and rose up on hearing my step, and I now saw that her

cheeks were wet with tears; surprised at these unwonted tokens of sadness

in one usually so gay, I asked the cause.

“She wiped the tears from her eyes, and seating herself by my side,

placed her little hands in mine, (where they had often been before,) and

looking me straight in the face, suddenly addressed me thus,

“‘Rinaldo, my husband has discovered our love: he knows all.’

“‘Good heavens, how could he, how should he?’ I cried.

“‘Indeed he has: this very afternoon he told me that he has watched you

and me for sometime past, without our knowing it. He spoke so gently, so

kindly to me of my fault, that his very leniency made me feel a hundred

times more miserable than all the reproaches in the world could have

done; he said he knew I was young enough to be his child,—that so great a

disparity of years must preclude much happiness; but when he reminded me

of the unlimited indulgence with which I had been treated, the tenderness

with which all my wants, and even my most fantastic whims had been

anticipated; _then_, indeed, I felt how unjustly I had served him. He

told me too, how much confidence he had ever reposed in me, allowing me

to go with whom I liked, and where I liked, without question; and turning

my eyes inward, I saw how far I had fallen from my own high standard of

female virtue.

“‘I said nothing in extenuation of my fault, and in silence acquiesced

to guilt; but when my husband took me to his arms again, and told me he

would forgive me, even though he became the laughing stock of Paris, on

condition I would solemnly swear never to commit the same offence again;

and also to send you away, and never more to see your face; then I saw

how magnanimous he was in his love, how infatuated in his devotion to me,

unworthy me.

“‘And now we must part, dear Rinaldo, I mean to say, Monsieur de Serval,

we must never meet again, or if we do meet in public, as strangers. It

will be a very hard task for me to tear your image from my heart, but I

_must_; I ought to love my husband: has he not been so kind to me? Oh,

yes, I must forget you, and of course you will forget me: very soon some

other will usurp my place. Oh, I wish I were dead and buried.’

“She fell down upon her knees and wept: it seemed to be so difficult for

her to surrender me; and it was equally severe for me, for I was tenderly

attached to her. The husband’s discovery had been startling news: I had

not dreamt that Valliere had suspected us; it only remained for us now to

say farewell,—a sad word to be spoken at any time, but most particularly

in an affair of the heart: it was some minutes before I could calm

her sufficiently to speak, and then she only spoke of her fault, her

unhappiness, and her jealous dread of my loving some other better than

herself.

“‘Oh, you will not entirely forget me, will you, Rinaldo? Although

hereafter we shall never see each other, you will sometimes think of me;

think how unhappy I am; how unwise I have been; but do not despise my

weakness; do not think of me with contempt, perhaps, at some future day,

when you may love a woman of sterner virtue than myself.’

“‘Dear lady, I can never think of you with any other sentiment than

admiration. What is there to contemn in one so beautiful and amiable?

We have erred unwittingly; if any is to blame, it is myself, not you.

May God, who sees all things, forgive me if I have caused you a moment’s

pain.’

“‘It is very hard to say farewell forever,’ she kept repeating, as

she hung upon my hand; ‘but it must be said,’—and after mutual sighs,

regrets, tears, and kisses, I sorrowfully tore myself away. She fell

fainting on a sofa as I left the saloon, and I brushed tears from my own

cheeks as I rushed down the marble terrace steps of her elegant abode.

“My feelings were wild, incoherent, and bitter,—yes, bitter as wormwood,

for none but honorable loves yield satisfaction and repose to the soul.

I regretted ever having come to Paris, or ever having crossed the bright

pathway of so young and innocent a creature; but her husband would still

countenance and love her. She was not abandoned or cast away to neglect

or shame; that was a great consolation to me; and trusting that her gay

and child-like disposition would interest itself in the world, and that

new associations would obliterate me from her memory, I became calmed,

and returned to my ordinary pursuits.

“Not long after, I received news of my brother’s death, at Tunis. He had

been shot in a duel. The cause of the encounter was not explained. My two

brothers were both dead, and I became heir to my father’s estate.

“Francois and myself had never been sufficiently alike in disposition to

become tenderly attached. Nevertheless, I regretted his death, as one

is in duty to the laws of nature bound to do. Rumor said the charming

Madame Anacharsis Valliere had withdrawn from all gay society, and lived

entirely in the country. Her health was said to be declining. This

was some months after our separation; and possessing the clue to her

new love of solitude, I was vain enough to attribute her ennui to sad

reminiscences of me.

“I had now been in Paris two years, when I suddenly resolved, one day, to

go home, and if my father treated me with such incivility as to render a

long residence disagreeable, I could, in that case, return to Paris. I

had lost much of the wildness I had brought to the city, and had sobered

down. My old friend, the lawyer, had proved himself to be a real friend

to me, notwithstanding some lingering traces of youthful vanity. Small

foibles are, however, forgiveable when counterbalanced by other good

qualities; and I was grateful to him for his kindness. He advised me to

stay and pursue the practice of the law. But yielding to some strange

presentiment, which bade me go, I promised him soon to return, and set

off.

“I arrived at the castle after twilight had deepened into sombre night.

A dense forest of lindens surrounded the old homestead of my childhood,

on one side of the building, for more than a mile; and riding through

the thicket of trees had, perhaps, pre-disposed me to sadness, for I

certainly felt so, when I arrived. No porter was, as usual, at the

lodge, and the gardens bore evidence of neglect. I rode on; passed the

drawbridge, and dismounting, left the horse to find his way alone to the

stables. I went into the inner court of the castle, through the massive

gateway, and after traversing that, into the servants’ hall. None of

the domestics were there. I was amazed at this; for among the numerous

attendants my father was want to keep around him, surely some of them

would be at their posts. Everything looked so familiar, that even the old

wainscotting seemed to welcome me back.

“I went up stairs into the enormous banquetting hall, where in the olden

time, had often been heard sounds of uproarious conviviality, the coarse

jest, and loud song, and shone beauty’s gentle presence; but it was now

silent and deserted; cobwebs wandered unmolested on its walls; and the

rich crimson drapery of the window curtains was thick with dust,—the

result of years of neglect. No one was here either; and I began to

conclude that I had in truth come to the abode of death, when suddenly

recollecting the day of the month, I remembered that it was the annual

holiday, on which servants had permission to visit the village for the

day. This explained _their_ absence; but where was Lelia, my father,

and step-mother? Had they deserted the house; or were they all dead? I

began to feel infected with superstitious gloom. I went up the grand

staircase, and sought the different bed chambers of the family. They

were tenantless. In Lelia’s, several articles of wearing apparel lay

scattered about, and a miniature of our mother—an exquisite painting set

in gold, and adorned with pearls and emeralds—was lying on her toilet

table, entangled with other trinkets, as if thrown down in haste; but the

presiding nymph of the boudoir was not there.

“As I stood in the centre of the room staring around me, and wondering

what had become of them all;—as I stood thus, a wild shriek of fear,

revenge, agony, despair,—it sounded like a compendium of all these

emotions—burst startlingly upon my ears. Amazed, I listened intently. I

heard no more: all was still, save the flapping of the venetian blinds,

as they swung to and fro in the wind, and the mournful cooing of the

doves. A curse seemed to have come and laid its blight and ban upon

this unhappy domicile. The living appeared to have deserted it;—perhaps

celestials, mayhap demons, had substituted themselves in their place. I

determined to ascertain what that strange sound meant, and directed my

steps to the quarter whence I thought it proceeded.

“I had forgotten to look in my step-mother’s drawing room. It was on the

same floor with Lelia’s room. The scream seemed to have come from there.

Thither I went. As I neared the door, I heard a low hissing laugh. The

house must be haunted. Surely devils were here. Three steps brought me

full before the open door, and, oh, great God! I saw a sight that froze

my heart with horror!”

Monsieur de Serval here started to his feet, as if he still beheld what

he described. He stared wildly before him a moment; then recovering

himself sat down, and continued:

“Yes, there, in the middle of the room, stood the accursed priest,

Father Ignatius; his arms folded, and sinister features expanded into a

demoniacal smile. Yes, he who hastened my mother’s death, was there; and

he now contemplated with the eyes of cold contempt, the death agonies of

two other unhappy beings.”

“Who were they?” I suddenly demanded, breaking in upon the thread of the

narrative.

“My miserable father and his wife. She lay stretched upon the floor, the

red life-blood gushing in torrents from a deep wound in her neck; and she

shook her clenched fists in impotent revenge at her husband and murderer.

Her face, hands, and hair were smeared with blood, and with the energy of

death and despair, she muttered curses on his head.

“And he, unhappy being, I could not help feeling some pity for him;—he

was my father. In him life seemed quite extinct. He had fallen on a

sofa, and lay to all appearance dead: his gray hair fallen back from his

death-pale countenance, and his arms hanging listlessly down from his

side; marks of blood were also on his person.

“Horror-struck I gazed. This was my welcome home. Then animated by a

strange desire to add a third to this goblin group, and kill that vile

priest, I strode up to him, and seized him by the arms.

“‘Vile, degraded wretch,’ I cried, ‘and is it you who has done this? Have

you added downright murder to the indirect means you used to accomplish

my mother’s death? Say, say!’ I gasped, ‘is it _your_ deed?’

“The monk turned black with rage; but he controlled himself, and said

quietly:—

“‘My son, I am as innocent of their deaths as yourself. Only a few

minutes ago I arrived here, having just returned from Vienna. Finding no

one about the castle, I came in here seeking for your father and madame.

Approaching, I heard loud words, and on entering, saw your father stab

your step-mother, then turn the weapon against himself, when they both

fell as you see them now. The cause of his conduct I am unacquainted

with.’

“I did not credit him, and was about to inflict summary vengeance upon

him, or compel him to tell me the truth, when the dying woman, raising

herself half way on her elbow, after several attempts at speech, feebly

articulated:

“‘Not he, but he,’ pointing to my father; ‘_he_ did it.’

“A frightful convulsion of pain distorted her face. She pressed her hand

to her neck, whence the blood issued, and falling back on the floor,

after a slight spasm, expired. All this happened in a much shorter space

of time than it requires to tell it you. It seemed as if the invisible

hand of fate had conducted me there to behold this horrible spectacle.

What insanity could have urged my father to such a deed?

“This abandoned woman was dead—stone dead. Her career of deceit and

extravagance was ended, and my martyred mother’s manes appeased. After

looking attentively at the corpse, to see if life was entirely extinct, I

turned my attention to my father; but he was already dead. Her features

retained in death their expression of lowering darkness, and his the same

look of concentrated iron will they had worn in life.

“‘Oh, most gracious God!’ I ejaculated, sinking on my knees in earnest

prayer;—‘Oh, vouchsafe to have mercy on their souls; grant them thy

grace.’

“‘Amen,’ said the monk; and he had glided from the apartment before I

could arrest his departure. I wished to detain him, at least till I had

procured a physician and coroner, and had an inquest on the bodies; but

he was gone. Had the devil sent him there also to witness the death

of his accomplice? or accident, or what? There was none to answer my

questions, but the solitary castle itself;—but could walls have spoken,

I presume they would have told me many a strange tale, of strange scenes

that had happened since I had left them.

“Assistance must be had, and as none of the servants had yet returned, I

mounted my horse and rode to the village, whence I soon returned with a

physician and magistrate.

“Their unaccountable deaths puzzled the man of law much; but when I had

explained all the circumstances to the sensible, quiet physician, he

appeared perfectly satisfied that they had come to their deaths as I

surmised,—she from his hand, and he from self-infliction.

“‘And you have no clue, no idea of the cause of this terrible event?’ he

said, after I had told him all.

“‘None whatever. I found them as you see them now,’

“‘It is most unaccountable,’ said the magistrate. ‘I cannot imagine of

anything so despicable, as a man to commit suicide. This is not only

suicide, but murder, too; perfectly atrocious. I never could have thought

your father capable of such a deed.’

“‘We know not what we shall do till we are tried. Let us pray God to

preserve us from temptation,’ said the wise physician; and we left the

room, locking the door, until some one should come to lay out the bodies.

“The physician and magistrate stayed an hour with me in the banquetting

hall, discussing the strange affair. At least _they_ discussed it, with

professional indifference. For myself, I was stupified, satiated with

horror, and said almost nothing. Then some of the domestics returned, and

the gray-haired butler, the male nurse and companion of my childhood,

listened with stupid surprise to my account of his master’s death.

“‘Why, sir,’ stammered he, as if in doubt of his own identity, ‘I left

them both well, and together in madame’s parlor. How could master so

suddenly have taken it into his head to kill her, and then kill himself?’

“‘Have there ever been any violent quarrels between your master and

mistress, that you have been aware of?’ I inquired.

“‘Oh! yes, sir, a great many: for the last two years they have scarcely

done any thing but fight. I’ve often heard him tell her he would send

her off, and call you back, and make you master here. Miss Lelia fretted

much about you; she wished to see you; and madame always abused her.

Master seemed to take a great dislike to his wife in the last two years;

whenever he spoke of you, she always got into a perfect fever; she

really seemed wild; and she would dare him to do something which he said

he would do, if she did not do as he told her. Oh! we’ve had a deal of

trouble since you went away.’

“‘I see the whole affair plainly now,’ said the magistrate; ‘they had

become involved in one of these quarrels; words ran high; he probably

struck her; and then, becoming infuriated as his anger rose, murdered

her; and, either from dread of discovery, or disgust of life, killed

himself: thus it must have been; and a most deplorable affair it is, too.’

“‘Where is my sister Lelia?’ I asked of Juan.

“‘She went some days ago to spend a week with some lady friend of hers.’

“‘How far is she from here?’

“‘Some six miles, sir.’

“‘Take one of the fastest horses and go after her: say only her brother

has arrived, and wishes to see her—nothing more.’

“‘Yes, sir:’ the servant departed.

“Some lay sisters were sent for, and came from the neighboring convent to

lay out the bodies. Scarcely was their mournful task completed, when Juan

returned with Lelia. The beautiful girl burst into tears as she rushed

to embrace me; and her grief redoubled when I told her of that day’s sad

events.’

“‘My brother, dear, you little know the many lonely days I’ve passed

since you left us, and how often I have wished for you; that bad woman

always treated me with contempt, and father never cared for me; I have

passed my days alone, always alone, dreaming and regretting: father

changed much, however, in his opinion of you, and would have had you back

again, but madame always opposed it; but I little thought, when I left

here a week ago, that I should find them both dead on returning.

“I consoled poor Lelia as much as possible, and promised her many future

years of happiness; and so far as that happiness depended on myself, I

kept my promise. When shown the dead body of her father, she burst into

torrents of tears, and fell fainting over the corpse. We removed her

to her own room, and the bodies were consigned to mother earth without

her again seeing them. With pious care my sister had tended on her

mother’s grave: and flowers of all hues, all species, grew there in wild

luxuriance: and a spirit of holiness seemed breathed around it, as if

the pure soul that had animated that mortal clay, still hallowed, still

guarded the casket the immortal gem had once inhabited, and preserved it

from evil influence.

“They were then all gathered together in death: my legitimate father and

mother, the bold usurper of her just rights, and my gentle brother. The

governess I buried without a tombstone; she was not worthy of any; the

common earth I could not refuse her, but even that I thought too good for

her: but I will no longer speak of her, nor trouble you with my personal

animosities, but will hasten to the conclusion of my tale.

“I took possession, as sole and natural heir, of the remnant of fortune

and estate left me; but finding the castle so deeply mortgaged, that

it was more trouble to keep than it was worth, I sold it; I was partly

induced to do so from Lelia’s nervous dread of remaining in the house

where so terrible a murder had been committed, and partly from my

incapacity to sustain so expensive an establishment with such small

means. I felt much regret at parting with the halls of my ancestors,

but the desolate castle would have made a gloomy home for so young a

creature as Lelia; she was now at an age when society and gay life would

please and captivate; and I determined to take her to Paris with me.

The prospect of leaving the solitude and isolation, to which her whole

lifetime had been alone devoted, charmed her.

“The home of my childhood passed into stranger-hands. Previous to our

departure I caused diligent search to be made in the vicinity for the

wicked father Ignatius; but he had disappeared as strangely as he came,

and left no trace of his coming or exit. I was convinced, however,

from numerous circumstances, traced to their cause, that he was not

concerned in or any way accessory to my father’s and stepmother’s death.

Judging from what the domestics told me, and from what I gathered from

the neighboring gentry whom my father visited, I surmised that remorse

had at last seized upon that man of iron nerve: becoming tired of the

governess, or else conceiving a hatred to her, from recollection of the

evil deed she had induced him to commit, violent quarrels, crimination

and recrimination, was the natural result of alienation of affection;

when under the influence of anger we lose our self-consciousness, and

know not what we do: in a fit of rage he killed her; and, dreading the

consequences, and disgrace, added the last act to this tragedy of sin,

and committed suicide. That death scene I shall never forget; no, not

if I were to live a thousand years: it haunts me yet with frightful

vividness.

“I took Lelia with me to Paris, where she afterwards married, well and

happily, the man of her choice, and lives there still.

“I resumed the practice of the law, and became distinguished in that

profession. From association with the gayeties of the metropolis, I

confess I contracted habits I regret having acquired: my disposition

was ardent and excitable, and it carried me too far. I played high,

and was seldom fortunate,—almost invariably losing. From mixing with

society of a certain class, I acquired the reputation of a _roué_ in many

instances; that, also, was undeserved; although at that time young and

vain, I was more easily caught in love snares than at present. Thus, for

some three years longer, I led a gay, wild, yet unhappy life. Then I

began to weary of this futile way of spending time. My health had become

impaired by excess, and satiety had taken the place of levity. I wished

to find some woman in whose integrity I could confide, and marry her, and

become a better man; but among all the gay, the rich, the talented, the

beautiful women with whom I was acquainted, none suited me, none equalled

my expectations. Sometimes I saw a woman whose _personelle_ pleased

me; but, on acquaintance, I always discovered something wanting in the

mind,—something I could wish added or taken away. I could no where find

my Psyche. I gave up my profession, although it yielded me a fine income,

and came here to Naples.

“Here I have been living since, unhappy and listless amid pleasures,

longing for something I have never yet found, and have thought, till I

saw you, I never should find; but at the countess’ ball, where first I

saw your gentle face, I felt irresistibly attracted toward you: nor has

acquaintance disappointed the illusion of fancy; but, on the contrary,

strengthened it, and I now love, where first I admired: your upright

principles, your beauty, your unblemished reputation and pure heart, have

won my love and esteem. Nature evidently designed you for private life,

cultivated and elegant society. Let me then be that faithful friend,

lover, and husband,—three principles in one person—who shall guard and

guide your steps through the quick-sands of life. Consent to redeem me

from past errors: teach me to shape my course more worthily in future.

Woman’s influence, when she exerts it in the right way, is great; do

you then become my Mentor, and I will be as docile and obedient as

Telemachus.”

Monsieur ceased. Meanwhile the bougie was extinguished, and the rays of

moonlight, as they tremblingly broke through the clouds, alone illumed

the room. I did not like to be sitting there so late at night, and with a

gentleman alone.

“It is late: I know I am intruding upon you,” said he, and he rose upon

his feet; “yet, before I go, say that I may hope—say, dearest Genevra,

that you accept me.” He pressed my hands in his. I heard him; but did not

take the sense of what he said. I was in a dream: one of those delightful

waking dreams of fairy land, in which I have so often indulged.

“No answer still, Genevra. Are you angry?”

“Oh, no! Monsieur, not with you.”

“With others?”

“I don’t know.”

“A woman’s answer, which means you do: give me the legitimate right to

be your champion? Ah! let me be your husband and defender?”

“I am afraid that, if I marry you, you will some day regret your

condescension and your love, which induces you to descend below your rank

to marry an actress.”

“No, never!” cried he, in an indignant tone, “do you take me for a

child—a fool, who knows not his own mind; for none but fools act without

pre-consideration.”

“You have my consent then, Monsieur: may I prove worthy of you and your

expectations.”

Joyously he kissed me. “Now, at last, I hope to realize my dreams of

domestic happiness and love. Good night then, my pet; to-morrow I shall

see you again, before I leave on my journey to the north of Italy, where

business demands my presence.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“One or two weeks only: I shall hasten to rejoin you. Good night.”

Reluctantly he departed. I withdrew to my own room, and, when in bed,

endeavored to analyze his memoir. I tried to be impartial, and judge

by reason alone, if he were worthy of my affection; but love confused

reason, or rather the mischievous god construed everything in his own

favor, and demanded blind faith, which, like charity, covers a multitude

of sins. Inexperienced, too, in the ways of men, I knew not of that

seductive eloquence which dazzles the mind through the heart; besides, I

was so young and confiding—it was so charming a thing to be loved—that I

did not care to inquire too closely into cause and effect, and crediting

all, and happy in the belief, I fell asleep.

* * * * *

The next day my lover came and spent two hours with me. He brought me a

beautiful diamond ring, the token of our engagement—the gems set in the

form of a star,—and a miniature of himself, which he placed around my

neck.

“This will serve to recall me to your memory sometimes, while I am gone,”

he remarked, playfully.

“If a woman loves a man, she needs nothing to recall him to mind, and if

she does not, where is the use of a portrait?”

“Ah! you little logician;—little philosopher, you confute me at all

points.”

“Am I not right, though?”

“Yes; you are always right, at least in my opinion.”

“I shall sing in the Opera of Somnambula to-morrow night; will you be

there to hear me? but I forget, you will leave this evening, and of

course cannot come.”

“Yes, I go this afternoon. The time will seem tiresome and tedious until

re-united to you. If it were possible, I would excuse myself from this

journey: it must absolutely be performed, and I must tear myself away

from you and happiness for the present.”

“And I shall feel lonely, too, until your return: it is so new, so

strange and delightful to be loved, I hardly can realize its truth.”

“I trust many bright years to come, we shall experience its happiness,

and time will convince you of its reality.”

After he was gone, I hastened to Blanche, to confide my secret to her—for

a woman must have a confidant of some sort. I found her sitting musingly

at an open window, her fair face pillowed on her hand. She listened with

kindness and interest to my relation of Monsieur de Serval’s sudden and

unexpected offer, and appeared gratified at the seeming good fortune

which awaited me, when I asked her if she thought him an honorable man

and serious in his intentions. She replied:

“It is difficult to tell, my dear Genevra, who is _really_ honorable and

who is not, for many possess the outward semblance to perfection, without

the quality; but that he wishes and intends to marry you, I question

not. What object could he have in formally proposing and making these

presents, if he did not intend it? The first time I saw him in your

society, I discovered that he loved you. It is a fortunate event which

enables you, thus early in your professional career, to marry, and leave

this disagreeable business.”

“Don’t you wish to marry and leave it also, dear Blanche?”

“I don’t know what I wish, my dear: I wish I was dead sometimes,” sighed

my friend.

“Come, cheer up, dearest,” said I, kissing her; “don’t give way to

melancholy. You who are so young, so admired and beautiful,—what have you

to grieve about? Let me persuade you to be gay: you know we are to sing

together to-morrow; is your costume ready?”

“Oh, yes! I always have everything prepared in advance.”

“What can I do to amuse you? Oh, Blanche!” I exclaimed, a thought

suddenly striking me, “there is an old fortune-telling witch living out

on the Posillippo road, let us take a walk out there this evening and

hear our destiny; it will be at least amusing, if not instructive. Will

you go with me?”

“Yes, certainly, if it will oblige you; but I have no faith in

fortune-tellers.”

She quickly dressed, and we set out. After ascending the steep hill of

the Castle of San Elmo, we took the shady road—bordered on each side by

linden trees—which led to the pretty village of Posillippo. I had been

told that old Acte inhabited, sybil-like, a cavern in the rock of a steep

hill, about half way to the village. We examined all the rocks as we went

along; but no traces of fairies’ haunts, or witches’ caverns did we see.

After walking on some distance, we reached the brow of a rising hill,

and as I gazed staringly up its steep sides, endeavoring to discover the

celebrated abode of the prophetess, I saw a deep cavity in the rock—the

opening half overgrown with ivy and wild flowers; a small foot-path

wound up to it amid the grass. It had a wild, mysterious appearance, and

conjecturing that must be the place, we ascended to it.

“Dear Genevra!” cried Blanche, tremblingly, as I stooped at the small

aperture on entering, “pray be careful. Are you sure this is old woman’s

abode? you may be mistaken;—this may be a wild beast’s den.”

“This is the place, I know, from description. Don’t be afraid: give me

your hand; I will assist you in.” Grasping my hand from fear, Blanche was

dragged by me through the opening. When fairly through, we rose upright

upon our feet, and looked at our localities.

We stood in a large chamber, excavated from the solid rock;—no light of

day penetrated this haunted dungeon home; but in the far corner, opposite

me, an immense chimney and fire-place illumined with a blaze of fire

light the singular apartment; and, sitting before the fire, her back

toward us, was a strange form crouching on the floor of the cavern: its

gray hair was matted, and hung straggling down its back,—and it wore a

long black garment, something like the gown of a priest; every instant

one of its thin, skeleton-like hands, or rather claws, was projected

from its lap, depositing something (I could not tell what) in a large

vessel hanging over the flame,—so gathered up and misshapen was the

form, I could not distinguish whether it was man, woman, or beast;—the

appearance of the place, and this _outré_ figure, forcibly reminded me of

my childhood, and the old woman I called Granny. Blanche had turned pale

as a ghost from fear, and I regretted having come.

The figure did not at first perceive us; and we had stood some minutes

unobserved spectators of its singular operations, when, pausing, it

turned its head, and I beheld a human face,—but so wild, so wizard-like,

it scarcely resembled a woman’s countenance. She rose to her feet, and

confronted us. She was tall in stature, and the long, straight robe

added to her height. She regarded us with a piercing glance, and then

beckoned our approach.

“Be seated,” said she, pointing to two stools near her; “you have come to

consult me. I knew I should have visiters this evening; the signs said

it.”

“We had some difficulty in finding you,” I observed; “your home is so

secluded.”

“So much the better,—it keeps fools from troubling me,” was the sharp

reply. As she spoke, she stepped toward a dark corner of the cave, and

after stooping, and apparently feeling about a moment, came back with a

bottle, filled with water, in her hand. She resumed her position on the

floor before the fire, and then abruptly demanded,—

“Which will learn their fate first?”

“Blanche, do you.”

“Oh, no, dear; let her tell you first, and then I will try,” answered

Blanche, falteringly.

“Well, then, good mother, tell mine.”

She turned the bottle of water slowly head downwards; then raising it,

apparently contemplating something she saw in the liquid, shook her head,

and said,—

“A short lived happiness; then clouds, darkness, and sadness await you;

yet out of this sadness shall come a lasting, quiet joy; durable, because

it shall be based on proper feelings; and love shall crown all, in future

years.”

“But, mother, your words are mysterious, incomprehensible to me. Pray

tell me in plain language what awaits me. I cannot understand your

symbols.”

“I have said all I can say; recollect my words,—their meaning will be

clear as sunlight, when they shall be verified in times to come. Now

you,” to Blanche. Again the bottle was reversed, and she pored over its

hidden meaning.

“A short but bright career; an ill-fated love; a sudden and violent

death, and a solitary grave;—this your fate,” and she glared at Blanche

with those wild eyes.

I noticed the sudden start of surprise, and glowing blush which

overspread the face of my friend at these words. Had she in secret

conceived an “ill-fated love?” or was it the unexpectedness of the

prophecy caused that start?

“Is my destiny then so sad;—is there nothing brighter in store for

me;—are none of my fair visions to be realized?” said she, pensively.

I placed but little reliance on what she said, considering it the

mummery and trick of her trade; but Blanche, although she had expressed

incredulity on the subject of fortune-telling, for the moment seemed

saddened by the prophecy. Wishing to divert her mind from the subject, I

began talking to the old woman.

“Have you lived here long, mother?”

“Eighteen summers have been and gone since I first came here.”

“You have seen, then, many changes in the city during that time.”

“Yes, many have been born, and many have died since eighteen years ago.”

“And do you like to live in this old damp cavern? could you not find a

better home?”

“No; I desire no better home than a cave among the rocks nature made, and

it is not for me or any other mortal to disdain her works. I have been as

happy here as I should have been in a fine house.”

“Have you many visiters?”

“Not as many as I used to have. I am growing old and dull, and those who

have their fortunes told generally go for amusement and ridicule; and now

that age and disease have made me severe and grave, they seek others who

can entertain them better.”

I was about to propose other questions, but observing that Blanche had

gone to the entrance, and was beckoning me, I placed a gold piece in the

woman’s hand, and joined her. Acte followed me to the door of the rock.

“I shall see you again, I feel I shall. At some future day you will find

me a true prophet, although now you disbelieve my words. Farewell to both

of you.”

We descended the hill whence we came; Blanche thoughtful and depressed,

and I somewhat influenced by Acte’s mysterious predictions. The shadows

of evening gathered round us as we entered the fashionable street,

Toledo, now thronged with the beauty and fashion of Naples, enjoying

their daily rides, drives, and promenades, along the beautiful shores of

the bay.

As we walked along the street toward our own home, ourselves observing

and observed, an elegant English phæton, driven by a footman, in blue

and orange, and occupied by a young man, lovely as an angel, indolently

lolling against its cushions, came gliding by. As it passed us, the

gentleman stared long at Blanche, and then bowed; her face flushed to

crimson, as she returned the salutation. I noticed also he leaned out of

the carriage, and looked after her.

“What a splendid looking man,” I involuntarily exclaimed; “who is he?”

“The Lord of Glenfells; a Scottish nobleman. I saw him at Munich,”

answered she, hesitatingly.

“Are you well acquainted with him?”

“Yes, he has visited me.”

“Oh, is he not handsome!”

“Yes, very; I always thought him fine looking.”

Blanche evidently did not wish to speak further about him; and with that

strange intuition with which woman divines woman, I surmised that it was

from something of a secret partiality.

Madame Bonni was waiting tea when we reached home.

“My two nightingales, where have you been to? I have been waiting an

hour for you; and the French manager has called to see you. He stayed

sometime, but finding you did not come, went away, saying he should call

in the morning. He has something particular to say to you.”

“We have been taking a long walk toward Posillippo and Virgil’s tomb,

which detained us longer than we had intended,” said I, not wishing to

tell her our real adventure.

“Ah! have you? Did you go within it?—is it not an interesting sight?”

“No, we did not extend our walk so far as to reach it; but some day,

soon, I intend visiting it for that purpose.”

My thoughts reverted to Monsieur de Serval, and wondering and wishing he

were back again with me, I spent the evening in my room, leaving Blanche

to entertain our kind hostess.

When alone, I always thought of my lover, as lovers generally do, I

believe. I admired and loved him, but this love was so sudden, so

incomprehensible;—men seldom court women on the instant of acquaintance,

propose and marry them, especially actresses. Then I recalled what

Madame Bonni and rumor had said of his character; his extravagance and

bad conduct: but then had he not frankly, and with sincere contrition,

admitted his faults, and promised amendment in future? What could be

sadder, more touching than that history itself? related so charmingly,

in his graceful way. His childhood had been soured by a bold, bad woman,

and subsequently thrown upon the sea of life, like a bark without a pilot

or rudder to steer it. Temptations, in their most attractive forms, had

beset him, and he had done only as other men would have done, not even

as bad as that. Much allowance should be made for his youth and beauty,

and lonely position in life. But my excuses for my lover were endless. I

cannot follow them all. When love amounts to infatuation, it is useless

to reason; and it was foolish for me to attempt it. I wished he were with

me;—I counted the hours and days as they passed.

The other gentlemen who visited me, no longer pleased me. I did not want

to see them;—their society only bored me. I usually deserted the parlor,

leaving Blanche to do the honors, while I nursed my reveries alone; and

she, so gentle and amiable, was willing to do anything to oblige another,

and always anticipated and gratified my wishes,—even my strangest whims.

The next morning after our visit to Acte, we were summoned to the

parlor to see the manager. We found that worthy individual intently

engaged in self-admiration of his own person, reflected in one of the

long mirrors. He started on perceiving that _we_ had discovered _him_

in this interesting employment, which might seem to indicate, perhaps,

some slight vanity, (a foolish quality, however, never possessed by the

sterner and wiser sex!) Advancing toward us on tip-toe, he smilingly paid

the salutations of the day, and then said:

“Mesdemoiselles, the object of my visit is to inform you, that a new

opera has been written by a distinguished musician of this city, and I

wish to secure your services for its representation. I wish to produce

it within a fortnight; new scenery and costumes have been added to the

Opera house, and everything which can add to the splendor of effect, I

intend shall be done; may I hope to have the co-operation of the two

nightingales?” he bowed and chasseed before us.

“What is the name of the new opera, Monsieur?” I inquired.

“It is called Ajesha, or the Maid of Kars, a magnificent production of

genius; the plot is romantic and beautiful, the music divine; some of the

songs are exquisite. Stay, I will sing you one of the men’s, that you may

form something of an opinion about it.”

He seated himself at the piano and sang a spirited, sweet thing,

beginning with, ‘My home is on the storm-bound deep.’ We listened

intently, and admired it.

“That is one of the gems of the opera, and there are many others equally

beautiful; some of the women’s songs are exquisite, and you, fair ladies,

I know will do them justice. I wish to bring it out within two weeks. In

the course of that time the royal family return to the city, and will

grace the theatre with their presence; may I consider your services

engaged, Mesdemoiselles?”

“Blanche is free to decide for herself, Monsieur,” I replied; “but for

me, my guardian must decide.”

“Ah, yes, but Belmont of course will be perfectly willing. I shall see

him this morning and ask him, but you Mademoiselle Ricorsi, you are

independent and can choose for yourself,—will you be the Ajesha?”

“I have never yet played in Naples; you know my terms, monsieur; are you

willing to pay me what I have been in the habit of receiving at Munich?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, your price is my price.”

“Then I shall be happy to sing, monsieur.”

“All is agreed then, and I shall be happy to see you at rehearsal to

morrow, ladies, when we will run through the opera, and cast your parts,”

and the polite Frenchman bowed himself out of our presence.

I omit the rehearsals, the confusion of preparation, and getting ready

the costumes for the occasion, and pass to the night when this beautiful

opera was produced for the first time on the Neapolitan boards.

It was a tragedy; the plot is a singular one: Ajesha, the Maid of Kars,

is a Circassian, as her name denotes; she is sold into slavery from her

native land, and carried to the town of Kars, where she becomes the

property of a Turkish Emir; he loves her intensely, and of course is most

intensely jealous. She, a beautiful, spiritual creature, does not love

this illiterate Turk, distinguished for nothing, but his immense wealth

and brutality.

A noble and handsome Englishman is taken prisoner by this Turkish

commander, the English and Turks then being at war; he is imprisoned in

a house opposite the harem of Ajesha; news of his youth and beauty is

brought to the lady; he becomes ill from the severity of his treatment,

and Ajesha, in the disguise of a page, visits, and nurses him. The

consequence is, they conceive a mutual and desperate love for each other.

At first their meetings are undetected by the jealous Mussulman, but

Ajesha dreading future discovery, appoints the cemetery, the city of the

silent, as their rendezvous. A treacherous slave betrays her confidence

to the Emir; he surprises them one evening, and stabs her in the arms of

her lover; then attempting to punish the Englishman, he himself is killed

by the enraged lover, and dies by the side of his fair slave.

This is the outline, as well as I remember it, of one of the most

exquisite things I ever saw performed. The character of Nina I was cast

for, voluntarily resigning the principal character in favor of my friend;

and oh, how beautiful, beyond the power of description, did she look the

night she played it.

She first makes her appearance in the Circassian costume, when she is

sold from the home of infancy, and carried to a strange land; and the

dress Blanche wore, was of white silk, ornamented with gold lama lace; a

turban of tissue, spangled with gold stars, surmounted her flaxen curls

waving on her shoulders; the graceful trousers gathered into a gold

bandelette at the ancle, exposed fully to view her tiny feet, encased in

their little Circassian slippers. The affectionate, sad farewell to her

parents and young acquaintances, and the song she sings, ‘My native land,

farewell,’ shook the house with applause. Every one had heard of, but

none had yet seen the Munich nightingale; curiosity had been on the alert

for some time, to witness our combined appearance, and glancing out from

the side scenes I observed the royal box occupied, and the queen leaning

forward with an air of rapt attention.

I personated the friend and companion of Ajesha. Nina accompanies her

into captivity, but is finally redeemed by her friends, and returns

home. The music of the farewell scene between Ajesha and Nina, was very

sweet; when they bid each other adieu, and sing, ‘We have been friends

together in sunlight and in tears;’ and we mutually felt indeed we had

been friends together. The queen enthusiastically applauded, clapping

her hands like a girl; and bouquets were promiscuously showered upon us

from all parts of the house: two wreaths were cast at our feet by the

king and queen. The coincidence struck me, it was on a similar occasion,

the night of my debut in that theatre, that the wreath had been thrown

me; not by royalty, but by one whose gemmed, singular face had strangely

haunted me since, and as we both uplifted our eyes to the royal box, who

should I see gazing on me behind their majesties, but the same face, the

same large liquid eyes that had magnetised mine two months before. My

astonishment was so great, I could scarcely recollect myself enough to

step backward as the heavy drop curtain fell.

Who could that man be accompanying the royal family? and apparently on

familiar terms with them. I could not doubt it was the very same one, the

donor of the diamonded wreath, those beautiful flowers I had preserved

for so many days with so much care, who seemed to regard me with an air

of so much interest.

I had no time for reflection, Monsieur Belmont hurried us to our

dressing-rooms, to dress for the palace scene, when Ajesha and Nina are

first presented to the Emir.

I could not help mentally contrasting the absurd difference between

the acting on the stage, and the motley confusion behind the scenes;

the heaps of stage furniture, costume, old scenery, the scene shifters

running hither and thither, black mutes, soldiers, noblemen, the women of

the harem, in the most charming stage of negligee, nearly approaching to

that of genuine nature, and above all other tones, I heard those of the

worthy manager, who was directing the men how to arrange the grand salon

de reception, into which we were to be carried in close litters.

“Here,” shouted he, “make haste; what are you all about? where’s the dias

for the salon? place it here, spread out the carpet; now, is that done?

arrange yourselves in a row behind the throne, to the guards; light the

lamps; get the instruments of music.”

I entered the little room, where I dressed amid his reiterated

injunctions and commands to the assembled court.

What an empty show, thought I, as I hastily attired myself in the rose

colored satin petticoat, and black velvet boddice, and placed a waving

plume of white feathers in my hair.

The Count Godolpho, an old _roué_ and _habitué_ of the “scenes” for years

back, stopped me with a fine compliment, as I was getting into the veiled

litter by the side of Blanche.

“What! Mademoiselle Sfonza, is it you? fair as a star-lit nymph of

air!” This was a poetical fancy of his own: I never met with the like

expression in print. “Our pet child of song, stay a moment, let me look

at you.”

“I cannot now, Marquis, indeed, see they wait our entry.”

“Where then can I see you, wilful fay? one never gets a sight of you

except at the play: then only for an instant, and you are gone; where do

you live?”

“On earth now, in heaven I hope some day,” I smartly answered,—making

a faint attempt at wit, to rid myself of this worn out old coxcomb, as

I had no wish or intention to receive his visits; and the black mutes

raising the litter, we were borne past him on the stage.

Although conscious it was a mere show, still in the last act, the death

scene of Ajesha and her lover, the touching pathos of Blanche’s acting,

her dreamy, etherial tones, melted me to tears; and I almost cheated

myself into the delusion that it was reality. Her death song, ‘Beloved, I

die,’ seemed indeed like the last breathings of a dying spirit, and oh,

merciful heaven, was it not prophetic of her future fate?

When the curtain fell on the last act, we were loudly called for, and our

teacher, proudly elated at this great triumph, led us before the curtain,

where we made our curtesies, kissed hands to the audience and passed off.

The morning papers were filled with praises of our performance, and the

plot, music, and libretto of the new opera. I laughed myself to sleep

that night when I thought of the discomfiture of the count, and his

absurd manner; then again, unconsciously and mysteriously, my thoughts

reverted to the gentleman I had seen in the royal box—you will think,

perhaps, I did not love my affianced lover, since my attention and

thoughts could be so easily distracted to another, but in truth I did;

I loved him with my whole soul; every wish, every thought was his; this

interest in a stranger, a casual spectator of my performance, was not

love, nor curiosity; it was a prophetic, a magnetic attraction, a feeling

that seemed to tell that in future—but no matter, I will no longer

digress; let me strictly adhere to the tenor of my tale.

Blanche had long before fully compensated monsieur for his care of her

childhood, and presented him beside with a handsome sum of money. Her

industry had accumulated quite a small fortune, within the four years she

had been performing for herself; the receipts of our joint acting each

night were enormous, and Monsieur Belmont had no reason to regret his

patronage of the Viennese beggar girl.

He often said, himself, that we three poor girls had gained him more

money and celebrity than any pupils he ever had. As I said in the

beginning of my memoir, there is always a _motive_ in these apparently

beneficent actions. His motive was to feed, clothe, and educate us

brilliantly for the stage; for this purpose it was much better to select

girls from the lowest walks of life, friendless, uncared-for ones,

unprotected and unprovided for, over whom he could have absolute control.

True, he had saved us from starvation, but then he had realized a fortune

from our exertions, and I was anxious to absolve myself from my debt of

gratitude and obligation, and become mistress of my own actions, which

every sensible rational being desires and ought to be.

My teacher knew nothing of my secret engagement. I had not told him, and

wondered, when told, what he would say and think of it. Of course he

would be astonished at its suddenness, and, in a worldly point of view,

at the condescension of Monsieur de Serval. I did not even know that

he would give his consent, as he had a right to command my services. I

trusted, however, to his uniform kindness to me, to arrange that matter.

I felt sure he would not force me to do any thing I did not wish to do;

that he would allow me to discontinue my theatrical career if I felt so

inclined.

We were visited daily by many of the fashionable men of Naples; we were

escorted to and from the theatre by numerous beaux, and the gay cavaliers

vied with each other in their attentions; yet the compliments, the

civilities paid to actresses, are of a different tone to those rendered

to ladies of private life. There is a tone to all expression, a gradation

to every human feeling; there is an imperceptible something in expression

which we can feel but cannot describe; and it was this something that I

felt, but could not describe, when I regarded the opposite of attentions

to a lady of rank, and compliments to an actress.

I endeavored to console myself for all regrets in philosophy, but

sometimes _feeling_ triumphed over even that, stoical as I thought

myself. Sometimes attributing every thing to fate, sometimes believing in

chance, I surrendered myself to the current of life’s troublous stream,

and blindly glided on.

Among other visiters to the house, there came the beautiful Lord of

Glenfells. I say beautiful, because handsome, manly, fine-looking, are

not terms to express his ideal, his exquisite, shadowy, captivating

loveliness. He often visited Blanche. I never obtruded on their

interviews; and, save the ordinary civilities of etiquette, never had any

acquaintance with him; yet, though I saw him frequently, the impression

of his personal attractions ever seemed new to me. I know not if he were

intelligent or otherwise. I once or twice spoke of him to her, but the

embarrassment and rosy blush told of interested feeling, and perceiving

she did not wish to converse about him, I ever afterwards waived the

subject.

Busy gossiping tongues, however, with which the world is filled, who make

it their business to attend to every body’s but their own, reported him

as a man of immense wealth, travelling for amusement, or pleasure, which

with the rich, and great, and fashionable, means the same thing. This was

all I gathered concerning him; yet from what I saw of him, I considered

him a man of dangerous attractions; artful, without appearing to be

so, possessing a mournful tenderness, an abandon of manner, peculiarly

attractive to a woman like Blanche. Though younger, I was superior in

perception of the realities of life. I was not so dreamy, perhaps not so

pure as she, my embodied concentration of the great, the beautiful, the

good. God bless her! Let me not dilate upon that purity, that goodness. I

feel my praise is inadequate to her merits; my commendations cannot add

to the halo of immortality that surrounds her in the Elysian shades.