Reason almost failed me, when I awoke the next day. I wandered into the
banqueting hall, calling for Rinaldo. The count followed me, entreated me
to recollect myself, to bear misfortunes with calmness, with fortitude;
asked what he could do for me. I answered not: I began to doubt my own
identity. I only remembered distinctly that I was to leave that day, to
go to Baie: every thing else seemed blank, intangible.
I summoned Guilo to my salon, and told him that the castle was sold
by my husband to another, who would come in a few days to claim it. I
offered to pay his expenses to any city he chose to go, or he might stay
in the vicinity of the castle, and endeavor to obtain employment of the
new owner. He thanked me for my kindness to him, and said he preferred
remaining. The other domestics were sent away; my household was broken
up. Pasiphae determined to accompany my precarious fortunes as the
nurse of Raphael, and so all things being definitely arranged, Count
Calabrella, myself, Pasiphae, and my beloved babe, started that afternoon
for Baie. I, almost unconscious, allowed myself to be placed in the
barouche, and without looking back at those proud turrets and massive
walls, within whose confines I had passed two years of alternate joy and
grief, I was borne away. We rode all day. The count, anxious to beguile
me from sad thoughts, conversed charmingly, but though ever agreeable
and fascinating, yet my mind was too pre-occupied to listen, and the
object so kindly intended failed of its purpose; nor did my melancholy
abstraction cease, when, on the second day of our travel, we entered Baie.
Oh, Baie! classic, beautiful, time-honored Baie! when again shall I
revisit thy tranquil, lovely shores? when again shall I gaze upon thy
pellucid waters, or roam over thy gentle, verdant hills, once the home
of happy thousands,—thrilling with life, hope, perhaps happiness,—now
silent, deserted; the seat of ruins, the abode of solitary peasants, who
lead their flocks over the spot where once rose stately Roman villas,
temples, theatres, and all the haunts of what _was_ human vanity and
life;—all which have faded into fragments, into dust, leaving those few
remains to tell that the tide of human life had once passed there.
“Why am I not also gone?” thought I despondingly, as the barouche
rolled over the smooth road, among the ruins. “Why do I still live on,
unfortunate, unhappy? my husband arrested for high treason; myself and
child alone and desolate; our home lost to us forever! What has the
future for me but disappointment, continued isolation and my child, my
Raphael! what is to become of him?”
The stopping of the carriage aroused me from my gloomy reflections. It
paused at a small cottage kept as a place of accommodation for strangers.
Tired, faint, and weary, I found myself in the parlor of this rustic
abode, scarce knowing where I was. The apartments were comfortable and
scrupulously clean, but in contrast to the elegant home I had just left,
they appeared contemptible to me. An image of the virgin stood in one
corner, under it a crucifix: some pictures decorated the plastered walls,
and flowers were trained to creep outside the latticed windows;—a gaily
colored parrot, in a gilded cage, mockingly imitated our words, repeating
them after us in playful tones: the hostess, a peasant vinter’s wife,
came courtesying in to receive us, wearing a Neapolitan dress, which
reminded me forcibly of Naples. The domestics of the castle, wearing
another style, embarrassed and awkward at the sight of one, so far
superior in worldly station. Ah! how far happier, if they did but know
it, are those lowly ones of earth! how quiet; how untinctured by ambition
are their lives! Very little envy is theirs; very little of those fierce
hatreds we see in society! Calm, peaceful, obscure, they walk to their
graves, seldom known; seldom wishing to be known, yet often tasting much
real, substantial happiness.
The count explained that I wished apartments for myself, nurse, and
child, and the woman left the room to prepare them.
“And you, my friend,” I said to him, “you also are going to stay here?”
“Until to-morrow I shall have that honor,” said he, “but after that I
shall not have the pleasure of being near you.”
“Oh!” I cried, “will you also desert me? shall I be utterly alone?”
“Alone! oh, no! not all alone with the companionship of your own sweet
thoughts and your lovely child. Do not grieve; to meet to separate is the
inevitable law of nature. Why should we cavil at that we cannot change?
Existence is, as I have often told you, a play, a farce;—do not let us be
its most miserable actors. Your husband will doubtless be liberated soon.
You will be restored to him;—life will put forth new buds and blossoms
from its giant tree. In his renewed affection you will find new joys; and
I shall pursue my solitary travels, rejoicing at your happiness.”
“But if you were not there, the measure of our joy would be incomplete.
If what you predict comes to pass, will not you partake of our joy?”
“I! what shall I be to you but a strange dream, associated with unhappy
circumstances, disagreeable to your memory? I shall have been but the
witnesser of one of those vicissitudes of fortune, which always fall to
the lot of the talented and beautiful. No! I had better be forgotten. To
be forgotten! how mortifying is the reflection. Yet, has it not always
been the law of destiny?”
“Do not philosophize now; let us be matter of fact. I thought, when my
husband was so cruelly taken away, that you, who have always been so
kind, would be spared me—at least for some time—till I should recover a
little from this violent shock; but I am disappointed in this, as in all
other things.”
“Lady,” said he, bending a piercing glance upon me from his expressive
eyes, “the request you make would be as dangerous to myself (if granted),
as it would be useless to you. The charms of your person, your judgment
and talent, I appreciate to their fullest extent, and nothing could give
me more delight than to revel in the sunshine of such presence; but that
enjoyment would be as injurious to you as perfidious in me to my friend.”
The sad tones of his voice and significant manner of expression, did
not allow me to misunderstand him. In my careless innocence I never
recollected the cruel interpretation malice would put upon such
companionship.
“My departure,” he continued, “will be all the more advantageous to
you, since to-morrow I will proceed immediately to Naples, and perhaps,
through intercession with his Majesty, be the means of liberating your
husband. I shall, of course, see him immediately, wherever he is, and
write you a description of affairs.”
He became silent, and mechanically stroked my infant’s rosy, downy
cheeks. The vinter’s wife came tripping into the room, saying she would
attend me to the apartments. Pasiphae, sad and quiet, preceded me,
carrying Raphael; the count remained absorbed in thought. The rustic
stairs were climbed, and with many low courtesies I was ushered into a
large chamber, in which I noticed nothing but an immense fauteuil, into
which I sank mechanically, completely overpowered. After making numerous
demonstrations of respect and duty, the hostess withdrew.
In the meantime, Raphael, who had slept nearly all the way from the
Chateau of the Ravine, awoke from the slumber in which he had been wrapt
all day, and looked inquiringly for me. I took him in my arms and kissed
him. The little one laid his tiny hands on my face and raised his large
eyes wistfully to mine. He was too young to miss his father, or know that
father’s fate,—that unhappy, wayward man who now inhabited, perhaps, a
prison’s gloom: and as I childishly toyed with the ribbons of his dress
and watched the light and play of his features, I wished—oh! what does
not a mother wish?
I did not go down stairs again that afternoon and evening; but I
distinctly heard the footsteps of the count as he continued to pace the
floor of the lower room till a late hour. My own heart was the prey of
contending emotions—of conflicting thoughts. Raphael fell asleep on my
breast—his tiny hand clasped in mine—with an expression of conscious
happiness on his smiling countenance. I fixed my gaze upon a crucifix
which hung in a corner, and invoked to my support that invisible
influence whom we worship in an earthly form. I conjured up before me
visions of persecuted martyrs, dying saints, nuns devoted alone to the
service of God; but, in spite of myself, other thoughts came stealing
over me, and the recollections of the happy days of love and sunshine I
had passed during the first part of my married life, were mingled with
regrets at my husband’s misfortunes.
A glorious morning sun beaming through the lattice, awoke me at an
early hour; a beautiful landscape met my eyes on going to the window;
it commanded a view of the sea coast, which was not far distant; and I
beheld with delight the blue rolling waves of the ocean, crested with
foam, and swelling proudly as they rolled onward, and came and beat
against the rocks on the shore, with a hoarse echoing sound; the high
cliffs at the water’s edge, matted into quiet unassuming hills as they
disappeared in the distance. The light fishing skiffs of the fishermen,
chained to the shore, danced on the bosom of the blue waters, and the
joyous song of the men as they drew in their nets, was wafted to my ears
by the clear morning breeze. The shepherds and their flocks browsing on
the hill tops, diminished by distance to the size of mice, were dimly
visible. On that classic, quiet shore, silence and repose kept vigils
gentle and imposing as such presence should be.
When I descended I found the count below in the parlor; he said his sleep
had been disturbed by dismal dreams, and his sad face bore testimony to
his words. After breakfast, at which little was said, he proposed a walk
on the beach; mechanically I consented, put on my bonnet and shawl, and
we went forth together.
We pursued a path through a small forest of palm, linden, and fir trees;
their thick shade formed an impenetrable bower, relieved at their base
by wild flowers of every description; the meandering course of numerous
rivulets ran through the wood.
We continued on, the count occasionally making some remark about the
beauty of the scenery, to which I responded by monosyllables; my mind
was too intensely absorbed to talk. The forest was passed: the sun broke
brightly from a cloud, and the beach and the murmuring waves lay before
us; a small schooner, contending against the tide, was drifting slowly
along.
“That bark, struggling for anchorage, is like your life, dear lady;
now it rises, now falls amid the waters; the sails gathered in, the
pilot endeavoring to gain a position of safety; presently she will rest
quietly, securely anchored on the bosom of the bay; so will it be, I
predicate, of thee.”
“God grant it may,” I murmured.
As he said, after many tacks and manœuvres, the little bark succeeded in
gaining safe anchorage, where riding tranquilly it rested. The birds of
the ocean surrounded it, flapping their wings, and making the air resound
with their mournful cries.
A road wound along the shore, bordered by a footpath: on this we wandered
at random, stooping sometimes to pick the flowers strewing the way. The
count philosophized on nature in his sweet voice, and nature smiled upon
us wearing her fairest dress; at last, after we had gone some distance,
he looked at his watch.
“The hour has come, dear lady, I must go: the carriage will be at the
house to bear me away, and your forebodings will be relieved when I shall
arrive at Naples and write you.”
Seeing that he was really bent on going, we retraced our steps to the
house; the barouche which brought us was already there; he did not enter
the dwelling, but pressing my hand with earnest fervor, stepped into it
and drove away.
* * * * *
A week of quiet daily routine, and intense mental anxiety, succeeded the
count’s departure; the days sped slowly in monotonous regularity; the
nights were lonely, and would have been terrible had it not been for my
child and faithful servant.
The evening of the sixth day after he went to Naples, I was sitting at
the window of my room abstractedly gazing on vacancy, when I saw a man
rapidly approaching on horseback, urging his spurs into the animal’s
sides, and moving his arms in such a ridiculous manner, that, had my
mind been at ease, I should have laughed at his absurd gestures; but in
my grief they were unnoticed; suddenly reining in his horse at the door,
he handed a letter to the peasant, who was taking his siesta before the
door, and rode away as rapidly as he had come; the man brought it to me,
and I eagerly, yet tremblingly, opened it and devoured the contents; it
was from my husband, superscribed in the count’s handwriting, and as
follows:
“_Barberinni Prison, June 11th._
“DEAREST GENEVRA:—
“Count Calabrella will find means to send you this. Were it not
for him you would hear nothing of my condition, as I am under
such close surveillance that nothing concerning me escapes
suspicion. The principal agent in this sad affair exposed all
by his blunders, and this has brought me, perhaps, to a felon’s
death. It is not known when my trial will take place,—I hope
soon, as I have secured powerful mediation in my behalf. These
prisons are dark and cold—frightful from their solitude. I
sit in one corner of my cell and write this by the light of a
lantern, while the count waits to take it away. I wish I could
see my boy again; but the strange inexorable fate which has
pursued me from my earliest years will probably continue its
malice to the close of my life. Farewell,—farewell,—take care
of yourself,—remain at Baie till the result of this is known.
You shall hear from me soon again.
“Yours till death,
SERVAL.”
This strange epistle, written on a piece of paper evidently torn from
some book, and almost illegible from blots and blurs, was too general
and incoherent to satisfy me. Perhaps, for fear of being surprised by
the jailor or some of the officials, he was unable to write more; yet he
told me of nothing that had transpired. Perhaps it would have harrowed my
heart too much had he told me all,—he wished to spare me the sorrow.
Then came a note, within the other, from Count Calabrella.
“MOST RESPECTED LADY:—
“Immediately upon my arrival I asked permission to be admitted
to see your husband, but was refused the favor, and only
obtained it yesterday through the intercession of a cardinal of
the church, a friend of mine. I then hastened to see Monsieur
de Serval. I found him sad, but not as desponding as I had
expected. Of course you can imagine what was said of you,—and
I should be rude to repeat to you what you will have already
anticipated. We then conversed upon this ill-fated affair.
I told him that Alcantara was arrested, of which fact he
was ignorant,—the minor confederates had fled. We conferred
as to what was best to be done; and I decided on soliciting
the intercession of the foreign ministers, and some of the
cardinals, together with as many others as I could secure.
“When I left him I hastened to the house of the French
minister. I was admitted to an audience. He received me most
politely,—listened attentively to my explanation of the facts
of the case, (which it is needless to trouble you with,)—I
entreated him to interest himself for his countryman. He did
not definitely say he would, but deferred the question for
reconsideration. I think, however, I shall be able to persuade
him into doing something. I have secured the interests of
several cardinals, and intend to do much more before the trial
comes on. Believe me, every thing that is within the range
of human possibility shall be done. I do not despair: and I
entreat you, also, to be consoled,—to hope.
“Yours in faith,
CALABRELLA.”
This letter partially revived my drooping spirits, for it breathed
hope and elasticity of mind. My husband’s was gloomy, but that was
attributable to his unhappy situation. I had expected an explanation,—I
received only general assurances of brighter times, which to me seemed
far distant,—dubious,—if not impossible.
I resigned myself to the course of circumstances, and patiently abided my
time. Beautiful sunny days, and moonlight nights, fell upon Baie at that
time,—the warm, bright glow of the sun, and the calm sweet light of the
moon was soothing as its rays. I often walked, beneath its light, up and
down the road on which the house faced.
One evening I started before sunset and walked in the direction of some
curious ruins, situated on a cliff on the shores; the road diverged in
a fork leading down to the beach. I preferred this walk and followed
it; when I had walked some distance I reached the beach, the waters now
quietly swelling and falling beneath the brilliant rays of the sun;
the road was thickly strewn with shells, some of which I picked up and
examined; then, my mind naturally running back to philosophy, I compared
human life, human joys, human expectations, to those shells at my
feet, and those ruins on the cliff before me. As the light played upon
the broken archway, the desolate court-yard, the ruined chambers, the
falling turrets, I felt my old feelings of gloom and morbid thought come
wandering back.
I ascended the hill by a beaten pathway, and wandered in and around the
little temple; myself and my thoughts were the only inhabitants of the
place. I gathered a bouquet of flowers and was preparing to return, the
moon having now arisen: when, glancing up at the sky, I saw that which
had been a few moments before so serene, dark and lowering; the horizon
obscured by immense black clouds, which were rapidly spreading over the
sky; heavy gusts were borne bellowing along, and the glaring foam of the
waves was visible faraway.
It was impossible to take the beach road under such circumstances, the
tide having arisen, I was in danger of drowning; it was impossible to
go through the woods the other side of the ruins, I was in danger of
being lost in their density. I knew not what to do: meanwhile the sky
continued to darken; the moon was completely overcast; the wind continued
to howl around me; the only thing to do was to remain in the temple, and
claim the precarious benefit of its shelter. I could scarcely see to
re-enter the ruins, and seated myself on a broken column in their midst;
everything was buried in stones and darkness; the gloom was so intense I
felt it.
The storm increased rapidly; the waves lashed to fury, broke against
the rocks with a roaring noise; the waves in the distance shone with
phosphoric light; the clouds swept hither and thither over the face
of the sky; now in tremendous masses, now scattered, white, dim and
ghostlike; such a scene as this, was calculated to inspire any one with
horror, and the blood ran cold in my veins, as I sat and listened.
Thus it raged for I know not how long: I could not reckon time in such
a place. I thought it must be two hours. Then another sound was mingled
with the gale: a strange crashing, a wild unearthly yell rang out on
the storm; then all was absorbed in the rushing gale. Presently another
interval of calm succeeded to the hellish sounds, when the waves and
winds apparently paused to take breath, and gather their strength for
another onset. The uproar of echoes, reverberating around me, was
frightful; I almost thought demons from a lower world were playing their
fantastic tricks within the old ruins. The weather during the day had
been delightful, but the storm had rendered the air severe; and, as I sat
shivering on the column, my hair standing on end, and teeth chattering
with fear, the moon momentarily broke through the clouds, and disclosed
the lurid landscape, strange and unearthly looking by the mysterious
light. I could not express on paper the agony I suffered, till by the
faint streaks of morning light in the east, I perceived day would soon
dawn. The roar of the gale gradually subsided, the clouds became less
strongly dark, the ocean’s waves less tumultuous; and an hour afterward,
when I could fully perceive objects, I saw the light of day; and it shone
upon a strange scene! When assured that the danger was over, I summoned
strength to rise; my trembling limbs almost refused to support me. I
wished to return to the house, anxious about my child. Walking down the
hill towards the beach, my attention was attracted by pieces of spars,
rigging, and a small boat stranded by the waves; this explained to me
the horrid sound I had heard during the storm. A ship had been wrecked
off the coast, which in that part abounded in breakers; numerous other
objects now caught my astonished eyes: a little farther on a number of
bales and some personal property lay scattered about; an object clothed
in white, was stretched across my way; going towards it I knelt down and
sought to distinguish what it was; it was a corpse, a female form; the
drapery concealed the face. I raised the robe from the countenance, and
beheld! yes,—no,—yes—it _was_ Blanche!
Blanche! Great heaven! what could it mean? Yes, it was her! There she
was dead: the same calm, sweet features; the same graceful form, dressed
in white; the fair arms crossed on the breast. From the position in
which I found her, she seemed not to have made the slightest effort to
save herself: the angels of heaven seemed to have fanned her with their
wings,—so innocently calm, so pure looked she. But how came she on board
this unhappy bark? Where was she going to? I had supposed that when she
fled from Naples, it was to some foreign land, not to remain in Italy.
And where was her lover? I resolved to leave the body, and go to some
fishermen’s huts on the cliff behind the ruin, and seek assistance, to
have the body conveyed to town. As I prepared to do so, several other
bodies presented themselves to my gaze, and in the corpse of a man,
lying with his face exposed, I recognized Lord Glenfell. He was dressed
in royal blue cloth, such as he had always worn (preserving his English
customs) at Naples. One hand was buried in his bosom, the other hung
stiff and cold by his side; and even in death he retained his perfect
beauty. This unexpected, incomprehensible event, coming so suddenly upon
me, after my own sorrows, and the fright from the storm, overpowered me,
and sitting down on a fragment of stone, I wept over the bodies. Along
the beach for a quarter of a mile the wreck was strewed in confusion:
masts, cargo, rigging, luggage, all lay in different positions. The
principal part of the passengers and crew probably had perished. One or
two bodies came floating along as I franticly rushed up the hill again,
in the direction of the fisher’s huts. They were not there when I reached
them:—gone, an old woman told me, to plunder the wreck. She and a young
girl were the only occupants of the tent, and I earnestly entreated
them to return with me to the shore, and carry the body of Blanche to
their house, to remain there till I could obtain assistance from Baie.
They consented to accompany me, and we returned together, they talking
incessantly about the storm and the wreck, wondering what the name of
the vessel was, and whence it came. The bodies were undisturbed when I
reached them. The woman, apparently used to such scenes, carelessly took
up the inanimate form of my beloved friend, and strode away to the house
again, while the girl remained to watch that of Lord Glenfell’s.
Meanwhile the sun had fully risen, and threw his golden rays on the
scene. The waves had subsided somewhat: they were growing calmer. The sky
was bright and glowing: the hues of morning lit up the shores.
The wreckers were busy at their plunder, wretchedly dressed; some of them
in tatters, running here and there: even the dead bodies they spared not.
The girl sat down on the sand near the gurgling waves, and I, standing on
my feet, regarded the fair young Englishman. His eyes, which in life had
been a soft brilliant blue, were wide open, and their unnatural glare
startled me. The deadly pallor of his features, and the languid air his
form and face bore, too surely showed that life was not there. Presently
the old woman returned, and with the aid of her husband, an athletic
peasant, they raised the corpse, and I and the girl following, went back
whence we came.
They laid the two beautiful, yet guilty lovers, side by side on a rustic
bed, poor and lowly as the lot of them to whom it belonged. Then the
woman began to wash away the sand which thickly obscured their faces,
and gathered on their clothes, all the while uttering sad cries that two
so beautiful should die. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to the
peasant, and asked him if he could proceed immediately to my house at
Baie, and procure biers to take the bodies thither, and tell my maid and
some of the peasants there to come also? He replied with alacrity that he
would, and departed.
When the sand and red clay of the shore was entirely cleared from their
persons, I regarded the corpses more attentively. Two years had not
changed my Blanche; she was as beautiful as in those times past, when we
sang together at Naples. I remembered the night of her departure, and
her nocturnal farewell—so sad, so strange. Where had she gone then, and
whither was she going now in this ship? Perhaps again to Parthenope, when
the scissors of the fatal sisters, cut short the thread of her days. Oh!
unhappy fate,—sad destiny.
Lord Glenfells then continued faithful to his vows of faith and love. Oh!
marvellous instance of attachment in a man, that his love should last two
years. Perhaps, if there were more women like her, their love would last
longer. Together they had died, and now it was my sad task to see them
buried amid the wild, romantic scenery of Baie.
I was alone with the bodies for more than an hour, ere the peasant came
back with my poor, astonished Pasiphae, accompanied by several men,
bearing hand biers. News of the shipwreck had reached the town, and great
fear had been entertained lest some evil had befallen me, as hour after
hour passed away, and I came not, and the terrible storm arose. Great
was their amazement when they beheld me watching two corpses, and when
they saw the agony imprinted on my face. The sympathizing Pasiphae threw
herself at my feet, and weepingly buried her face in the folds of my robe.
“This is a most inexplicable affair, my poor Pasiphae,” said I. “I will
tell you some other time. I could not return to you last evening. I spent
the night in the ruins of the temple to avoid the storm. I wish to get
home quickly.”
“The sweet child wept much last night, my lady, but I hushed him to sleep
at last,” said my faithful servant.
I turned to the men, who had placed upon the bier Lord Glenfells and his
beautiful Blanche, and after paying the women for their attention, the
mournful cortege set out.
We took the road along the beach to the fork, whence it diverged to the
house; then following that, we soon arrived at home. The women came
rushing to the door to see so strange a sight, and scarce believed their
eyes when they beheld what I brought. They were carried up stairs into an
empty room, next to mine, placed on a bed, covered with a white coverlid;
and I left the room, locking the door and taking the key with me. I
returned to my child.
* * * * *
I buried them at Baie. They have a lonely grave on that rock-bound coast,
at the top of the cliff on which the ruined temple of fortune stands. The
ocean’s waves wash the base of the rocks, and the flowers and trees are
gathered thickly around it. No splendid monument marks the last repose of
one of England’s brightest, handsomest sons;—no inscription tells of the
fair, ill-fated songstress. Her death, like her life, was isolated. But
her memory at least is still fondly cherished by one who knew and loved
her well.
When last I visited their graves, I found them overgrown with
flowers,—odorous and beautiful as had been the character of Blanche.
There the rose, the acacia, japonica, myrtle, and cypress, form unfading
bowers, unfailing mourners, over their graves. When the sea is calm,
the quiet murmur of its waves seems to utter unknown regrets. In storms
their swelling tumult sounds like a requiem. Vain would it be for me
to describe the many sad hours I passed there, silently offering as an
ovation the grief of a sincere heart. During my stay at Baie, not a day
elapsed but found me a visiter there. There the sadness of the scene
taught me to moderate my own regrets,—taught me to uplift my heart to
God,—taught me to be humble, thankful, and resigned.
A month passed without my hearing anything farther from my husband or
Count Calabrella. I was terribly anxious: I dreaded lest something of a
frightful character had happened, and that they feared to tell me it. I
sometimes walked half the night up and down my room, conjuring my brains
to imagine the reasons of this mysterious silence; but I could bring my
mind to no clear explanation. I could resolve on nothing; everything
was dark to me. At length the dreaded, yet wished for explanation came.
Another courier came with another letter, which I have still preserved.
I submit it to you:—
“I have made my escape. I have left Naples and Italy for ever.
Had I awaited my trial, I know I should have been utterly
lost. I jeoparded my life in getting out of prison; but am
safe now. I release you from all faith, all allegiance to me;
forget me: heaven never intended us for each other. Return to
the gay world: may you be happy. Kiss my child for me. I had
a presentiment, when I stood over his cradle, that I should
never see him more: his baby-features are imprinted on my soul;
they will only be obliterated when I shall cease to breathe.
Remember me in those prayers you so fervently offer to your
God, and may that God watch over you.
“I go to seek a new fortune in some foreign land; as yet I know
not where: everything in the future is dark and uncertain.
Farewell! Farewell!
SERVAL.”
When I had read this strange epistle, and fully comprehended it, I
remained petrified with amazement: the tone of it was so reckless,
wild—almost incoherent—I scarcely believed it to be my husband’s. He gave
me up; he told me to forget him; to return to the world I had quitted for
him. He seemed to write without feeling any regret, any sadness at this
eternal separation. His child alone elicited a sentiment of humanity; and
this was all the reward I received for the forbearance I had manifested
toward him,—the devotion I had practiced for more than two years to that
unhappy man. I was thrown off—cast away!
After reflection, I resolved to go to Naples to learn something definite.
Our travelling arrangements were soon made, and the following afternoon
we left Baie.
The classic ruins, the ocean, the beautiful shore, and the graves of
Blanche and Lord Glenfells, were soon lost to my longing eyes, in the
windings of the road. The town, the mountains, sea, rivulets, ruins and
all, were enveloped in the blue mists of heaven.
The next day I again beheld the fair city of Naples rising on the hill,
with her lofty towers, gardens, churches, castles and splendid private
dwellings, rearing their superb height one above the other; and again I
drove through the beautiful street Toledo. I hastened to the house of
Madame Bonni; but two years had created changes in Naples. The good woman
was gone, and another dwelt in her house. I secured apartments, however,
in one of the most retired hotels, and then sent for the Court Guide, to
ascertain the residence of Count Calabrella, whom I regarded as my only
friend in this great trouble; it was brought, and after ascertaining his
address, I sent mine to him.
He came immediately. When he entered my parlour I rushed toward him, and
showing him the letter I held in my hand, exclaimed:
“Is this true? Oh! tell me, dear count, is it true?”
“Be calm, dear lady, I entreat you; be composed; this is an unexpected
meeting. I had intended coming to you at Baie to-morrow to tell you the
strange news.”
“But tell me, I entreat you, is it true? has my husband really escaped
from prison? has he left me in this way?”
“He has escaped, and gone I know not where. Three days ago I visited him
to tell him some favorable news regarding himself; he seemed cheerful;
spoke much of you, and confidently of the result of the trial. Yesterday
it was noised abroad that he had fled from Naples; doubting whether it
was not mere rumor, I inquired, and found it true: it astonished me much.
Knowing your husband’s determined character, I had been actively engaged
in obtaining all the influence I could in his favor. I doubt not, myself,
had he awaited his trial, it would have terminated favorably.”
“Gone! gone!” I cried—thinking only of the desertion—“for ever gone! and
what is to become of me and the child?”
“Don’t give way to grief, madame; be comforted; you will find numerous
friends: those who have known and loved you before your marriage.”
“Oh, count! I feel as if this were the acme of my misfortunes!”
“I know life has had many changes for you; but sorrow will not last for
ever; and destiny sometimes presents a pleasant face.”
Thus for an hour he endeavored to divert my mind from dwelling with
too much intensity on this inexplicable affair; but in vain did I try
to talk or think of something else; and he, perceiving the abstraction
of my thoughts, probably thought that quiet and repose would be the
best consolers at that moment: and, after repeated adjurations to be
calm, to hope, he went away. I appreciated the delicacy of his behavior
in not reverting to any thing that could pain me: he had impressed me
agreeably at first, and acquaintance had not dissipated that impression.
I was determined, however, to learn more concerning my husband; and
that day calling a calesso, bade him drive to the Barberinni prison. It
was situated in an obscure quarter of the city, down near the harbor,
surrounded by dark and dirty looking buildings on all sides, and itself
presenting an appearance of dark, impenetrable gloom. I alighted and
entered the keeper’s room, where he sat, amid old papers of all
descriptions, reading from a great book, which looked to me like a
ledger. Great bunches of keys adorned the smoked walls, dirty and old as
their proprietor; and an old writing-desk stood in one corner, with a
high stool before it.
He rose civilly as I entered, and asked in what he could please me. I
told him that I had come to ask the particulars of my husband’s escape;
and then informed him that I was the wife of Monsieur de Serval. He
seemed surprised at that; and, on my requesting to be shown my husband’s
cell, immediately acquiesced, locking the door of his stronghold previous
to accompanying me.
We threaded several long stone galleries, off which, on either side,
opened the doors of the cells. Then we descended a long flight of stairs;
then came another gallery; then he paused, and unlocked an iron door, and
ushered me into the dreary cell, lighted by one window, in which Rinaldo
had written me the letter I received at Baie. One of the iron bars of
the window was gone; the keeper pointed to it, and said: “Through that
aperture your husband made his escape two nights ago. I know not how he
obtained possession of the file with which he sawed apart the bar; but he
did so, and swam probably to the opposite shore: at any rate, nothing has
been learned of him, though government has sent spies every where to look
for him.” I looked down at the stone pavement at my feet—and up at the
dim light above my head—and soliloquized, that a month in a dungeon like
that must be equivalent to ten years in the world.
“Did no one come to see my husband during his imprisonment?” I asked,
wishing to learn if any one besides Count Calabrella had visited him.
“A tall, dark gentleman came often, and once another man came, but he
wore a cloak, and I could not see his face; as he presented a permit, I
admitted him.”
“That must have been the man who was accessary to his departure,” thought
I: and having nothing farther to say to the keeper, I left the cell and
returned to the carriage, and was driven home to the hotel.
All the inquiries I made were baffled; all my suppositions were useless;
nothing further concerning my husband’s dubious fate was learned. I
found myself once more thrown out on the world, obliged to resort to my
musical talents for a support. The old manager of the San Carlo, hearing
I wished to return to the stage, called on me, and I entered into an
engagement with him to perform in one of my old operas. I cannot describe
the heartaches I experienced at being obliged to resume the laborious and
distasteful profession I had so gladly resigned: but something must be
done;—I could not remain idle;—I knew of no other means by which I could
maintain myself as well as by singing, and therefore decided on that.
The night of my reappearance, a crowded house awaited me: and the
Austrian nightingale, in her misfortunes, was more admired than had been
the gay Genevra; yet could those brilliant crowds have looked into my
heart, and have seen the bitter sadness imprinted there, even my rivals
would have pitied me; but the world only beheld the celebrated beauty,
the great singer, and my rivals could see nothing; their envy blinded
them. My only joy was to return from those crowded houses; to run away
from the plaudits of the multitude, the dubious admiration of the men,
the patronizing envy of the women, and bury myself in the solitude of
my own room; devote myself to my smiling, happy boy. It was generally
understood that I denied myself to all visitors, consequently I was
not annoyed by any of those disagreeable attentions so often extended
to actresses. I even wished to deny myself to the count, dreading
the consequences of such companionship; but gratitude forbade such
incivility, and he came.
One evening Raphael had fallen asleep on a sofa, after creeping about
on the floor till sleep overcame him. His pretty mouth, like a blooming
rose-bud, was half open, showing two new teeth, and his long white robe
swept along the sofa as he lay;—as I sat near him, listening to his
gentle breathing, I heard a light step on the carpet, and turning, saw
the count. He sat down on the sofa, at the feet of Raphael, and looking
at him, said:
“How sweetly he slumbers; how innocent is the sleep of a child.”
“Yes, their unsuspicious innocence is a charming attribute which they
soon lose.”
I never could raise my eyes when the count was present without
encountering his fixed gaze, and I met it now as I looked up from my
child. He turned his away as I did so, and turned his hat from one hand
to the other with a confused air.
“Can nothing be thought of? can nothing be done, to find out something
more about Monsieur de Serval?” I suddenly inquired, reminded more
strongly by the presence of the count of my unhappy lord.
“Everything that the ingenuity of the government could devise, or I,
or others, suggest to find him out, has been done, but in vain. He has
baffled pursuit. Perhaps some day in future will find you reunited to
him on some fair isle, of which you and your child will form the Venus
and Cupid, your husband the Mars: then, in those days of sunshine, all
recollections of unhappy hours will be forgotten: that will be another
sphere of existence.”
“It is very kind of you to re-assure me, but I am convinced that will
never be.”
“It is possible, and whatever is possible is probable; as for me,” he
continued, “I wonder what fate has in store for me; a life of loneliness
I suppose, as it always has been, travelling, wandering alone.”
“Oh, say not so,” I cried, and anxious to soothe, I laid my hand on his;
“not if you were near me, should you be lonely; friend to me and my
husband, I would always cheer you.”
“You,” he exclaimed, catching my hand; “oh, heaven itself would seem
to dawn upon me, could I always be near you as I am now.” Then, as if
amazed at the fervor with which he had spoken, he dropped my hand, and
confusedly looked down. An agitated silence followed: this singular
avowal had been so abrupt, it startled me into a tumult of thoughts I had
not dreamed of for a long time past: my cheeks blushed carnation hues as
I looked away; my confusion, however, did not last long, for the count,
as if struggling against some feeling he wished to hide, rose abruptly,
and ejaculated, as if with an effort,
“I have alarmed you; I have acted foolishly; but God knows it was
involuntary; I did not intend to wound your feelings; forgive me, dear
Lady Genevra, forgive me; good night.” He extended his small, thin hand
for mine; with my head averted, I placed mine within his. He shook it
gently, and when I looked up he was gone. Oh, how fervently I wished I
had a right ever to retain that hand, ever to lean on that arm, and gaze
into those star-lit eyes; to feel that some one human being on earth
cared for me, was true to me, would not desert me or disdain my love.
Oh, how I wished for that faithful heart. And then to think I had found
it, but under such circumstances that it was guilt itself to think of
it! Had I not better determine never to see him again, to deny myself
the siren-like attraction which was drawing me I know not where? Ought
I not to think of my husband, to mourn his loss, regret his destiny?
Yet he had himself bade me forget him, abandon all allegiance to him,
be happy without him. What was to become of me? whither should I turn
for consolation? Monsieur Belmont had gone to Paris, to direct the opera
there; Madame Bonni had left the city; sweet Blanche was dead, and Inez
far away. Oppressed with these thoughts, I sank into a reverie, when my
child stirred, and turning, I took him in my arms.