THE
LIBERTINE,
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
G. SIDNEY, Printer,
Northumberland Street, Strand.
THE
LIBERTINE,
BY
CHARLOTTE DACRE,
BETTER KNOWN AS
ROSA MATILDA,
AUTHOR OF
_Hours of Solitude_, _Nun of St. Omer’s_, _Zofloya_, _&c._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
_THIRD EDITION._
She came; she found her hero:--silent she roll’d her sad
eyes; she was pale as a watry cloud that rises from the lake
to the beam of the moon. Few were her days on Cona.--
-- -- -- -- Her soul was fixed on Oscar; the son of
Caruth was the youth of her love. She forgot the blood of
her father, and loved the hand that slew him!
OSSIAN.
_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
1807.
THE
LIBERTINE.
CHAPTER XI.
Gabrielle saw, and lamented, the degradation of Angelo: “Alas,” thought
she, “me, who loved him, he voluntarily abandoned;--and her, who would
destroy him, he cannot resign.” He still persisted in visiting Oriana,
and since he would so persist, Gabrielle would still accompany him.
Though she disdained the infatuation by which he was swayed, she
determined to be his guardian angel, and save him from further mischief
that might be meditating against him, for the sake of his child,--for
his own sake,--and for the love she had once borne him, perhaps bore him
still.
How much did she now secretly rejoice, that she had not, in the first
instance, precipitately divulged to him the discoveries she had made;
the weak Angelo might have disregarded, or, entangled as he was, have
discredited her assertions; even if, for a moment, he had listened, the
artifices of Oriana would have soon driven from his mind all doubts
against herself; and how did Oriana attain this ascendancy? She was
neither surprisingly beautiful, accomplished, nor sensible. The modest
Gabrielle, when, with all the humility of self-appreciation, she
compared their respective merits, could not but behold herself the
superior, weighed down, and degraded, as she felt, by guilt and shame.
“He must, then, love Oriana,” thought she, “for her contempt of feeling,
principle, and virtue; he must love her for that boldness of character
which perseveres, unshrinkingly, in the path of vice, and which induces
her, as he conceives, to sacrifice for him all self-estimation and
respect. If _such_ is the way to the heart of Angelo, I, alas, shall
never regain it; but, no, no, he cannot be for ever dead to all that is
noble, to the superiority of virtue; he is only dazzled for a time, by
the meteor glare of passion.--Let me, then, still watch over him;--let
me save him from threatening danger, and see if his heart be
inaccessible, even of gratitude.”
The defeat of the plot arranged between Fiorenza and the Genoese, so far
from inducing them to resign all thoughts of mischief against Angelo,
served only to sharpen against him the malice and ferocity of the
former. Though, in the first instance, he had desired his death, only
from an idea of the benefit that would accrue in consequence to himself,
he, now that he had escaped, thirsted for his blood; for no one whom his
death-dealing eye had marked, had ever escaped the bravo Fiorenza.
“He shall die a thousand times for this,” he emphatically observed to
Oriana; and to that unprincipled, and subjugated woman, he, with bitter
invectives, attributed the failure of their attempt. She, however,
neither daring, nor having sufficient virtue, to desire to rebel against
the will of the tyrant who ruled her, fervently promised to be more
collected at a future period, and to lend her every power to the
achievement of his purpose; nay, to strike, if he required it, with her
own hand, the fatal blow.
“No, no, I shall take surer aim than by the hand of a _woman_,” he
scornfully observed; “my plan I shall impart to you when I deem it
necessary.”
Oriana began to hate her despotic lover; but she feared him likewise;
and, though she would gladly have fled from him, she well knew he would
have traced her, even into the depths of the earth, if there she could
have hidden, and that life would have been the forfeit of her bold
desertion. Meantime, her hatred of him, and indifference towards Angelo,
increasing daily, left room in her heart for the indulgence of a warmer
sentiment, or rather sensation, which she cherished, at once, for its
novelty, and for the pleasure she derived from it;--this sensation was
love, as far as it might be thus denominated in her breast, for the
youthful Eugene. She pressed his visits with an unceasing anxiety, and,
for his sake, sometimes those of Angelo; her conduct towards him, when
alone, was sufficiently unequivocal, and she no longer hesitated to
express to him, in the most animated terms, the tenderness with which he
had inspired her.
Had it not been for the fixed resolution of Gabrielle to remain always
near Angelo, she would, at the earliest discovery of the sentiments of
Oriana, have kept at a perpetual distance from her house. But stronger
interests than those of self, armed her with patience, to bear the pain
and embarrassment which her behaviour frequently gave her.
Though Angelo continued still his visits to Oriana, they were less
frequent than formerly; nor, except when animated by the juice of the
Tuscan grape, was he so tender--so impassioned--or, so lavish of his
admiration;--not even when the absence of other society rendered reserve
unnecessary. This change of demeanor was no secret to Fiorenza; and it
only impelled him to hasten his measures, lest, verging from coolness to
disgust, and from disgust to hatred of his lovely mistress, he should
ultimately forsake her altogether, and thus rob him of his intended
prey.
In truth, Angelo, however he might wish it, could not drive from his
mind the remembrance of that eventful night, when the fair Oriana had
appeared to so much disadvantage; it perpetually recurred to him, even
in moments when he was most inclined to forget it; and, when she
bestowed upon him smiles full of innocence and love, he remembered, with
an unpleasant feeling, that just so she had smiled and looked, on that
very night. In short, so frank was the nature of Angelo, that the least
ground for suspicion made him wretched; he could not endure to harbour
it, yet could not either divest himself of it; he longed to say to his
mistress, “Oriana, explain to me the scene that passed that night.”
Yet, although dissatisfied, tormented occasionally by doubts or vague
suspicion, he kept his thoughts secret from Eugene, for he dreaded least
his penetration should at once convince him of their just foundation,
and of his folly in continuing to be deceived.
It happened one morning, that Gabrielle, having been sent by the
restless Angelo on some frivolous occasion to the house of his mistress,
hearing that Oriana was in her dressing room, proceeded thither, and,
opening the door somewhat abruptly, found her in tears, with a
countenance of rage; notwithstanding which, Fiorenza, seated beside
her, was looking on with mingled indignation and contempt. As Eugene
made his appearance, Oriana started, and retired to a window; but
Fiorenza, rising without apparent embarrassment, observed to Eugene,
“Eugene, I leave you with my sister; she has been somewhat refractory to
my will, but perhaps your good sense may succeed in teaching her, that
it is her duty to obey the will of her brother.” As he uttered these
words, Oriana turned round, and cast a glance on him without speaking;
he preserved his countenance unchanged, and quitted the room.
No sooner was the door closed, than Oriana beckoned Eugene towards her,
who immediately approached;--Oriana laid her finger on her lip, and
motioned that he should ascertain, by examination, that Fiorenza was not
within hearing. Eugene, opening the door, and looking out, convinced
her that no one was nigh, feeling a degree of impatience to know what
she could have to communicate. Oriana, then taking his hand, said,
“Eugene, to what do you conceive the basest of all wretches, the bravo
Fiorenza,--yes Eugene, you may look at me with surprise, the _bravo
Fiorenza_, has desired you to enjoin my acquiescence in?”
“I cannot imagine, indeed,” replied Gabrielle.
“Then hear me;--to the murder of your dearest friend, the count Angelo
D’Albini.”
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Gabrielle, with horror, “what injury has the
count Angelo D’Albini ever committed against Fiorenza de Vinci?”
“He _hates him_, and that alone would be sufficient; but there are other
causes which induce him to desire his death;--and--Eugene, dare I trust
you?”--
“I think you may,” returned Gabrielle.
“Well, then,” pursued Oriana, drawing her chair closer to that of
Eugene, “Fiorenza is not my brother, thank heaven!”
This Gabrielle well knew; she affected no surprise, but, seeming to pay
the most implicit attention, Oriana continued--
“He is not my brother; he calls himself my lover; but he is, in reality,
the most despotic of masters; I tremble in his presence; he treats me
like an abject slave; and, but that he considers that I may do him
service, and am too contemptible to do him ill, he would long since
have taken my life. Fiorenza was formerly a bravo for hire; he is still
a bravo in his heart, and ever ready to commit, for his own ends, that
which he once executed to serve the ends of others. In short, Eugene,
not to trouble you with unnecessary details,” and here the artful
Genoese avoided all mention of herself, likely to depreciate her with
her auditor, “he is now bent on taking the life of the Count; he detests
him, he is jealous of him; and has besides other motives, which it would
be useless, at present, to expatiate on to you; he has peremptorily
urged me to compliance; and, in case of refusal, threatened me, that he
will carry to the ears of the Count, the most dangerous insinuations
against me; and that, fly whither I may to escape, he will pursue me,
and take my life. Oh! Eugene,” she passionately continued, “to deprive
the Count of existence, _merely_ to lead a life of misery with such a
wretch as Fiorenza, it is that which I cannot endure;--but for you, for
you, dear Eugene, I could, without pain, destroy them both.”
Gabrielle felt curdling horror creep through her veins, at the depravity
of this unhappy woman. It was not the _murder_ then of the innocent
Angelo, which appalled her; it was the idea only of continuing for life
with a man she now detested, and who perhaps, had he been as amiable as
he was infamous, her fickle nature would have wearied of in the same
length of time. For Eugene, whom she now preferred, she was ready to go
any lengths, and hereafter, for another, she would have sacrificed him.
“Speak, Eugene,” she pursued, pressing his hand, “say, do you think you
could always love me, provided I became your’s? Do you think that,
quitting Italy, and flying to another country, you could be happy with
me?--If Angelo were _to die_--I should be rich--if Fiorenza were no
longer living, I should be unrestrained;---- I am indifferent to the
first, and the last I hate.”
While Gabrielle felt strong desire to fly from the presence of such a
fiend, she felt, at the same time, the necessity of curbing the impulse,
and concealing the horror and disgust with which she was inspired, she
wished to preserve from danger the threatened Angelo; it was requisite,
therefore, to hear all that Oriana had to say; it was necessary she
should propose her plans, and be wholly unreserved, or a single
impatient exclamation, an unrestrained expression of disgust or
indignation, might defeat, beyond repair, the great aim she had in view:
and, causing Oriana, disappointed and contemned, to take part with
Fiorenza, their plans would be changed and a dreadful blow might be
struck, when least it was expected.
When, therefore, she found that the Genoese remained silent, as if in
expectation of some reply to what she had been saying, she answered with
as much composure as she could assume, “I am grateful, fair Oriana, for
the confidence you have reposed in me, and you could not possibly have
advanced a stronger claim on my regard, with respect to what you have
urged respecting an immediate arrangement between ourselves; I can only
for the present observe, I must have time for consideration. The Count
D’Albini was the friend of my unaided youth; he has heaped benefits upon
me, and it would grieve me that he should _die_,” she added--her voice
involuntarily faltering at the last word.
Finding herself not absolutely repulsed by him, for whom she had
conceived so strong a passion, the delighted Oriana eagerly kissed and
pressed his hand to her lips, when Gabrielle, desirous of moderating the
transports of a gratitude so hateful to her, said, “But, Oriana, you
have not yet been sufficiently explicit; it is intended, you say, to
take the life of the Count; you have not informed me by what means.”
“The means are precisely such as a bravo would have recourse to; easy
from habit, well tried by experience, the means are, _assassination_!”
Gabrielle was silent from dismay, and a dreadful anxiety least all her
ingenuity and courage should be incompetent to save the unguarded
Angelo.
Oriana proceeded. “Claudio and Piombino, hireling ruffians, and former
associates of Fiorenza, are the persons fixed on to complete the deed:
he has promised them a hundred zechins each, if they do their business
well; for he considers that, by the death of the Count, he should be
enabled to do that and more; and, if they fail, provided it be through
accident alone, fifty each. To-morrow night, when the Count departs
hence, they await him, in the Strado di Toledo; they will distinguish
him by his black cloak, and the white feather in his hat. Fiorenza will,
as usual, accompany him part of the way, to obviate all suspicion of
himself; and the word for the signal of attack will be--Hark!--Thus,
Eugene, have I imparted to you all; for from you would I disguise
nothing;--I leave to your discretion the mode of procedure; what you
determine I will abide by.--Save the Count, if you will, from the fate
intended for him,--but promise me, that Fiorenza--_shall die_, and that
you will be mine.”
“Promise me, Oriana,” answered Gabrielle, with firmness, “that, however
you see me act to-morrow night, you will not interfere; and promise to
retain secret from every one what you have imparted to me.”
“I promise--I swear,” cried Oriana, “I will not even ask your intention,
so implicitly do I rely upon you; but, Eugene, to defend your own life,
if necessary, and for _another purpose_, that I will not now enlarge
upon, accept of this, and place it within your vest;” so saying, she
took from beneath a girdle which she wore, a small dagger, the blade of
which, concealed within the handle, might be thrown out at pleasure, by
pressing a small spring, and presented it to Gabrielle. Gabrielle
accepted the dagger, and said, “Oriana, remember that you must not
interfere, and for the rest, leave all to me.”
“But, Fiorenza!”
“Leave all to me--be only passive.”--
“It is enough,” cried the transported Oriana, who now rejoiced in the
fancied prospect of the death of the man who, a short time before, she
had passionately loved. “It is enough; give me your hand in token that
you will not disappoint my hopes.”
“Here is my hand, Oriana; I give it you in token that I will do the best
I can.”
“You are cold towards me, dear Eugene; but I hope that hereafter it will
be otherwise.”
“Oriana, farewell, I must hasten hence.”
“Farewell Eugene; fortune favour you; would that to-morrow night were
come.”
Gabrielle hastened home; but when she arrived Angelo was not there; she
did not, however, regret his absence, for it gave her time to consider
deeply the plan most prudent to be at this crisis adopted. Such now was
her perfect knowledge of the weakness of Angelo, that she determined
not, even in the present case, to enforce a belief of the perfidy of his
worthless mistress, by any other mode than stubborn proof; mere
assertion, however positive, she well knew might fail; and she therefore
decided, that he should find himself on the very brink of destruction,
to carry conviction to his infatuated mind. Once already she had
preserved his life, and she flattered herself, by caution, firmness, and
due management, she might render him again, though in a more imminent
predicament, the same service. She resolved, however, that first he
should rush even within the vortex of danger, desperate as was the
expedient; but it was the only means effectually to save and detach him
from a dangerous connexion. So reasoned the firm-minded Gabrielle, and
such was the result of her final decision.
Angelo did not return during the day; early in the evening she retired
to her chamber, first leaving on his dressing table the following lines,
closely sealed, and written in a hand as little resembling that in which
she had once addressed him as possible.
“Angelo, to-morrow night, at the house of Oriana, your life will be
in danger. I ask you not to credit what I write, but do not
entirely disregard to visit her according to your intention, for it
is proper that you should, and I will accompany you. All I desire
of you is, to attend to the following conduct; the first time that
I quit the room, appear not to remark it, but be tranquil till my
return, the _second_ time; take heed that you follow me speedily,
and, whatever you think, be under no apprehensions for the result.
“EUGENE.”
From the tenor of this note, Gabrielle readily conceived that Angelo,
after reading it, would seek her in her chamber; in this she was not
mistaken; finding she had retired, Angelo, as soon as he returned home,
unable to find pleasure in remaining up alone, sought his chamber, when
the first thing which fixed his attention was her note upon his table,
which, instantly opening, he read, and hastening to her apartment.
“Eugene,” he cried, “I find you have not retired to rest; but had it
been otherwise I must have disturbed you; you have written me the
strangest note--what, I conjure you, is the meaning of these mysterious
lines?”
“Dear Angelo,” returned Gabrielle, “could I have undertaken to explain
to you, succinctly, the purport of those lines, I need not have written
them.”
“But, Eugene,” replied Angelo, “you evidently know more than you have
expressed; if you have, really, a regard for my safety, and wish to
preserve me, you cannot, surely, hesitate to inform me more fully of my
danger, in order to convince me of the absolute necessity of being on my
guard.”
“That observation, my Lord, is sufficient to shew me, that by revealing
to you all I know, I should gain nothing; I must, therefore, persist in
adding no more to what I have already said, entreating you only to pay
attention to that.”
“Surely, then, Eugene,” answered Angelo, hastily, “I am not wholly
inexcusable in attributing your present fearful warning, to some pious
superstition, to the recent effects of a fantastic dream, or visionary
presentiment.”
“Be it so, my Lord; deign only to observe the slight request I have made
you, and your danger will, at all events, I hope, prove no more than a
fearful dream.”
When Angelo found that neither ridicule nor entreaty, could draw from
Eugene further information, he desisted, with apparent indifference, but
in reality with the most extreme anxiety at heart; for some foundation,
he well knew, must exist in the rational strong mind of Eugene, beyond
mere idle superstition, for the warning he had given; and this
conviction, added to the doubts that yet continued to exist in his
breast with respect to Oriana, induced him to regard, with increasing
unacknowledged suspicion, her kindness, and the consideration she
evinced towards him. He determined, therefore, that he would neither
slight his intimation, nor refuse to yield implicit attention to the
request he had made in his note; he parted coldly with him, however,
foiled in his object of provoking an explanation from him, and retired
to bed, with a mind by no means perfectly at ease. Still he desired, and
hoped, that no confirmation of suspicions, detrimental to his mistress,
might ensue; for finding in Naples no other fair than Oriana, who
appeared exclusively attached to him, his vanity, equally with his
regard, and the amusement with which she filled up many of his idle
hours, made him most anxious to preserve her. Such, not unfrequently,
are the _only_ ties which cement dangerous connections, which yet resist
the united efforts of reason and of virtue, and are seldom broken till
experience shakes, too late, her flaming torch over the lengthened track
of misery that has been caused.
CHAP. XII.
The following evening was an eventful one for the rash unwary Angelo;
though his mind, ill at rest, was teeming with suspicion, he determined
to be faithful to his engagement with Oriana, because he would neither
have the appearance of yielding to a mere unsupported assertion, or of
evincing cowardice by remaining absent; any imputation on his natural
courage he could not have endured; sooner would he have run the risk of
a meditated attack, and trusted to fortune for victory, or deliverance.
At the appointed hour, therefore, accompanied by Eugene, with whom,
although he was in perfect harmony, he had for some time past
maintained a slight reserve, he repaired to the residence of his
mistress. She appeared so charming, and welcomed them with so much
vivacity, that already Angelo began to feel his doubts dissipating like
fogs before the sun, and looked towards Eugene with an eye somewhat
expressive of reproach, which did not however occasion the latter to
change countenance. Fiorenza, who was present, received them likewise
with the utmost cordiality, and a collation, light and elegant, was
prepared in a chamber, brilliantly illuminated, which resembled more an
earthly palace fitted up for the reception of a heavenly visitant, than
the baleful den of treachery and murder! To the raptured eyes of Angelo,
Oriana appeared as one of the fabled Houri, and the bright fantastic
appearance of the room, in which her figure lightly moved, reminded him
of those brilliant pictured abodes, where eternal pleasures are said to
await the true followers of Mahomet.
Mean time, while mirth and jollity prevailed, while the infatuated
Angelo pledged Oriana, in repeated goblets of juice, that to him seemed
nectarean, and Fiorenza pledged him, thus inducing him to drink double
what either of them took, Gabrielle rose, and quitted the room,
anxiously noted by Oriana, but seen almost with indifference by Angelo.
He had not been long gone before Fiorenza remarked his absence; remarked
it with pleasure, but not with surprise, for Eugene had been frequently
in the habit of retiring early, leaving Angelo still at the table. He
now considered, with fiend-like exultation, that, wholly unprotected,
and unaccompanied by any, save himself, his unconscious guest would be
entirely at his mercy; and, even affecting to be his defender, he might
give him, unsuspected, a mortal wound. “This,” thought he, “will be the
easiest fool I ever marked for vengeance.”
While thus Fiorenza congratulated himself in the undoubted prospect of
success, Gabrielle, with all the speed and intrepidity inspired by the
greatness of her purpose, hastened to the Stado di Toledo, and halting
near the spot where Oriana had described to her that the ruffians of
Fiorenza would lay in wait for Angelo, she suddenly exclaimed, “Hark!”
Instantly two fierce and gigantic masks rushed from beneath an
umbrageous portico, and, without pausing for a moment, seized on the
brave, collected Gabrielle, and pointed their daggers to her breast.
“Stop, Claudio! stop, Piombino!” she cried; “I am not he you want, but
the page and confidant of signor Fiorenza, and bring you, from him, a
message. You perceive, he gave me the word of attack; a somewhat
hazardous mean indeed,” she added laughing, “that I might discover you
at once;--now then listen, for I must be speedily back.”
This cool and firm demeanor had the desired effect; what Gabrielle
advanced of her being the confidant of Fiorenza, appeared undoubted,
from her proving herself to be perfectly in the secret of the
assassination, of the signal of attack, and even acquainted accurately
with their names. Without either speaking a word, they conducted her
rapidly up the steps of the portico, which appertained to a dilapidated
house, and, bending close to her ear, one of them, in whispering voice,
demanded the message of Fiorenza.
“Fiorenza,” she answered in a low voice, following the lesson given her,
“is, as you may conceive, upon the rack; D’Albini has not as yet left
our house, and, indeed, it does not appear probable that he is in haste
to depart, for the bewitching Oriana rivets him too closely for the
impatience of our good Fiorenza.” Quitting the room, therefore, he gave
me a look to follow him quickly, and when I joined him, he said, “Hasten
immediately to our friends, Claudio and Piombino, and tell them from me,
that they must quit (curses on the delay of the fool D’Albini,) their
present concealment, and lie in ambuscade, on the opposite side of the
street, in some convenient spot, which you will mutually agree on, and
describe to me.”
“And why--wherefore is this?” cried they both together.
“Will you not give me time?” answered Gabrielle, impatiently. “In less
than another hour,” said Fiorenza, “the moon will be precisely in a
situation, obliquely, to illumine the Strado di Toledo; it will appear
over the tops of the houses opposite; consequently that side of the
street, on which they _now_ are, will be as light as day, while the side
opposite will be enveloped in shadow.”
“By the mass, and by my faith, a most excellent suggestion,” cried
Claudio, in a low tone.
“Aye, by the holy Saint Severino, a most necessary precaution,” observed
Piombino; “in good truth, though fear would be a bad thing in us, it is
good for our employers, for it sets their brains working for such means
of security as our high mettle would disdain to think of.”
“Come, come, Signors, I am in haste,” cried Gabrielle; “let us cross,
and identify the spot where you are to lie in wait.”
“Well you go on, and we will follow you separately, with solemn serious
pace as Cavalieros should.”
So saying the Bravos separated; Gabrielle crossed at once, and awaited
them, and each came up to her from opposite ends of the street. A
convenient spot was soon found, and determined on. “Here then, you will
remain,” observed Gabrielle; “on this spot, too, Fiorenza and his gay
companion will encounter you much earlier than on the other side.”
“Aye, aye; we shall be here to welcome the enamorato, and save him many
useless steps on his way home.”
“One word more then,” said Gabrielle, “and I go:” then, lowering her
voice, “as our signal has now been used, for the greater security,
Fiorenza would wish it changed; the word of attack, instead of ‘Hark!’
to be, ‘Who calls!’ And to preserve _him_ from even the shadow of
suspicion, it will be myself who shall give it.”
“We’ll answer you,” cried Claudio, smothering a laugh.
“_Another_ precaution,” said Piombino, with a sneer, “by our bright
lady! fear teaches a man wit to save _himself_, let what will betide.”
“Well, well, what matters that to you?”--observed the more crafty
Claudio, in a significant voice, “it does not teach you manners I
think;--you are paid to obey orders, and be silent.”
“Aye, aye, very true indeed,” cried Claudio, with mock solemnity.
“Well, Signors,” cried Gabrielle, “all is now settled; so farewell, and
success attend those who perform their duty.” So saying, she hastily
left them, and retraced her steps, with doubled eagerness.
On entering the house of Oriana, she repaired immediately to a small
antichamber, where visitors usually left their cloaks and hats, where
she knew Angelo’s to be, and where she hoped to find Fiorenza’s
likewise. In this room a lamp was generally kept burning, though
sometimes, as no one ever sat there, it was forgotten; this night,
however, as she had expected, she found it lighted, and discovered
immediately the cloak and hat of Angelo, while close by it laid
Fiorenza’s; at which trifling circumstance she involuntarily shuddered;
her first care on beholding them was to reverse their situations; she
placed the hat and cloak of Angelo upon the chair which Fiorenza’s had
occupied, and, in return, placed Fiorenza’s where Angelo’s had been;
this done she extinguished the lamp, and returned to the supper room.
When Fiorenza again beheld her, he started; he had supposed that she had
returned home, and that he should be safe from even the shadow of an
interruption, in the prosecution of his dreadful purpose. Gabrielle
perceived his rage and displeasure, but, with an undaunted look, seating
herself close beside him, a situation she never took, she whispered in
his ear, “I have discovered your plot; quit the room immediately; I will
follow you, and explain.”
What language can convey an idea of the look of the dark assassin at
these words. His cheek, although bronzed over by the changeless hue of
repeated crimes, and his ferocious eyes, though veiled in the cunning
guise of treachery, sufficiently betrayed that he _heard_ what had been
addressed to him; he looked at his unwelcome companion;--he beheld him
with surprise, yet calm and collected; a movement expressive of his
acquiescence, was sufficient for his watchful eye:--he rose, and
quitting the room, Gabrielle followed, but not till she had caught the
eye of Angelo, and an impressive glance had said, “Have a care that you
remain not long behind.” His answering look assured her of his
compliance.
Gabrielle found the fierce Fiorenza impatiently expecting her, without
the door of the supper room; she seized him by the arm, and leading him
towards the antichamber, said to him in a hurried voice, “Fiorenza, I
have discovered your plot--ask me not how--for I have no time to waste
in useless explanation.”
Fiorenza interrupted her--“I can hear nothing,” proceeded she, hastily,
“attend to me, for the moments are precious. You think me the friend of
il Conte D’Albini; but believe me, I have no _reason_ to be attached to
him. You desire, and have cunningly planned his death, guess whether I
wish to prevent your intention, when I have not revealed my discovery to
himself; or whether I wish to dissuade you, when I inform you, that
Claudio and Piombino threaten to betray you, unless you will promise
them two hundred zechins each, instead of one. They think it hard, that
they should have all the hazard of the work, with so little profit,
while you, without running any risk, will be enriched for life.”
Fiorenza was again about to speak, but Gabrielle resumed, “Words are
vain, since you cannot now deprive me of what I know; hasten at once to
Claudio and Piombino; the Count is deeply engaged with Oriana; it may
not yet be too late to bring them to terms, and to secure their services
for this night. Come, while you waste time in consideration, you gain
nothing, and run the hazard of being momentarily betrayed;--take your
cloak and hat, and let us depart.” So saying, she opened the door of the
anti-chamber: the room was in darkness, and the deep, the crafty
Fiorenza, for once bewildered and confused, mechanically sought for his
hat and cloak in the place where he had left them; but taking up
Angelo’s instead, which Gabrielle assisted him to put on, he rushed from
the house with the fury of a madman, and with a speed, up the street,
that the resolution of Gabrielle could have alone enabled her to keep
pace with.
Angelo, determined at all events, and from curiosity as much as any
thing, to comply with the enforced request of Eugene, had risen from
table, notwithstanding the fascinations of Oriana, soon after his
departure. He gained the hall-door just as it had closed upon him and
Fiorenza, and perceived them walking up the street with the utmost
rapidity. While they hurried to the Strado di Toledo, not a word was
exchanged on either side; Fiorenza secretly determining, that, in case
he discovered the smallest treachery in Eugene, he would immediately
sacrifice him to his revenge. When Angelo perceived that Eugene was in
company with Fiorenza, his mind felt a sensation of suspicion, bordering
on alarm; for he could not possibly conceive a motive for their being
together at this hour in the street, and, seemingly, with some urgent
purpose in view; he quickened his pace, therefore, determined to pursue
them at a small distance, without making himself heard. They now came
within a few yards of the spot, where Claudio and Piombino, unknown to
Fiorenza, were concealed; when Gabrielle, suddenly halting, said, in a
low voice, “Fiorenza, I think some one bids us stop.”
“Nonsense;” in a gloomy voice, muttered Fiorenza, “_they_ are not on
this side;” and proceeded hastily a few steps. Gabrielle followed.--“I
am certain I hear a voice.”--Fiorenza now paused; for the consciousness
of guilt made him fearful. “Let us not appear dismayed,” whispered
Gabrielle; and moving a few paces, she, in a loud voice, exclaimed, “Who
calls?” When instantly the assassins, springing from their hiding
places, with daggers drawn, plunged them at once into the breast of
Fiorenza, who attired, unknown to himself, in the cloak and white-plumed
hat of Angelo, which he had described to them, that they might
immediately identify him, rushed justly, and unexpectedly, upon the fate
he had destined for another.
Groaning, staggering, and falling to the ground, he exclaimed, in a
dreadful voice, “Oh, hell! I am betrayed. Claudio! Piombino! can it be
_your_ daggers that I feel?--your comrade Fiorenza!” Pain prevented him
from proceeding when the bravos, hearing the well-known voice of their
former comrade, perceived, in an instant, that the pretended Eugene had
deceived them, and, wild with rage, turning short upon him, were on the
point of immolating him to their terrible vengeance. At this moment,
Angelo, who had paused only when he observed them pause, rushed swiftly
towards them, and drawing his stiletto, threw himself before his beloved
Eugene, who feebly defended himself in such unequal combat, with the
dagger given him by Oriana. Nerved with super-human strength and
courage, at perceiving the imminent danger of the youth he idolized,
Angelo did wonders. One of the ruffians fled, but the other, making a
feint at him, thrust his stiletto into the side of Eugene, and,
exclaiming, “Fiorenza, thou art revenged!” sprang after his companion.
Great now was the horror and dismay of Angelo; but his all of care, his
agony, was for Eugene, who, writhing with pain, and fainting, was near
falling to the earth. Supporting him in his arms, he called aloud for
help, and as his eyes wandered eagerly round in search of assistance,
they, for the first time, dwelt upon the prostrate Fiorenza, whom he
beheld habited in his hat and cloak. A sudden ray of light burst upon
his mind; “Oh, my beloved young friend,” he exclaimed, “this scene of
dreadful mystery begins to develope itself to my senses; but, alas, too
late, since thou art thus--for if thou diest, I will not survive.”
Gabrielle answered not, for she was incapable; but the expiring voice of
Fiorenza muttered, in return, “Oh, I have not long to live; let my soul
be breathed out in curses! Eternal curses seize that misleading dastard;
tortures, death, and perdition, be his portion!--D’Albini, thou hast
escaped; but may destruction overtake thee;--may thy best hopes be
blighted;--may despair end thy days in this world, and may’st thou meet
damnation in the next!” Then, heaving a deep groan, he gnashed his teeth
with agony, and exclaimed “Oh! yet a moment, to gall thee with stinging
regret, and bitterness, to turn to laughing contempt thy past pleasures.
Dupe and fool; Oriana, whom thou thoughtest exclusively _thine_, was one
of whom many had tasted; and was mine ere thou knewest her! Ha! she
loved thee so well, in her fair arms she would have lulled thee to
repose with poison! She is now rejoicing in the hopes of thy death. But,
oh! madness---- curses---- curses on----” With the last remaining
strength of unyielding villainy, he sought to drag his anguished body to
the feet of Angelo; the struggle of craving vengeance, and fierce
despair was, for an instant, successful; he grasped his dagger in one
hand, and, with his feeble arm upraised, he sought to pull him
downwards; the effort to do so was vain; death stiffened his nerves, his
arm fell palsied, the clenched dagger dropt harmless to the ground,
and, with a shivering groan, he expired. Meantime several persons, who
had been roused or attracted by the exclamations of Angelo, came running
to the spot; he briefly explained to them as much of the affair as was
prudent, and implored their assistance for Eugene, who, bleeding
profusely, and unable to move, was conveyed immediately to his house,
while others, following his directions, bore the body of Fiorenza to
his.
Gabrielle being laid upon a bed, a surgeon was instantly summoned; who,
although she was insensible, conceiving it requisite that not a moment
should be lost, prepared to examine the wound. At this juncture, the
cessation of motion, and the secret operations of nature, caused
animation to return. She opened her eyes, and perceiving the surgeon
near her, on the point of uncovering her bosom, and Angelo watching over
her, she became immediately sensible of her situation, and of what had
passed; and, seeing that a discovery of her sex was now inevitable, her
natural modesty taking the alarm, she, in a feeble voice, begged to be
left, a single moment, alone with Angelo. The surgeon reluctantly
complied; and when every one had retired, she stretched forth her hand
to that unfaithful lover, who, at this very moment, when she was nearly
expiring for his sake, was dearer to her heart than ever, and, in
trembling accents, said, “Angelo, look at me.”
Angelo, bending over her, answered, “Ah, my beloved Eugene, I behold you
with anguish.”
“You behold Gabrielle de Montmorency!” faltered she; “that Gabrielle
whom you abandoned to her fate,--whom you made a mother, and who, for
_that_ cause, deserted her home, to seek you in an unknown land;--who
has this night--this night,--risked her life to save your’s.”
“Oh, God! oh, gracious heaven! what do I hear!” exclaimed Angelo,
overpowered, and casting himself on his knees beside the bed, “can it be
possible, that I see before me Gabrielle de Montmorency?”
“Cannot you pierce through this thin disguise, Angelo?”
“Ah, those heavenly features, so long covered by an artificial veil;
that look! yes, yes, I behold thee now, beloved Gabrielle; Oh wretch! oh
monster, that I am! what sufferings have I caused thee--never, never, to
be forgiven:” and bursting into a passion of tears, he covered his face
with his hands. At this moment, the surgeon re-entering, observed, that
unless he was immediately suffered to attend his patient, and be
permitted to remain tranquil, he could not presume to answer for his
life.
“Leave the room, then, dear Angelo,” whispered Gabrielle, “you can
return again.” Angelo rose, he kissed the hand of Gabrielle, while his
emotion prevented the power of speech, and hurried from the chamber. He
was no sooner gone, than the surgeon inspected the wound of the
suffering, but heroic Gabrielle, when, to his infinite surprise, he, by
the delicacy of her formation, ascertained her to be of a sex opposite
to what she appeared; he uttered no remark, however, for he possessed
just notions of propriety; but his compassion was excited--and the
respectful gentleness of his demeanour increased. On examination, it
appeared to him, that the stiletto of the ruffian had simply glanced
across the ribs, without having affected, in the least, the nobler
parts. In consequence of this discovery, he observed, with pleasure,
(for the unfortunate Gabrielle could not fail of inspiring with interest
all who beheld her,) that her wound was far from being dangerous, and
that her recovery would depend chiefly upon herself, in remaining
tranquil, and not suffering her mind to be agitated. This agreeable
intelligence being communicated to Angelo, he rushed, spite of every
prohibition to the contrary, into her apartment, and eagerly approaching
her bedside, he clasped his hands, while the tears started afresh from
his eyes, and said, “Dearest Gabrielle, I do not desire you to speak to
me, nay, I will not allow you; suffer me only to watch over you, and to
remain by your bedside till morning.”
The poor heart of Gabrielle fluttered with delight; but she shook her
head, reluctantly to deny a request so agreeable to her.
“It is in vain, dear Gabrielle, for I am resolved, and to induce your
immediate acquiescence, I swear to you, that if you object to my
watching in your chamber, I will not, nevertheless, retire to repose;
but will remain without your door all night listening to your
breathing.”
“I will not oppose your wishes, then.”
“Say no more;--to be permitted to gaze on you will now be sufficient.”
So saying he half closed her curtains, and seating himself by the side
of the bed, maintained a profound silence.
Notwithstanding the various misery she had undergone, notwithstanding
the pain she felt,--the present moments were, to Gabrielle, moments of
comparative delight;--the man who had brought on her the most terrible
disasters, who had made her a mother, without having made her a
wife;--for whom, too, she had quitted the once happy solitude of her
almost native mountains;--whom friendless, and unaided, she had wandered
far to seek;--found faithless, and unthinking of her;--passionately
attached to a woman, infamous at once from habit, principle, and
inclination, neither loving nor appreciating him;--to have happily
conquered these appalling obstacles;--to have rescued him from the
worthless wanton that had enslaved him; to have saved his threatened
life from the rapacious fangs of her, and her vile associate,--and,
ultimately, as she fondly presumed to hope, have recalled him to love
and duty, securing, thereby, the protection of a father for her
child,--all this was a matter of the highest exultation to the
grief-worn breast that, for long, had been insensible of aught, save the
pangs of deep remorse, corroding cares, and bitter humiliation. Fair
visions of the future danced before her eyes in bright array, and she
promised herself, that the turpitude and ingratitude of his false
mistress being now made manifest to the deluded Angelo, he would for
ever banish from his breast a libertine passion, and become once more
the being that in the days of her innocence she had fancied him.
Angelo who, in most instances, was the creature of the moment, warm,
susceptible, and impetuous, vicious, not in principle, but from want of
firmness to be otherwise, conceived for Gabrielle, (who had now appeared
before him in a novel and romantic point of view, and consequently wore
in his eyes all the charms of a different object,) a passion, if
possible, stronger and more ardent than the first with which she had
inspired him; his enthusiasm too was powerfully awakened in the
retrospect he took of her conduct,--her unshaken fortitude, her heroic
courage, her perseverance, he, too, the actuating cause of such conduct,
in such a woman,--for him called forth such extraordinary exertion of
mind, such strength of character, such dignity of soul, his vanity
roused, still added to his enthusiasm, and increased his regenerated
passion. Dethroned from his mind with contempt and hatred, was its late
insiduous sovereign; he no longer considered her but as a vain,
unattractive, frivolous, and abandoned female, too worthless to be even
a foil for the matchless Gabrielle, and almost abhorred himself to have
been so long deluded by her. She now appeared to his fickle and unsteady
mind, all that was most disgusting; above all, she was no longer _new_,
while the long-neglected, and almost forgotten Gabrielle, decked by her
sudden re-appearance, and under such circumstances in all the attraction
of a most bewitching novelty, assumed in his fancy charms of which he
had never thought her possessed, and which he would never have
discovered, had their intercourse continued uninterrupted.
Such is the libertine; his vitiated appetite requires continually the
poignant and extraneous inducements of ever-varied novelty to prolong,
or to renew it; his passion can only be kept alive by artifice,
obstacles, or perpetual interruption. How different the love of
sentiment, and of the soul, where each finds in each all that a
rational, yet ardent tenderness, can desire, where individual worth,
known and appreciated, is omnipotent, requiring neither artificial aid,
nor stimulus to support its never-dying flame.
In process of time, as Gabrielle recovered, she appeared before the
enchanted Angelo, in her fair native form. From beneath that brown
complexion, which resembled the withering leaves of the autumn, emerged
the pale-tinted rose, which greets the early spring, and her forehead
disclosed once more the hue of the delicate lily, which, like herself,
fragile and fair, flourished in the valleys she had left. Now, without
fear that he would distrust, or disregard her information, did she
reveal to him all she knew of the infamous Oriana; her base plots, her
dark machinations, her treachery, imposture, and ingratitude; she
explained to him likewise that admirable conduct, which had appeared to
him so mysterious on the eventful night of the poison, and which had
first shaken his opinion of his unworthy mistress; and, lastly, she
informed him by what stratagems, perseverance, and courage, she had
preserved his life from becoming the prey of her, and her vile
co-adjutor. Angelo listened, and at every word his heated fancy glowed
with increased passion and admiration, for he now worshiped Gabrielle.
Perpetually he interrupted her to throw himself at her feet, to vow to
her an eternal gratitude and fidelity, and to implore her forgiveness
for the past.
How gratifying, how delightful, was this exuberant renewal of an
unhoped-for tenderness to the heart of Gabrielle! But her strict
principles and unshaken duty would not permit, that, with this alone,
she should be satisfied, and, selfishly elate at the returning fondness
of a truant lover, neglect or forget interests so much higher, so much
dearer to her than her own. She therefore, though she heard and felt,
nay heard and felt too deeply, the ardent expressions of Angelo; she
would not permit herself to reply to them, till first she had proved his
feelings, and discovered the degree of _purer_ affection, which might
exist in his heart for the child, whom, though he had never beheld,
still claimed him by the sacred title of father. Thus, when Angelo, one
day, with all that animation which his enthusiastic fancy constantly
lent his language, was speaking to her of his passion, she, having lent
for long, a pleased, but silent ear, suddenly said, when the wounds of
her heart opened afresh, and put to flight, as unholy, every thought of
bliss, “Angelo, you do not ask me of my father!” Angelo paused, and
blushed; it was a subject on which he had not dared to touch, for he
trembled to think of his self-acknowledged baseness, and the injuries
that he had heaped on the head of the noble Frenchman. It was his
misfortune, not a peculiar one, to feel his errors without power to
withstand them. At length he faltered, “Dare I, dare I, ask Gabrielle?”
“He is _dead_!” with brief solemnity returned Gabrielle.
“Dead!” cried Angelo; striking his head, as conscience whispered to his
quick sensibility, that _he_ had had a share in hastening the calamitous
event.
“Dead!” replied Gabrielle, in a voice still more solemn. “I, Angelo,
broke his heart.”
“You,--_you_!” faltered the conscience-stricken Angelo;--“you, his
pride and delight!”
“_Once_, once,” cried Gabrielle, hastily, and bursting into tears.
“Once, oh Angelo, before I knew you;--but, _afterwards_, his disgrace,
his curse, and his destruction!”
“Oh, Gabrielle! spare me, for God’s sake!”
“Hear me, Angelo; can your sufferings in listening to what is past,
equal mine who endured that dreadful past? I broke the heart of
Montmorency; the knowledge of my situation struck him like a
thunderbolt, and though it proved not instant death, it for ever palsied
his faculties. Oh! Angelo, it destroyed first the _mind_, the glorious,
the susceptible mind, of my father, sensitive and shrinking from the
breath even of dishonor; next the havoc extended to his _body_, and
laid him low. Oh! that dreadful scene!--dare I, can I, ever enjoy peace,
while memory retains its power over my mind? To be happy, even to know a
cessation from misery or remorse, would be a crime!” Here her strong
sensations, her bitter recollections of the past, of the deathbed of her
beloved father, rushing, by the power of detail, with renovated anguish
over her mind, incapacitated her from proceeding; and, in an agony of
tears, she fell back on the sopha, where she sat.
“Oh! for the sake of mercy, Gabrielle,” cried the penetrated Angelo,
casting himself on his knees before her, “spare us, spare us both, this
dreadful recapitulation.”
“No, no, Angelo; what are these pangs compared with what we ought to
endure? will they recall the murdered Montmorency from the grave? from
that grave into which _we_ precipitated him?” At this, Angelo hastily
hid his face upon the sopha, and remained eloquently silent. Painful
conscience had recorded the accusation of Gabrielle, and the words he
would have uttered expired on his lips. Gabrielle beheld his keen
emotion, without attempting to calm it; in a faint voice at length he
said, while his eyes streamed with tears, and his hands were clasped
together, “Oh, daughter of Montmorency, what reason have you not to
curse the hour when first those eyes beheld me! but for me, you had been
ever innocent and happy.”
“And--and Montmorency would have been still living,” added Gabrielle,
with anguish.
“Oh, forbear to reproach me thus, loved Gabrielle, my own heart
sufficiently accuses me, for the evil of which I have been the cause,
for the sorrows I have brought upon you. Yet, why did you refuse to make
me a partaker of those sorrows? Why, under those dreadful and oppressive
misfortunes, which I alone occasioned, was I spared my proportion of
pain, and kept in ignorance of the extent of the havoc I had caused?”
“Oh, Angelo, did you not know the _daughter of Montmorency_ possessed no
grovelling mind? You abandoned, and left me to my fate; you ceased to
write; was it for _me_, then, to sue for attention to my miseries even
from their author?--was it for _me_ to call forth his useless, his
insulting commiseration, or his cold regrets? No, Angelo, believe that,
for ever, you would have remained in ignorance of every dreadful evil
that befel me; that my voice should never have called to you, that my
presence should never have molested you, nor my pride succumbed to the
man who had deserted me, but--but for an imperious _duty_ that ordained
me to forget pride, to stifle the pangs of an insulted love, and have no
feeling for self humiliation; that duty was the consideration of my
_child_--of your child, Angelo! And now behold me,” she added, throwing
herself at his feet, “behold how low I can humble, when it is not for
_myself_ I plead. Angelo, I conjure you, I entreat, I implore you, to
protect, preserve, and cherish that child; I ask not your returning
affection; I want no tenderness, I require no benefit at your
hands,--_all_ I ask is your protection for that child, who, but for
_you_, would not have existed; grant but that; I am indifferent to my
own fate, nor could certainty of the most dreadful misfortunes then
have power to appal me.”
The affectingly solemn voice in which the remorseful Gabrielle had thus
appealed to the feelings of her lover, so awed and penetrated him, that
he had no power to interrupt her; but now that she paused, now that he
dared to look upon her, in grievous, humbled, and melancholy guise, at
his feet,--now that he dared, not longer than a moment could he
contemplate her; and he cast himself prostrate on his face beside her,
without power to articulate a sentence.
“Angelo,” then resumed Gabrielle, in the same touching voice, and
bending over him, “I had the protection of a father,--a tender
father,--one who cherished, loved, and would have preserved me; but I
disdained his care, broke from his protecting arms, and stung him like
a scorpion, even to his heart’s core. For the love he bore me, and for
the pride he took in me, I brought down his grey hairs with sorrow to
the grave,--weighed him down in anguish, and bitterness of soul! oh,
Angelo, _your_ child is a _daughter_. Shield her, then, with watchful
care; she may not prove to you the ingrate and the wretch which I proved
to mine;--but, if you desert, if you abandon her to the contamination of
the world, to the varied miseries of life, then will she become, if
possible, more guilty and more unfortunate, though in the eyes of Heaven
more pardonable, than her wretched mother.”
“Oh, I _swear_--I _solemnly_ swear,” cried Angelo, starting from the
ground, and raising his hands and eyes to heaven, his soul inspired by
the animated colouring which the high-wrought feelings of Gabrielle
imparted to her language, “I solemnly swear, to protect, while I have
life, that beloved daughter of whom you speak; and if ever, becoming a
wretch, greater than I have yet been, I neglect the sacred vow which I
have made, may the hand of Heaven light heavy upon me, and accursed may
I quit the world in misery and disgrace.”
“Oh, Angelo! it is enough; this solemn promise reassures my sinking
heart; I breathe more freely--and, perhaps, when my soul quits its
earthly tenement, it may rise to heaven unaccompanied by the crime of a
daughter’s ruin.”
“Rise, rise my love,” cried Angelo, taking her in his arms, “and let
happier thoughts now engage us; we are restored to each other--your
virtues, your merits, are now known to me;--my errors have vanished for
ever;--you have taught me the charms of constancy and noble love. We
will send immediately for our beloved child, and let her, at once,
receive the fond protection of a father, and be benefited by the care
and example of such a mother.”
“My example!--oh, Angelo!”
“No more, dearest Gabrielle; you refine too deeply;” and the impetuous
Angelo, raising her from the ground, and seating her beside him,
proceeded with increased animation, “Say, where and how is our child
situated?--Can I not soon behold her?”
“I left her,” replied Gabrielle, with a deep sigh; “beneath the
fostering care of an excellent and worthy friend, where she is _now_
safe and happy.”
“She will be equally safe, and more happy, with us, my beloved.”
“Well, Angelo, to-morrow we will talk further upon this subject; at
present I must leave you;--my head burns, and my ideas are confused;--I
wish to arrange--” She paused, then resumed--“You are kind, you are
affectionate, Angelo; but I feel no sensation of happiness, and I wish
to enquire of myself whether I am unreasonable, and why your professions
of tenderness do not satisfy my heart:--farewell, to-morrow we shall
meet again.”
Angelo durst not offer opposition to the movements of Gabrielle;--he
faintly expressed regret, that she would not grant him a few moments
more of her society, yet suffered her to depart.--Already his quick
susceptibility, and conscience, which will not be silenced, had
whispered to him, _why_ Gabrielle felt not satisfied or happy; no
obstacle existed to his union with her; yet in all the exuberance of his
fondness he had not proposed to join his fate indissolubly with
her’s.--No; the contaminated principles, the poison of example, the
freedom of conduct, unrestrained by early precept, or, strict inculation
of the right and the wrong; the ignoble, and libertine, delights in
which from his youth he had indulged; the idle sneers, loose jests, and
contemptible ribaldry, against the first of moral institutions, of his
companions in debauchery,--all concurred to inspire the deluded Angelo,
though possessed of mind and feeling above the herd, with a dread and
abhorrence of marriage, such as scarce any earthly inducement, at the
present juncture, could have given him the courage to overcome.--Yet, he
loved Gabrielle, loved her to the highest degree of which his nature was
capable; but his love had in it more of passion than sentiment; more of
impetuosity than depth;--it resembled the wild and rushing torrent which
exhausts itself, rather than those deep and silent waters which flow
unruffled on.
Gabrielle, when she retired to her pillow, too well discovered why she
was neither satisfied nor happy. “He thinks me _unworthy_ of the name of
wife,” thought she, “and he is justified.” And with this bitter
reflection rankling at her heart, exhausted nature sought relief in
sleep.