CHAPTER I

Produced by Tapio Riikonen, tapri@kolumbus.fi

A SIREN

By Thomas Adolphus Trollope

CONTENTS

BOOK I

Ash Wednesday Morning

CHAPTER

I The Last Night of Carnival

II Apollo Vindex

III St. Apollinare in Classe

IV Father Fabiano

V "The Hours passed, and still she came not"

VI Gigia's Opinion

VII An Attorney-at-Law in the Papal States

VIII Lost in the Forest

IX "Passa la bella Donna e par che dorma"

BOOK II

Four Months Before That Ash Wednesday Morning

CHAPTER

I How the Good News came to Ravenna

II The Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare

III The Impresario's Report

IV Paolina Foscarelli

V Rivalry

VI The Beginning of Trouble

VII The Teaching of a Great Love

VIII A Change in the Situation

IX Uncle and Nephew

X The Coutessa Violante

XI The Cardinal's Reception, and the Marchese's Ball

XII The Arrival of the "Diva"

BOOK III

"Sirenum Pocula"

CHAPTER

I "Diva Potens"

II An Adopted Father and an Adopted Daughter

III "Armed at All Points"

IV Throwing the Line

V After-thoughts

VI At the Circolo

VII Extremes Meet

VIII The Diva shows her Cards

IX One Struggle more

BOOK IV

The Last Days of the Carnival

CHAPTER

I In the Cardinal's Chapel

II The Corso

III "La Sonnambula"

IV The Marchese Lamberto's Correspondence

V Bianca at Home

VI Paolina at Home

VII Two Interviews

VIII A Carnival Reception

IX Paolina's Return to the City

BOOK V

Who Did The Deed?

CHAPTER

I At the City Gate

II Suspicion

III Guilty or Not Guilty?

IV The Marchese hears the Ill News

V Doubts and Possibilities

VI At the Circolo again

VII A Prison Visit

VIII Signor Giovacchino Fortini at Home

IX The Post-Mortem Examination

X Public Opinion

XI In Father Fabiano's Cell

XII The Case against Paolina

BOOK VI

Poena Pede Claudo

CHAPTER

I Signor Fortini receives the Signora Steno in his Studio

II Was it Paolina after all?

III Could it have been the Aged Friar?

IV What Ravenna thought of it

V "Miserrimus"

VI The Trial

VII The Friar's Testimony

VIII The Truth!

IX Conclusion

A SIREN

By Thomas Adolphus Trollope

BOOK I

Ash Wednesday Morning

CHAPTER I

The Last Night of Carnival

It was Carnival time in the ancient and once imperial, but now

provincial and remote, city of Ravenna. It was Carnival time, and the

very acme and high-tide of that season of mirth and revel. For the

theory of Carnival observance is, that the life of it, unlike that of

most other things and beings, is intensified with a constantly crescendo

movement up to the last minutes of its existence. And there now remained

but an hour before midnight on the Tuesday preceding the first day of

Lent, Ash Wednesday--Dies Cinerum!--that sad and sober morrow which has

brought with it "sermons and soda-water" to so many generations of

revellers.

Of course Carnival, according to the Calendar and Time's hour-glass, is

over at twelve o'clock on the night of Shrove Tuesday. Generally,

however, in the pleasure-loving cities of Italy, a few hours' law are

allowed or winked at. The revellers are not supposed to become aware

that it is past midnight till about three or four in the morning.

Very generally the wind-up of the season of fun and frolic consists of

what is called a "Veglione," or "great making a night of it," which

means a masked ball at the theatre. And the great central chandelier

does not begin to descend into the body of the house, to have its lights

flapped out by the handkerchiefs of the revellers amid a last frantic

rondo, till some four hours after midnight. But in provincial Ravenna, a

Pope's city under the rule of a Cardinal Legate, there is--or was in the

days when the Pope held sway there--no Veglione. Its place was supplied,

as far as "the society" of the city was concerned, by a ball at the

"Circolo dei Nobili."

It was not, therefore, till four o'clock in the morning, or perhaps even

a little later, that the lights would be extinguished on the night in

question at the "Circolo dei Nobili," and Carnival would, in truth, be

over, and the tired holiday-makers would go home to their beds.

A few hours more remained, and the revelry was at its height, and the

dancers danced as knowing that their minutes were numbered.

There had been a ball on the previous night at the Palazzo of the

Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. But the scene at the Circolo was a much

more brilliant, animated, and varied one than that of the night before

at the Castelmare palace. The Marchese Lamberto was the wealthiest noble

in Ravenna, and--putting aside his friend the Cardinal Legate--was, in

many other respects, the first and foremost man of the city. He was a

bachelor of some fifty years old. And bachelors' houses and bachelors'

balls have the reputation of enjoying the privilege of a somewhat freer

and more unreserved gaiety and jollity than those of their neighbours

more heavily weighted with the cares and responsibilities of life. But

such was not the case at the Palazzo Castelmare. Presided over on such

occasions as that of the great annual Carnival ball by a widowed

sister-in-law of the Marchese, the Castelmare palace was the most

decorous and respectable house, as its master was the most decorous and

respectable man, in Ravenna.

Not that it was a dull house. The Marchese Lamberto, though a grave and

dignified personage in the eyes of the "jeunesse doree" of Ravenna, was

looked up to as one of the best loved, as well as most respected, men in

the city. And there was not a member of the "society" who would not have

been sadly hurt at not being invited to the great annual Carnival ball

at the Castelmare palace. But the same degree of laissez aller jollity

would not have been "de mise" there as was permissible at the Circolo.

The fun was not so fast and furious as it was wont to be at the club of

the nobles on the last night of Carnival.

The whole society were at the latter gathering. All the nobles of

Ravenna were the hosts, and everybody was there solely and entirely to

amuse and enjoy themselves. Host and guests, indeed, were almost

identical. There were but few persons present, and those strangers to

the town, who did not belong to their own class.

To the Marchese, on the previous night, most of the company had

contented themselves with going in "domino." At the Circolo ball a very

large proportion of the dancers were in costume. The Conte Leandro

Lombardoni,--lady-killer, Don Juan, and poet, whose fortunes and

misfortunes in these characters had made him the butt of the entire

society, and had perhaps contributed, together with his well-known

extraordinarily pronounced propensity for cramming himself with pastry,

to give him the pale, puffed, pasty face, swelling around a pair of pale

fish-like eyes, that distinguished him,--the Conte Leandro Lombardoni;

indeed, had gone to the Castelmare palace as "Apollo," in a costume

which young Ludovico Castelmare, the Marchese Lamberto's nephew, would

insist on mistaking for that of Aesop; and had now, according to a

programme perfectly well known previously throughout the city, come to

the Circolo as "Dante." The Tuscan "lucco," or long flowing gown, had at

least the advantage of concealing from the public eye much that the

Apollo costume had injudiciously exhibited.

Ludovico Castelmare had adopted the costume of a Venetian noble of the

sixteenth century; and very strikingly handsome he looked in that most

picturesque of all dresses. The Marchese Lamberto was at the ball, of

course, but not in costume. Perhaps the most striking figure in the

rooms, however, was one of those few persons who have been mentioned as

present, but not belonging to Ravenna, or to the class of its nobles.

This was a lady, well known at that day throughout Italy as Bianca

Lalli--"La Lalli," or "La Bianca," in theatrical parlance--for she was

one of the first singers of the day. Special circumstances--to be

explained at a future page--had rendered it possible for remote little

Ravenna to secure the celebrated artist for the Carnival, which was now

expiring. The Marchese Lamberto, who, among many other avocations and

occupations, all of them contributing in some way or other to the

welfare and advantage of his native city, was a great lover and

connoisseur of music, and patron of the theatre, had been mainly

instrumental in bringing La Lalli to Ravenna. The engagement had been a

most successful one. The "Diva Bianca" had sung through the Carnival,

charming all ears and hearts in Ravenna with her voice, and all eyes

with her very remarkable and fascinating beauty. And now, on this last

night of the festive season, she was the cynosure of all eyes at the

ball.

Bianca had, as it so happened, also chosen a Venetian costume of the

same period as that of Ludovico--about the middle of the sixteenth

century. In truth, it was mere chance that had led to this similarity.

And neither of them, as it happened, had mentioned to the other the

dress they intended to wear. Bianca, in fact, used as she was to wear

costumes of all sorts, and to outshine all beauties near her in all or

any of them, had thought nothing about her dress, till the evening

before; and then had consulted the Marchese Lamberto on the subject: but

had been so much occupied with him during nearly the whole of that

evening at his ball, that she had not said a word about it to any one

else.

It could not but seem, however, to everybody that the Marchese Ludovico

and La Lalli had agreed together to represent a pair belonging to the

most gorgeous and picturesque days of Venetian history. And a most

magnificently handsome pair they made. Bianca's dress, or at least the

general appearance and effect of it, will readily be imagined by those

acquainted with the full-length portraits of Titian or Tintoretto. A

more strictly "proper" costume no lady could wish to wear. And the

jeunesse doree of Ravenna, who had thought it likely that the Diva would

appear as some light-skirted Flora, or high-kirtled Diana, were

altogether disappointed.

But there was much joking and raillery about the evident and notable

pair-ship of Ludovico and Bianca; and it came to pass that, almost

without any special intention on their own part, they were thrown much

together, and danced together frequently. And this, under the

circumstances, was still more the case than it would have otherwise

been, in consequence of the Marchese Lamberto not dancing. It was a long

time since he had done so. There were many men dancing less fitted than

he, as far as appearance and capability, and even as far as years went,

to join in such amusements. Nevertheless, all Ravenna would have been

almost as much surprised to see the Marchese Lamberto dressed in mumming

costume, and making one among Carnival revellers, as to see the Cardinal

himself doing the same things. He had made for himself a social

position, and a life so much apart from any such levities, that his

participation in them would have seemed a monstrosity.

It may be doubted, however, whether on this occasion, at least, the

dignified Marchese was satisfied with the position he had thus made for

himself. It would have been too absurd and remarkable for La Bianca to

have abstained from dancing and attached herself to him in the

ball-room, instead of consorting with the younger folks. Of course that

was entirely out of the question. But none the less for that was the

evening a time of cruel suffering and martyrdom to the Marchese. Of

course he believed that the adoption of so singularly similar a costume

by Bianca and his nephew was the result of pre-arranged agreement. And

the thought, and all that his embittered fancy built upon the thought,

were making everything around him, and all the prospect of his life

before him, utterly intolerable to him.

Ludovico and Bianca had been dancing together for the third time--a

waltz fast and furious, which they had kept up almost incessantly till

the music had ceased. Heated and breathless, he led her out of the

ball-room to get some refreshment. There was a large supper-room which,

on the cessation of the waltz, immediately became crowded by other

couples bent on a similar errand. But there had also been established a

little subsidiary buffet in a small cabinet at the furthest end of the

suite of rooms, for the purpose of drawing off some of the crowd from

the main supper-room. And thither Ludovico led Bianca, thinking to avoid

the crush of people rushing in to the larger room.

The young Marchese--the "Marchesino," as he was often called, to

distinguish him from his uncle, the Marchese Lamberto--was one of the

small committee of the Circolo, who had had the management of all the

arrangements for the ball; and was, accordingly, well aware of the

whereabouts of this little "succursale" to the supper-room. But it is

probable that the existence of it was unknown to the great majority of

the company. At all events, so it happened, that when Ludovico and

Bianca reached it, it was wholly untenanted, save by Dante, in his long

red gown, solitarily occupied in cramming himself with pastry.

"What, Dante in exile!" cried Ludovico. "Pray, Sir Poet, which bolgia

was set apart for those who are lost by the 'peccato della gola?' or is

a bilious fit in the more immediate future bolgia fearful enough?"

"It is not so bad a bolgia as that appointed some other sins," said the

Conte Leandro, with mouth stuffed with cake, as he moved out of room.

"What an animal it is!" said Ludovico, laughing, as he gave Bianca a

glass of champagne, and filled another for himself.

"Take some of this woodcock pie, Signora Bianca? You must be starved by

this time; and I can recommend it."

"How so? You have not tasted it yourself yet."

"No; but I am going to do so. And my recommendation is based on my

knowledge of the qualities of our woodcocks. They are the finest in the

world. The marshes in the neighbourhood of the Pineta breed them in

immense quantities."

"Oh, I have heard so much of the Pineta. They say it is so lovely."

"The most beautiful forest in the world. And this is just the time when

it is in its greatest beauty,--the early spring, when the wild flowers

are all beginning to blossom, and the birds are all singing. There is

nothing like our Pineta!"

"I should so like to see it. It does seem really a shame to leave

Ravenna without ever having seen the Pineta."

"Oh, you must not dream of doing so. You must make a little excursion

one of these fine spring days. It is just the time for it. Some morning,

the earlier the better. But I dare say your habits are not very

matutinal, Signora?"

"Well, not very, for the most part. But I would willingly make them

matutinal for such a purpose at any time. How far is it?"

"Oh, a mere nothing--at the city gates almost a couple of miles,

perhaps. You may go out by the Porta Nuova, at the end of the Corso, and

so to that part of the forest which lies to the southward of the city;

or by the northern road, which very soon enters the wood on that side.

Perhaps the finest part of the Pineta is that to the southwards. Of all

places in the world it is the spot for a colazione al fresco."

"I should so like it. I have heard of the Pineta di Ravenna all my

life."

"What do you say to going this very morning?" said Ludovico, after

thinking for a minute. "There is no time like the present. It will be a

charming finish to our Carnival--new and original, too! Do you feel as

if you had go enough left for it?"

"Oh, as for that," said Bianca, laughing with lips and eyes, "I am up to

anything. I should like it of all things. But--"

"Ah! what a terrible word that 'but' is. But what?" said Ludovico, who

had no sooner conceived the idea than he became eager to put it into

execution. "But what?"

"But--a great many things. Unhappily, there is no word comes oftener

into one's life than that odious 'but.' But who is to go with me? I

cannot go all alone by myself?"

"Oh, that's no but at all. Of course, Signora, I did not propose such an

expedition to you without proposing to myself the honour of accompanying

you," said Ludovico with a profound bow.

"What a scappata! I should like it of all things. But--there it comes

again! 'But' the second; will not the good people say all sorts of

ill-natured and absurd things?"

"Not a bit of it--in my case, Signora. Everybody knows that we have been

very good friends; and that I have not been coxcomb enough to have ever

hoped to be aught more to you, having been protected, as they all know,

from such danger in the only way in which a man could possibly be

protected from it," said Ludovico, bowing again.

"Dear me! What way is that? It might be so useful to know. Would it be

equally applicable to a lady, I wonder?" said Bianca, looking at him

half laughingly, half-poutingly, with her head on one side. "Oh yes!

perfectly applicable in all cases, Signora. It is only to have no heart

to lose, having lost it already," returned he.

"Oh, come! This is a confidence dans les regles! And in return for it,

Signor Ludovico, do you know--speaking in all seriousness--that--if we

really do put this wild scheme into execution--I have a confidence to

give you, and may take that opportunity of making it--a confidence, not

which may or may not be made, like yours, but which I ought to make to

you, the necessity of making which furnishes, to say the truth, a very

plausible reason for our projected tete-a-tete."

"Davvero, Signora! Better and better; I shall be charmed to receive such

a mark of your friendship," said Ludovico, thinking and caring little on

what subject it might be that the Diva purposed speaking to him: "and

then, the fact is," he continued, "that to-morrow morning will be the

best morning for the purpose of all the days of the year. For we shall

be quite sure that every soul here will be in bed and asleep. On the

first morning in Lent one is tolerably safe not to fall in with early

risers. Our little trip, you may be very sure, will never be heard of by

anybody, unless we choose to tell of it ourselves."

"And I am sure that I do not see why we should not," said Bianca.

"I see no reason against telling all the town, for my part," rejoined

Ludovico; "afterwards though--you understand; and not beforehand, or our

little escapade would be spoilt by some blockhead or other insisting on

joining us. Our friend Leandro there, for instance; think of it!"

"The idea is a nightmare! No; we will not say a word till afterwards.

'Tis the most charming notion for a finale to a Carnival that ever was

conceived. I make you my compliments on it, Signor Ludovico."

"So, then, all the 'buts' have been butted and rebutted?" said he.

"Well, I suppose so,"--by the help of a strong desire to yield to the

temptation of so pleasant a scheme, the way 'buts' generally are

answered. "But we cannot go on the expedition as we are, I suppose?"

said she.

"I don't see why not. I dare say the old pines have seen similar figures

beneath them before now. But you would not be comfortable without

changing your dress, and the mornings are still sharp. This is how it

must be. I will slip away before long, and make all preparation

necessary. I will get a bagarino and a pony--not from the Castelmare

stables, you understand, but from a man I know and can trust--and I will

come with it to the door of your lodging at six o'clock. You will stay

at the ball till the end. Everybody will go by four o'clock, or soon

after. That will give you plenty of time to change your dress. By six

o'clock every soul in Ravenna will be fast asleep. We shall drive to a

little farm-house I know on the border of the forest, leave our bagarino

there, and have our stroll under the trees just as long and as far as is

agreeable to you. Won't that do?"

"Perfect! I shall enjoy it amazingly. I will be sure to be ready when

you come at six o'clock."

"I will be there at six or thereabouts. Now we will go back to the

ball-room; but don't dance till you have not a leg left to stand on. We

must have a good long stroll in the Pineta."

"Lascia fare a me! I dare say I shan't dance another dance--unless,

indeed, we have one more turn together before you go. Is there time?"

"Oh yes, for that plenty of time. If you are not afraid of tiring

yourself, one more last dance by all means."

So giving her his arm, the Marchesino led his beautiful and fascinating

companion back to the ballroom, where the music was again making the

most of the time with another waltz.

CHAPTER II

Apollo Vindex

The Conte Leandro Lombardoni had not passed a pleasant Carnival.

Reconciled, as he had recently professed himself to be--after some one

of the frequent misfortunes that happened to his intercourse with

them--with the fair sex, he had begun his Carnival by attempting to make

his merit acceptable in the eyes of La Lalli; and had failed to obtain

any recognition from her, even as a poet, to say nothing of his

pretensions as a Don Juan. To a certain limited degree, it had been

forced upon his perception, that he had been making an ass of himself;

and the appreciation of that fact by the other young men among whom he

lived had been indicated with that coarse brutality, as the poet said to

himself, which was the outcome of minds not "softened by the study of

the ingenuous arts," as his own was. He had been consistently snubbed

and flouted, he and his poetry, and his love-making, and his carefully

prepared Carnival costumes.

The result was, that at the ball on that last night of the Carnival, the

Conte Leandro was not in charity with all men, and, indeed, hardly with

any man. He was feeling very sore, and would fain have avenged his pain

by making any one else feel equally sore, if he had it in his power to

do so.

He was especially angry with Ludovico di Castelmare. Had he not chaffed

him unmercifully about the verses he had sent to La Bianca? Was it not,

to all appearance, due to him that the Diva had never condescended to

cast a glance on either him or his poetry? Had he not called him Aesop,

when it was plain to all the world that he represented Apollo? And now

this night, again, he had taken the opportunity of turning him into

ridicule in the presence of La Bianca; and he and she had spoken of the

possibility of their being troubled with his company as of a nightmare.

For the painful fact was that their uncomplimentary expressions had been

heard by the poet; who, when he had left Ludovico and Bianca in the

little supper-room together, had retreated no further than just to the

other side of a curtain, which hung, Italian fashion, by the side of the

open door. Finding that there was nobody there--for the little buffet

was at the end of the entire suite of rooms, and all those who were not

either in the ball-room, or in the card-room, were at that moment in the

principal supper-room--it had seemed well to the Conte Leandro, in his

dudgeon and spite against all the world, to ensconce himself quietly

behind the curtain, and hear what use Ludovico and Bianca would make of

their tete-a-tete.

The first advantage he obtained was to hear himself spoken of as a

nightmare; and that naturally: prompted him to prick up his ears to hear

more. But when he had thus learned the whole secret of the projected

expedition, it struck him, as well worth considering, whether there

might not be found in this the means of making his tormentor pay him for

some of the annoyances he had suffered at his hands.

So! the Marchese Ludovico, who ought to be paying his addresses to the

Contessa Violante in the sight of all Ravenna--the Contessa Violante

Marliani was great niece of the Cardinal Legate, between whom and the

Marchese Ludovico their respective families had projected an

alliance--was, instead of that, going off on a partie fine with the

notorious Bianca Lalli! A tete-a-tete in the Pineta! Mighty fine,

indeed! So sure, too, that nobody in the world would find them out on

Ash Wednesday morning! And he is to be at her door at six o'clock in the

morning! Very good! Capitally well arranged--were it not that Leandro

Lombardoni may perhaps think fit to put a spoke in the wheel.

A little further consideration of the manner in which such spoke might

be most effectually supplied, decided the angry and malicious

poet--(poets, like women, will become malicious when scorned)--to seek

out the Marchese Lamberto, whom he thought he should probably find in

the card-room. For though the Marchese was no great card-player, and

never touched a card in his own house, he was wont, at the Circolo, on

such occasions as the present, to cast in his lot with those who so

consoled themselves for the years that made the ball-room no longer

their proper territory.

But the Conte Leandro did not find the Marchese among the card-players.

The events of the evening had already thrown him back again into a very

miserable state of mind, from which the Marchese had been suffering such

torments as the jealous only know, during all the latter half of the

Carnival. It was strange that such a man as the Marchese Lamberto--it

would have seemed passing strange to any of those his fellow-citizens

who had known him, thoroughly as they supposed, all his life; very

strange that such a man, so calm, so judicious, so little liable to the

gusts of passion of any sort; a man, the even tenor of whose

well-regulated life had ever been such as to expose him rather to the

charge of almost apathetic placidity of temper, should thus suddenly, in

the full meridian time of his mature years, become subject to such

violent oscillations of passion; to such buffetings by storms, blowing

now from one and now from the opposite quarter of the sky. But no length

of prosperous navigation in the quiet waters of a land-locked harbour

will give evidence of the vessel's fitness to encounter the storms and

the waves of the open sea. The storm-wind of a strong passion had, all

at once for the first time, blown in upon the sheltered harbour in which

that placid life had been led.

And yet that storm-wind did not produce the same effect, as it would

have produced, and is seen to produce every day on the strong,

wide-spread canvas of some young navigator on the ocean of life, putting

out into the open waters at the time when such storms are frequent.

Every day we see such craft scudding with all sails spread before the

blast without attempt at reefing or tacking. Right ahead they drive

before the wind with no doubtful course. But it was not and could not be

so in the case of the Marchese Lamberto. The whole habits of a life--the

ways, notions, hopes, desires, ambitions, that time had made into a part

of the nature of the man; the passions, which though calm and unviolent

in their nature, had become strong, not by forcible energy, but by the

deep and unconscious sinking of their roots into the depths of his

character--all these things opposed a resistance to the new and

suddenly-loosed passion-wind, such as that which the deep-rooted oak

opposes to the tempest with no result of conquering it, only with the

result of causing its own leaves and branches to be buffeted to and fro,

torn, broken, and wrecked.

Thus it was that the unhappy Marchese was violently driven to and fro

from hour to hour between the extremities of love and hate, till his

brain reeled in the terrible conflict; and alternate attraction and

repulsion bandied his soul backwards and forwards between them.

A ball-room is not a pleasant exercise-ground for a jealous man who does

not dance. No "bolgia" of the hell invented by the sombre imagination of

the great poet could have surpassed, in torment, the Circolo ball-room

on that last Carnival night to the Marchese Lamberto.

The sight of the sorceress who had bewitched him, as he watched her in

the dance, had once again scattered to the winds all resolution, all

hope of the possibility of escaping from the toils. What was all else

that he desired to be put in comparison with that raging, craving desire

that he felt and sickened with for her? That was what he really

wanted--what he must have or die. It was madness to see her, as he saw

her then, in the arms of other men, laughing, sparkling, brilliant with

animation and enjoyment. Worst hell of all to see her thus with his

nephew, her admiration for whom she had frankly confessed; whose ways

with women he knew, and whose intimacy with Bianca had already become

suspicious to him.

Yet not the less did he stand and gaze, as they danced together, clearly

the handsomest and best-matched couple in the room--matched so admirably

evidently by design and forethought.

He had seen Ludovico and Bianca leave the ball-room, after the last

dance, together with the crowd of most of those who had been joining in

it, and had begun fluttering, poor moth, after the irresistible

attraction, to follow them towards the supper-room. Missing sight of

them in the throng for a minute, he had followed on to the principal

supper-room, and not finding them there (for the reason the reader wots

of) had returned on his steps, and was sitting on the end of a divan, by

the door of the next room to the ball-room, through which all had to

pass who wished to go thence to the supper-room. There were people

passing through the centre of the room from door to door; but there was

no other, save the Marchese, sitting down in it.

There the Conte Leandro found him, and came and sat down by his side;

much, at first, to the Marchese's annoyance.

"What! you not in the supper-room, Signor Leandro. I thought your place

was always there?" said the Marchese.

"I'm no greater a supper-eater than another; let them say what they

please. But I have just been getting a glass of wine and a biscuit in

the little supper-room at the further end there."

"What, are there two supper-rooms? I did not know that!"

"Only a buffet in the little room at the end, where the papers generally

are. It was mainly Ludovico's doing,--in order to have less crowd in the

supper-room,--and perhaps to have a quiet place for a tete-a-tete supper

himself. Oh! I knew better than not to clear out, when he and La Diva

Bianca came in; specially as there was nobody else there. Faith! I left

them there alone together."

"Oh! that's where he is supping, then?" said the Marchese, in the most

unconcerned tone he could manage.

"Yes; supping,--or enjoying himself in some other way, quite as

delightful. The fact is, Signor Marchese," continued the poet, in a

lowered voice, and rapidly glancing around to see that there were no

ears within such a distance as to overhear his words,--"the fact is,

that I am afraid Signor Ludovico is less cautious than it would be well

for him to be, circumstanced as he is! I am sure I did not want to

listen to what he and the Lalli were saying to each other. It is nothing

to me. But they spoke with such little precaution, that I could not help

overhearing what they said; and what do you think Ludovico is up to

now?"

"How should I know!" said the Marchese, with the tips of his pale lips;

for he was grinding his teeth together to prevent them from chattering

in his head.

"He is off at six o'clock to-morrow morning tete-a-tete with La Bianca,

on an excursion to the Pineta. Coming it strong, isn't it?"

"To-morrow morning!" said the Marchese under his breath, and with

difficulty; for his blood seemed suddenly to rush back cold to his

heart, and he was shivering all over.

"Niente meno! I heard them arrange it all. He is to slip away from the

ball presently, in order to make all needful preparations, and to be at

her door with a bagarino at six o'clock in the morning. Doing the thing

nicely, isn't it?"

For a minute or two the Marchese was utterly unable to answer him a

word. His head swam round. He felt sick. A cold perspiration broke out

all over him; and he feared that he should have fallen from his seat.

"He is a great fool for his pains," he said at last, mastering himself

by a great effort, sufficiently to enable himself to utter the words in

an ordinary voice and manner.

"Well, it seemed to me a mad scheme, considering all things. And the

truth is, that I thought your lordship would very likely think it well

to put a stop to it. And that is why I have bored your lordship by

mentioning it to you."

"At six o'clock, you say?" asked the Marchese.

"Yes; that was the hour they fixed. Then he is to drive her to a

farm-house on the border of the forest, leave the bagarino there, and go

into the wood for a stroll. Not a bad idea for a wind-up of the

Carnival, upon my word!"

"I think you have done very wisely and kindly in telling me this, Signor

Conte," said the Marchese, in as quiet tones as he could command; "and

if you will complete your kindness by saying no word of it to anybody

else, I shall esteem myself much obliged to you."

"Oh! for that you may depend on me, Signor Marchese. I should never have

thought of mentioning it to you, but for thinking that it would be a

real kindness to Ludovico to put a stop to it."

"Thanks, Signor Conte. A rivederla!" said the Marchese, rising.

"Felicissima notte, Signor Marchese," returned Leandro, rising also, and

bowing to his companion.

CHAPTER III

St. Apollinare in Classe

The Marchese remained at the ball to see one more dance between Ludovico

and Bianca after their supper; and then left the rooms. There was

nothing at all to cause remark in his thus retiring before the evening.

He never danced;--he happened not to be playing cards on that evening.

It was quite natural that such a man should prefer going home to bed to

remaining with the jeunes gens till the break-up of the ball.

How he enjoyed that last dance, which he stayed to see, the reader may

perhaps imagine. Standing by a chimney-piece, on one corner of which he

rested his elbow, he in great measure shaded his face with his hand, yet

not so as to prevent him from seeing every movement of the persons, and

every expression of the faces of the couple he was watching. There was a

raging hell in his heart. And yet he stood there, and gazed eagerly,

greedily one would have said. And every minute, and every movement

blasted his eyes and stabbed his heart, and poured poison into his

veins.

When the dance was over he did not move for some time; for he doubted

his power to hold himself upright and walk steadily. Presently, however,

when Ludovico and Bianca had again quitted the ball-room together, he

gathered himself up, and moved slowly away, shaking in every limb, pale,

fever-lipped, and haggard.

The man who gave him his cloak in the ante-room remarked to another

servant, as soon as he was gone, that he would bet that the Marchese

Lamberto would not be at the next Carnival ball.

At six o'clock, with wonderful punctuality for an Italian, Ludovico,

with a neat little bagarino and fast-trotting pony, was at the door of

the Diva's lodging. But Bianca was not ready. Her maid came down to the

door with all sorts of apologies, and assurances that her mistress would

be ready in a few minutes. The few minutes, however, became half an

hour, as minutes will under such circumstances. And the result of this

delay was that Ludovico and his companion were not the first travellers

out of the Porta Nuova that morning.

During the whole of the past Carnival and the latter months of the

previous year there had been living in Ravenna a young girl,--an artist

from Venice, who had come to Ravenna with a commission given her by a

travelling Englishman to make copies of some of the more remarkable of

the very extraordinary and unique series of mosaics which exist in the

old imperial city. She had brought with her a letter of introduction

from her employer to the Marchese Lamberto,--a circumstance which had

led to a degree of intimacy between the Marchesino Ludovico and the

extremely attractive young artist, which threatened to stand more or

less in the way of the match which had been arranged by the

high-contracting parties between Ludovico and the Lady Violante, the

great niece of the Cardinal. The girl's name was Paolina Foscarelli.

It is probable that in due time and season the reader may become better

acquainted with Paolina. But at present there is no need of troubling

him with more particulars respecting her than the above, save to mention

that, having industriously and successfully completed the greater

portion of her task in the churches within the city, she had determined

to make her first visit to the strange old Basilica of St. Apollinare in

Classe, on that same Ash Wednesday morning. She did not purpose

beginning her task there on that day; but intended merely to reconnoitre

the ground, look to the needful preparations that had been made for her

work, and ascertain how far the spot was within her powers of walking.

Paolina, too, had felt that the morning of Ash Wednesday was a

favourable time for the first experiment of an undertaking that a little

alarmed her. For she also had calculated that on such a morning she

should be little likely to meet anybody. It was just about six o'clock

when Paolina started on her proposed walk; and she passed through the

Porta Nuova, therefore, a little more than half-an-hour before Ludovico

and his companion passed, travelling in the same direction.

The road, which it was necessary for her to follow in order to reach St.

Apollinare in Classe, is the same for the whole of the distance between

the city and the ancient church as that which Ludovico and Bianca would

follow to reach the celebrated pine forest. The soil on which the forest

stands is composed of the accumulation of sand which the rivers--mainly

the Po--have brought from distant mountains, and deposited in the bed of

the Adriatic since the old church was built "in Classe,"--where the

fleet once used to be moored. The building thus stands nearly at the

edge of the forest, hardly more than a stone's throw from the furthest

advanced sentinels of the wood. The road coming out from the city by the

Porta Nuova, on its way to the little town of Cervia, a few miles to the

southward, traverses ground once thickly covered with palaces, streets,

and churches, now open fields,--and passes by the western front and

doorway of the almost deserted old Basilica, a little before it reaches

the turning off towards the left, which enters the forest.

The walk before Paolina, when she had passed the city gate, was about

two miles or rather more. So that had La Bianca taken a few less minutes

to put the finishing touches to the charming morning toilette which

replaced the gorgeous Venetian costume she had taken off, the bagarino

which carried her and Ludovico would infallibly have overtaken the young

artist. As it was, however, having more than half-an-hour's start of it,

she reached the church before they came within sight of it.

Little Paolina had felt rather nervous when first stepping into the cool

fresh morning air from the door of the lodging she occupied. But the

street was utterly empty, and she took courage. The first human beings

she saw on her way were the octroi officers at the gate. They sat

apparently half asleep at the doorway of their den, by the side of the

city gate, wrapped in huge cloaks; and took not even so much heed of her

as to say "Good morning."

The long bit of straight flat road outside the gate was equally

deserted; and Paolina, braced by the morning air, stepped out

vigorously, and began to enjoy her walk.

There is little enough, however, in the country through which she was

passing to delight the eye. The fields in the immediate neighbourhood of

the city are cultivated, and not devoid of trees. But the cheerfulness

thence arising does not last long. Very soon the trees cease, and there

are no more hedge-rows. Large flat fields, imperfectly covered with

coarse rank grass, and divided by the numerous branches of streams, all

more or less diked to save the land from complete inundation, succeed.

The road is a causeway raised above the level of the surrounding

district; and presently a huge lofty bank is seen traversing the

desolate scene for miles, and stretching away towards the shore of the

neighbouring Adriatic. This is the dike which contains the sulkily

torpid but yet dangerous Montone.

Gradually, as the traveller proceeds, the scene grows worse and worse.

Soon the only kind of cultivation to be seen from the road consists of

rice-grounds, looking like--what in truth they are--poisonous swamps.

Then come swamps pure and simple, too bad even to be turned into rice

grounds,--or rather simply swamps impure; for a stench at most times of

the year comes from them, like a warning of their pestilential nature,

and their unfitness for the sojourn of man. A few shaggy, wild-looking

cattle may be seen wandering over the flat waste, muddy to the shoulders

from wading in the soft swamps. A scene of more utter desolation it is

hardly possible to meet with in such close neighbourhood to a living

city.

Paolina shivered, and drew her little grey cloak more closely around her

shoulders; not from cold, though a bleak wind was blowing across the

marshes. She was warmed by walking; but the aspect of the scene before

her almost frightened the Venetian girl by the savagery of its

desolation.

The raised causeway, however, keeps on its course amid the low-lying

marshes on either side of it; and presently the peculiar form of outline

belonging to a forest composed entirely of the maritime pine is

distinguishable on the horizon to the left. The road quickly draws

nearer to it; and the large, heavy, velvet-like masses of dark verdure

become visible. In a forest such as the famous Pineta, consisting of the

maritime pine only, the lines, especially when seen at a distance, have

more of horizontal and less of perpendicular direction than in any other

assemblage of trees. And the effect produced by the continuity of

spreading umbrella-like tops is peculiar.

Then, soon after the forest has become visible, the road brings the

wayfarer within sight of a vast lonely structure heaving its huge long

back against the low horizon, like some monster antidiluvian saurian,

the fit denizen of this marsh world. It is the venerable Basilica of St.

Apollinare in Classe.

Through all this dismal scene Paolina tripped lightly along with a quick

step through the crisp morning air, no little awed by the dreary,

voiceless desolation of it, but yet encouraged and not unpleased by the

solitude of it.

The walk she found to be quite within her powers, at all events at that

hour of the morning and in that season of the year; and when she stood

before the western door of the ancient church, in front of which the

road passes, Ludovico and Bianca were only then on the point of starting

from the quarters of the latter, in the Strada di Porta Sisi.

Though knowing but little of the long and strangely diversified story

which presses on the mind of a stranger read in history as he stands

before the door of that desolate old church, Paolina could not but be

much struck by the appearance of the building and of the scene around

it. If ever a spot was expressive in every way by which a locality can

speak to the imagination of the abomination of desolation, the view

which spreads before the eye at the huge doorway of the Basilica of St.

Apollinare in Classe is so. The general character of the country around

it has been described. But the church itself is the most dreary and

melancholy feature in the landscape. No desolation resulting solely from

the operations of Nature, even in her least kindly mood, can ever

suffice to speak to the imagination as the change and decay of the works

of man's hand speak. To produce the effect of desolation in its highest

degree man must have at some former period been present on the scene,

and the remains of his work must be there to show that activity, life,

energy, has once existed where it exists no more. Nature is always and

everywhere progressive, and no sentiment of sadness belongs to progress.

Man's ruined work alone imparts the suggestion--(a delusive one, indeed,

but most forcible)--of falling back from the better to the worse.

Wonderfully eloquent after this fashion are the temples of Paestum, far

away there to the south beyond Naples, on the flat strip of miserably

cultivated soil between the Apennines and the Mediterranean. But they

are too far gone in ruin and decay to speak with so living a voice of

sadness as does this old Byzantine church. The human element is at

Paestum too far away,--too utterly dead and forgotten. In St. Apollinare

life still lingers. Life, flickering in its last spark, like the

twinkling of a lamp which the next moment will extinguish, is still

there. Life more suggestive of death, than any utter absence of life

could be.

There are some dilapidated remains of conventual buildings on the

southern side of the church, mean, and of a date some thousand years

subsequent to that of the Basilica. They are nearly ruinous, but are

still--or were till within a few years--inhabited by one Capucin friar,

and one lay brother of the order, whose duty it was to mutter a mass,

with ague-chattering jaws, at the high altar, and act as guardians of

the building.

Small guardianship is needed. The huge ancient doors--made of planks

from vine trunks which grew fifteen hundred years ago on the

Bosphorus--are never closed; probably because their weight would defy

the efforts of the two poor old friars, to whom the keeping of the

building is committed, to move them. But a poor and mean low gate of

iron rails has been fitted to the colossal marble door-posts, which

suffices to prevent the wandering cattle of the waste from straying into

the church, but does not prevent the fever-laden mists from the marshes

from drifting into the huge nave, and depositing their unwholesome

moisture in great trickling drops upon the green-stained walls.

But not even the low iron gateway was closed when Paolina reached the

church. It stood partially open. After having stood a minute or two

before the building to look round upon the scene, Paolina stepped up to

the gate and looked into the church, but could see no human being.

Within, as without, all was utter death-like silence. She shivered, and

drew her cloak more closely round her, as she stood at the gate; for the

healthy blood was running rapidly through her veins after her brisk

walk, and the deadly cold damp air from the church struck her with a

shudder, which was but the physical complement of the moral impression

produced by the aspect of the place.

After a minute, however, wondering at the stillness, half frightened at

the utter solitude, and awed by the vast gloomy grandeur of the naked

but venerable building, she pushed the gate, and entered.

CHAPTER IV

Father Fabiano

Paolina entered hesitatingly, and starting at the echoes of her

footsteps on the flagstones, wet and green, and slimy from the water,

which often in every year lies many inches deep on the floor of the

church. She advanced towards a small marble altar which stands quite

isolated in the middle of the huge nave. And as she neared it she

perceived, with a violent start, that there was a living figure kneeling

at it. So still, so utterly motionless had this solitary worshipper

been, so little visible in the dim light was the hue of the Franciscan's

frock that entirely covered him, that Paolina had not imagined that

there had been any living creature in the church. She saw, however, in

the same instant that she became aware of his presence, that the figure

was that of a Capucin friar, and doubted not that he must be the

guardian of the church, whom she had been told she would find there.

The little low altar, of an antiquity coeval with that of the church,

which stands in the centre of the nave, is the sole exception to the

entire and utter emptiness of the place. There are, indeed, ranged along

the walls of the side aisles, several ancient marble coffins, curiously

carved, and with semi-circular covers, which contain the bodies of the

earliest Bishops of the See. But the little altar is the sole object

that breaks the continuity of the open floor. The body of St. Apollinare

was originally laid beneath it, but was in a subsequent age removed to a

more specially honourable position under the high altar at the eastern

end of the church. There is still, however, the slab deeply carved with

letters of ancient form, which tells how St. Romauld, the founder of the

order of Camaldoli, praying by night at that altar, saw in a vision St.

Apollinare, who bade him leave the world, and become the founder of an

order of hermits.

It was on the same stones that the knees of St. Romauld had pressed,

that the Capucin was kneeling, as Paolina walked up the nave of the

church. The peaked hood of his brown frock was drawn over his head, for

the air of the church was deadly cold, and the fever and ague of many a

successive autumn had done their work upon him. He was called Padre

Fabiano, and was said to be, and looked to be, upwards of eighty years

old. Probably, however, his age was much short of that. For the nature

of his dwelling-place was such as to stand in the place of time, in its

power to do worse than time's work on the human frame.

Of course, it can be no matter of question, why a monk is here or is

there, does this or does that. Obedience to the will of his superiors is

the only reason for all that, in the case of other human beings, depends

on their own volition. The monk has no volition.

No human being who had, it might be supposed, would consent to live at

St. Apollinare in Classe, with one lay brother for a companion, and

discharge the duties assigned to the Padre Fabiano. But the question why

his superiors sent him there, was still one that might suggest itself,

though it was little likely ever to be answered. And the absence of all

answer to such question was supplied by the gossips of Ravenna, by tales

of some terrible crime against ecclesiastical discipline of which the

Padre Fabiano had been guilty some sixty years or so ago. Certain it was

that he had occupied his dreary position for many years; and it was

wonderful that fever and ague and the marsh pestilence had not long

since dismissed him to the reward of his long penitence on earth.

He rose from his knees as Paolina approached him, and gravely bent his

cowled head to her in salutation.

"You are early, Signora," he said. "I suppose you are the person for

whom yonder scaffold has been prepared."

"Yes, father, I am the artist for whom leave has been obtained to copy

some of your mosaics."

"You will find it cold work, daughter. The church is damp somewhat. You

would do better, methinks, not to begin your day's work till the sun has

had time to warm the air a little."

"I had no thought, father, of beginning to-day. I have brought nothing

with me. I only thought that I would walk out and have a look at the job

before me. It is not so far from the city as I thought."

"It is far enough to be as lonely and as deserted as if it were a

thousand miles from a human habitation," said the monk, looking into the

girl's face with a grave smile.

"Yet you live here, from year's end to year's end all alone, Padre mio,"

said Paolina, timidly.

"Not quite so, daughter," replied he. "Brother Barnaba, a lay brother of

our order, is my companion. But he is ill with a touch of ague at

present."

"And how early would it be not inconvenient to you, Padre mio, to open

the church for me?" asked Paolina.

"I spoke not of your being early on my account, daughter. If you come

here at sunrise, you will find the gate open, and me where you found me

this morning; and if you come at midnight you will find the same."

"At midnight, father!" said Paolina, with a glance of surprise and pity.

"Last October I was down with the fever," returned the monk; "but since

that time I have not failed one night to be on my knees where the

blessed St. Romauld knelt at the stroke of midnight. But I have not had

his reward;--doubtless because I am not worthy of it."

"What was the reward of St. Romauld, father?" demanded Paolina.

"His midnight prayers were rewarded by the vision of St. Apollinare in

glory, who spoke to him, and gave him the counsel he sought. Night after

night, and hour after hour, have I knelt and prayed. And I have heard

the moaning of the wind from the Adriatic among the pines of the forest

yonder, and I have seen the great crucifix above the high altar sway and

move in the moonlight when it comes streaming through the southern

windows; and sometimes I have hoped--and prayed--and hoped--but no

vision came!"

The old monk sighed, and dropped his head upon his bosom; and Paolina

gazed at him with a feeling of awe, mingled with a suddenly rising fear,

that the tall and emaciated old man, whose light-blue eyes gleamed out

from beneath his cowl, was not wholly right in his mind. She would have

been more alarmed had she been aware that the old Padre Fabiano of St.

Apollinare was generally considered in Ravenna to be crazed by all those

who did not, instead of that, deem him a saint.

Before she had gained courage to answer him, however, he lifted his

head, with another deep sigh, and said, in a very quiet and ordinary

tone and manner,

"Your scaffold is all prepared for you there, Signora, according to the

directions of the Signor Marchese Ludovico di Castelmare, who brought

with him an order from the Archbishop's Chancellor. Will you look at it,

and see if it is as you wish, and say where you wish to have it placed."

The mosaics in the apse of the centre nave are the most remarkable of

those that remain at St. Apollinare, though many of the series of

medallion portraits of the Bishops of the See from the foundation of it,

which circle the entire nave, are very curious. Paolina had engaged to

copy two or three of the most remarkable of these; but she intended to

begin her work by attacking the larger figures in the apse. And the

scaffolding had been placed there on the southern side.

"I think that is just where I should wish to have it," said Paolina,

looking up at the vault. "If I may, I will go up and see whether it is

near enough to the figure I have to copy."

"Do so, my daughter. It looks a great height, but I have no doubt that

it is quite safe. The Signor Marchese was very particular in seeing to

it himself. See, I will go up first to give you courage."

And so saying, the old man with a slow but firm step began to ascend the

ladder of the scaffolding. And when he had reached the platform at the

top, Paolina, more used to such climbing than he, and who in truth had

felt no alarm whatever, followed him with a lighter step.

"Yes, this will do nicely, Padre mio!" she said, when she had reached

the top; "it is placed just where it should be, and this large window

gives just all the light I want. It is a much better light than I had to

work by in San Vitale."

"I never was in San Vitale," replied the monk. "I have been here

fourteen years next Easter, and I have never once been in Ravenna in all

that time, nor, indeed, further away from this church than just a stroll

within the edge of the Pineta."

"That is the Pineta we see from this window, of course, Padre mio. What

a lovely view of it! And how beautiful it is! Where does that road go

to, Padre? To Venice?"

"No, figliuola mia. It goes in exactly the opposite direction,

southwards, to Cervia. The Venice road lies away to the northward,

through the wood that you can see on the furthest horizon. It was by

that road I came to Ravenna. I shall never travel it again."

"From Venice, father? Did you come from Venice?" asked Paolina, eagerly.

"From La bella Venezia I came, daughter--fourteen years ago. And once in

every month I indulge myself by going to the top of our tower--you can't

see it from this window, it is on the northern side of the church--and

looking out over the north Pineta as far as I can see towards it. May

God and St. Mark grant that no tempter ever offer me the sight of Venice

again at the price of my soul's salvation! I shall never, never see

Venice more!"

"You must be a Venetian, father, surely, to love it so well?" said

Paolina, after a minute or two of silence.

"A Venetian I am--or was, daughter; as I well knew you were when you

first spoke. Might I ask your name?"

"Paolina Foscarelli, father. I am an orphan," said she, softly.

"No!" said the monk, shaking his head, with a deep sigh, and looking

earnestly into the girl's face, but without any appearance of

surprise,--"No; you are not Paolina Foscarelli."

"Indeed, father, that is my name," said Paolina, again recurring to her

doubt whether the monk was altogether of sound mind, and speaking very

quietly and gently; "my father's name was Foscarelli, and the baptismal

name of my mother was the same as mine--Paolina."

"Jacopo and Paolina Foscarelli, who lived in the little house at the

corner of the Campo di San Pietro and Paolo," rejoined the monk,

speaking in a dreamy far-away kind of manner.

"I have truly heard that they lived there," said she; "but I was only

four years old when they died, one very soon after the other, and since

that I have lived with a friend of my mother's, Signora Steno."

"The child of Jacopo and Paolina Foscarelli," said the monk, in the same

dreamy tone, and pressing his thin emaciated hands before his eyes as he

spoke; "and you have come here to find me?"

"Nay, father, not to find you. I knew not that the padre guardiano of

St. Apollinare was a Venetian. I came only to copy these pictures for my

employer."

"Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful are the ways of God! Paolina

Foscarelli, daughter of Jacopo and Paolina, I Fabiano---"

"Look, padre min!" cried Paolina, suddenly and sharply, turning very

pale, and grasping the parapet rung of the scaffolding as she spoke,

"look! in the bagarino there on the road, just passing the church;

certainly that must be the Signor Marchese Ludovico!--And with him--that

lady?--yes, it is--it certainly is La Lalli--the prima donna, who has

been singing at the theatre this Carnival."

She pointed as she spoke to a bagarino that had just passed the western

front of the church, and was now moving along the bit of road visible

from the high window at which the monk and Paolina were standing.

The tone in which she spoke caused the friar to look at her first,

before turning his glance in the direction to which she pointed. She was

pale, and evidently much moved, after a fashion that, taken together

with the nature of the objects to which she drew his attention, and the

fact that it was the Marchese Ludovico who had come to St. Apollinare to

make the arrangements needed for the artist's work there, left but

little doubt in the old man's mind as to the nature of her emotion.

He looked shrewdly and earnestly into her face for a moment; and then

turning his eyes to the stretch of road below, answered her:

"Certainly, my daughter, that is the Marchese Ludovico. The lady I never

saw before as far as I am aware. They are going towards Cervia."

"No! See, father! They are turning off from the road to the left. Where

does that turning to the left go?"

"Only into the forest, daughter,--or to that little farm-house you see

there just at the edge of it. You may get as far as the sea-shore

through the Pineta; but the road is very bad for a carriage."

"To the sea-shorn!" said Paolina, dreamily.

"Yes, by keeping the track due east. The shore is not above a couple of

miles away. But there is no port, or even landing-place there. And there

are many tracks through the forest. You may get to Cervia, too, that

way. But it is hardly likely that any one would leave the road to find a

longer way by worse ways through the forest. More likely the object of

the Signor Marchese is only to show the lady the famous Pineta."

Paolina, while the monk was thus speaking, had kept her eyes fixed upon

the little carriage, which was making its way along a by-road

constructed on the top of a dike by the side of one of the numerous

streams that intersect all the district; and she continued to watch it

till she saw it stop at the entrance to the yard of the little

farmhouse, to which the monk had called her attention. She then saw

Ludovico and his companion descend from the carriage, and leave it

apparently in the charge of a man, who came out from the farm-yard. And

they then left the spot where they had alighted on foot, and in another

minute were no longer visible from the window at which Paolina and the

monk stood.

"How long a walk is it, father, from here into the wood?" asked Paolina,

musingly.

"It is a very short distance, daughter. There is a footpath practicable

in dry weather like this, a good deal nearer than the road we saw the

bagarino follow. You might get to the edge of the Pineta in that way in

less than ten minutes."

"And would it be possible to return to the city that way, instead of

coming back to the road?" enquired Paolina.

"Yes; for a part of the way there is a path along the border of the

wood. Then you must fall back into the road. The way lies by the gate of

the farm-house."

"I think I will go back to the city now, father. This scaffold is just

where it will suit me. And to-morrow, a little later perhaps than this, I

hope to come and begin my work. I shall have to come in a carriage, at

all events, the first time, because of bringing my things. I am so much

obliged to you, father, for your kindness. And I am so glad that you are

a Venetian. I little thought to find a fellow-countryman here."

"Or I to see this morning a Venetian--much less--but we will speak more

of that another time--if you will permit an old man sometimes to speak

to you when you are at your work?"

"Ma come--I can talk while I work. It will be a real pleasure to me to

hear the dear home tongue. I will go down the ladder first. I am not the

least afraid."

So Paolina left the church, and the monk stood at the yawning ever-open

western door, looking after her as she took the path he had indicated to

her towards the forest.

CHAPTER V

"The Hours passed, and still she came not"

There was misgiving in the heart of the old man as he stood at the door

of the Basilica looking after the light little form of Paolina as she

moved along the path, raised above the swamp on either side, that led

towards the edge of the forest.

The rays of the sun slanting from the eastward lighted up all the path

on which she was walking; and though the western front of the church was

still in shade, had begun to suck up the mists, and to make the air feel

at least somewhat more genial and wholesome. The monk pushed back the

cowl of his frock, which had hitherto been drawn over his head, the

better to watch the receding figure of the girl as she moved slowly

along the path; and still, as he gazed after her, he shook his head from

time to time with an uneasy sense of misgiving.

It was not that the mere fact of the girl's entering the Pineta alone

seemed to him, accustomed as he was to the place and its surroundings,

to involve any danger to her of any sort, beyond, indeed, the

possibility of losing herself for a few hours in the forest. The whole

extent of it is very frequently traversed by the men in the employment

of the farmers to whom the Papal government was in the practice of

letting out the right of pasturage and management of the wood. And these

people were all known. There were, it is true, encroachers on these

rights, who might well be less known, and less responsible persons; and

possibly the forest paths might sometimes be traversed by people bound

on some errand of smuggling. But nothing had ever happened of late years

in the forest to suggest the probability of any danger.

It was rather the nature of Paolina's own motives for her expedition, as

they were patent to the old monk, that disquieted him on her behalf. He

had marked the expression of her face when she had seen the bagarino

with Ludovico and his companion pass along the road towards the forest,

and the change in her whole manner after that. And monk, and

octogenarian as he was, he had been at no loss to comprehend the nature

of the emotions which had been aroused in her mind by the sight. And he

feared that evil might arise from the collision of passions, which it

seemed likely were about to be brought into the presence of each other.

Perhaps, monk and aged as he was, the apprehensions with which his mind

was busy seemed more big with possible evil than they might to another.

Perhaps it was so long since he had had aught to do with stormy passions

that the contemplation of them affrighted his stagnant mind all the more

by reason of the long years of passionless placidity to which it was

accustomed. Perhaps he had known passions stormy enough in the long long

past, and had experience of the harvest of evils which might be expected

to be produced by them.

Report said, that when Father Fabiano had been sent by his superiors to

occupy the miserable and forlorn sentinel's post at the church-door of

St. Apollinare, amid inundations in winter, and fever and ague in

summer, his appointment to the dreary office had been of the nature of a

penance and an exile. It was said, too, that the sentence of exile,

which placed him in his present position, had been an alleviation of a

more rigorous punishment; that he had been allowed, after a period of

many years of imprisonment in a monastery of his order at Venice, to

change that punishment for the duty to which he had been appointed, and

which would scarcely have seemed an amelioration of destiny to any one

save a man who had for years been deprived of the light of the sun and

the scent of the free air. Some deed there had been in that life which

had called for such monastic discipline; some outcome of human passion

when the blood, that now crept slowly, while the aged monk passed the

hours in waiting for visions before the altar of St. Apollinare, was

running in his veins too rapidly for monastic requirements.

It was evident from the few words that he had let drop, when he became

aware who the young Venetian visitor to the church under his care was,

that some special circumstances caused him to feel a more than ordinary

interest in her. Some connection there must have been between some

portion of his life and that of some member or members of her family. Of

what nature was it? Monkish tribunals, however else they may treat those

subjected to them, at least keep their secrets. Frailties must be

expiated; but they need not be exposed. And the true story of the fault

which condemned Father Fabiano to end his days amid the swamps of St.

Apollinare, as well as the precise nature of the connection which had

existed between him and Paolina's parents, can be only matter of

conjecture.

Paolina, as has been said, pursued her path slowly. She had tripped

along much more lightly on her way from the city to St. Apollinare. And

yet she was urged on by a burning anxiety to know whither Ludovico and

Bianca had gone, and for what purpose they had come thither. But,

despite this nervous anxiety, she stepped slowly, because her heart

disapproved of the course she was taking. It seemed as if she was drawn

on towards the forest by some mysterious mechanical force, which she had

not the strength to resist. Again and again she had well nigh made up

her mind to turn aside from the path she was following. She would go

only a few steps further towards the edge of the forest. She looked out

eagerly before her, standing on tip-toe on every little bit of vantage

ground which the path afforded. She would only go as far as that next

bend in the path. But the bend in the path disclosed a stile a little

further on, from which surely a view of all the ground between the path

she was on and the farmhouse at which Ludovico and his companion had

descended, might be had. She would go so far and no further. And thus,

poor child, she went on and on, long and long after the monk had lost

sight of her, and with a deep sigh, had turned to go back again into the

church.

It had been six o'clock when Paolina started on her walk to the church,

and nothing had been settled with any accuracy between her and the old

friend and protectress, with whom she had come to Ravenna, and lived

during her stay there, as to the exact time at which she might be

expected to return. The name of the protectress in question was Signora

Orsola Steno, an old friend of her mother's, who, when Paolina

Foscarelli had been left an orphan, had, for pure charity and

friendship's sake, taken the child, and brought her up. Latterly, by the

exercise of the talent inherited from her father, Paolina had been able

to do something, not only towards meeting her own expenses, but towards

making some return for all that the good Orsola had done for her out of

her own poverty. And now this commission of the Englishman who had sent

her to Ravenna would go far towards improving the prospects of both

Paolina and her old friend.

Old Orsola did not know exactly at what time to expect Paolina back; but

she knew that Paolina's purpose on that Ash Wednesday morning was merely

to walk to the church, and, having seen the preparations that had been

made for her work, to return, without on that occasion remaining to

begin her task. So that when the hour of the midday meal arrived, and

her young friend had not returned, old Orsola began to be a little

uneasy about her.

Nor was her uneasiness lessened by her entire ignorance as to there

being little or much, or no cause at all for it. Never having left

Venice before in her life, old Orsola was as much a stranger in Ravenna,

and felt herself to be in an unknown world, as completely as an

Englishman would in Japan. Since she had been in Ravenna she had

frequently heard the Pineta spoken of, and the old church out there in

which her young friend was to do a portion of her task. But she had

heard them both mentioned as strange and wild places, not exactly like

all the rest of the world. And the old woman felt, that, for aught she

knew, this Pineta, and the old church in the wilderness on the borders

of it, might be a place full of dangers for a young girl all by herself.

And as the hours crept on, and no Paolina came, her uneasiness increased

till she felt it impossible to sit quietly at home waiting for her any

longer. She must go out, and--do what? The poor old woman did not in the

least know what to do; or of whom to make any inquiry. The only person

with whom the two Venetian strangers had become at all intimate in

Ravenna was the Marchese Ludovico. And the only step in her difficulty

which old Orsola could think of taking, after much doubt and hesitation,

was to go to the Palazzo Castelmare, and endeavour to speak with the

Marchesino. The letter of introduction, which they had brought from the

English patron, was addressed to the Marchese Lamberto. But the

acquaintance of the Venetians with him had remained very slight; and

Orsola felt so much awe of so grand and reverend a Signor, that it was

to the nephew only that she thought of applying.

So, not without much doubt and misgiving, the old woman put on her

bonnet and cloak and made the best of her way to the Castelmare palace.

There she found a porter lounging before the door, to whom she made her

petition to be allowed to speak to the Signor Marchese Ludovico.

"My name is Orsola Steno," said the old woman humbly, a little in awe of

the majestic porter, chosen for that situation for his size; "and the

Signor Marchesino knows me very well. I am sure he would not refuse to

see me."

Insolent servants in a great house are generally a sure symptom of

something amiss in the moral nature of their masters. Good and kindly

masters have and make civil and kindly servants; and the big porter of

the palazzo Castelmare was accordingly by no means a terrible personage.

"Signora Orsola Steno! To be sure. I remember you very well, Signora,

when you called on the padrone last summer. I am sure the Signor

Marchesino would have pleasure in seeing you, if he were at home. But he

is not here. And to tell you the truth, we have no idea where he is. He

came home early this morning after the ball, and instead of going to

bed, changed his dress, and went out again at once; and has not been

back since. Some devilry or other! Che vuole! We were all young once

upon a time, eh, Signora Orsola? And as for the Marchesino, he is as

good a gentleman as any in Ravenna or out of it, for that matter. But he

is young, Signora, he is young! And that's all the fault he has. Can I

give him any message for you, Signora?"

"The fact is," said old Orsola, after a few moments of rapid reflection

as to the expediency of telling her trouble to the porter, and a

decision prompted by the good-natured manner of the man, and by the poor

woman's extreme need of some one to tell her trouble to,--"the fact is,

that I wanted to ask the advice of the Signor Marchesino about a young

friend of mine, the Signora Paolina Foscarelli, who went out of the city

early this morning to go to St. Apollinare in Classe, and ought to have

been back hours ago. And I am quite uneasy about her."

"Why, your trouble, Signora, is of a piece with our own," said the

porter, with a burly laugh; "and it seems to me like enough we can help

each other. You miss a young lady; and we miss a young gentleman. When I

used to go out into the marshes a-shooting with the Marchese, we used to

be sure, when we had put up the cock bird, that the hen was not far off;

or, if we got the hen, we knew we had not far to look for the cock. Do

you see, Signora? Two to one the pair of runaways are together; and

they'll come home safe enough when they've had their fun out. I dare say

the Signor Marchesino and the Signorina you speak of are old friends?"

"Why, yes, Signore. For that matter they are old friends!" replied

Orsola, adopting the porter's phrase for want of one which could express

the meaning she had in her mind more desirably.

"To be sure--to be sure. And if you will take my advice, Signora, you

will go home, and give yourself no trouble at all about the young lady.

Lord bless us! what though 'tis Lenten-tide? Young folks will be young,

Signora Orsola. They'll come home safe enough. And maybe I might as well

say nothing to the Signor Marchesino about your coming here, you know.

When folks have come to that time of life, Signora, as brings sense with

it, they mostly learn that least said is soonest mended," said the old

porter, with a nod of deep meaning.

And Signora Orsola was fain to take the porter's advice, so far as

returning to her home went. But it was not equally easy to give herself

no further trouble about Paolina. It might be as the porter said; and if

she could have been sure that it was so the old lady would have been

perfectly easy. But it was not at all like Paolina to have planned such

an escapade without telling her old friend anything about it. She felt

sure that when Paolina said she was going to St. Apollinare to look

after the preparations for her copying there, she had no other or

further intention in her thoughts. To be sure there was the possibility

that Ludovico might have known her purpose of going thither, and might

have planned to accompany her on her expedition, without having apprized

her of any such scheme. And it might not be unlikely that in such a case

they had been tempted to spend a few hours in the Pineta. And with these

possibilities Signora Steno was obliged to tranquillize herself as she

best might.

She returned home not without some hope that she might find that Paolina

had returned during her absence; but such was not the case--Paolina was

still absent. And though it was now some eight or nine hours from the

time she had left home, old Orsola had nothing for it but to wait for

tidings of her as patiently as she could.

CHAPTER VI

Gigia's Opinion

The aged monk of St. Apollinare, after watching Paolina as she departed

from the Basilica, and took the path towards the forest, returned into

the church to his devotions at the altar of the saint, as has been said.

But he found himself unable to concentrate his attention as usual, not

on the meaning of the words of the litanies he uttered,--that, it may be

imagined, few such worshippers do, or even attempt to do,--but on such

devotional thoughts as, on other occasions, constituted his mental

attitude during the hours he spent before the altar.

He could not prevent his mind from straying to thoughts of the girl who

had just left him; of certain long-sleeping recollections of his own

past, which her name had recalled to him; of her very manifest emotion

at the sight of the couple in the bagarino, and the too easy

interpretation of the meaning of that emotion; and specially of her

implied intention of taking the same route that they had taken.

He thought of these things, and a certain sense of uneasiness and

misgiving came over him. The young artist had spoken kindly and sweetly

to him. She had seemed to him wonderfully pretty,--and that is not

without its influence even on eyes over which the cowl had been drawn

for more than three-score years; she was a fellow-Venetian too,--and

that with Italians, who find themselves in a stranger city, is a

stronger tie of fellowship than the people of less divided nations can

readily appreciate; and, above all, there were motives connected with

those awakened remembrances of the old man which made her an object of

interest to him. And the result of all this was, that he was uneasy at

seeing her depart on the errand on which he suspected that she had gone.

After awhile he arose from his knees, and, returning to the great open

door of the church, stood awhile irresolutely gazing out towards the

forest to the southward. He could not see the farmhouse, which has been

so frequently mentioned, from where he stood, because it is to the

eastward of the church. After awhile he strolled out and along the road,

till he came in sight of the house on the border of the forest. But

there was no human being to be seen. Then, apparently having taken a

resolution, he went into the dilapidated remains of the old convent, and

ascended a stair to the room where his sole companion, the lay brother,

was ill in bed. He gave the sick man a potion, placed a cup with drink

by his side, smoothed his pillow, and replaced a crucifix at the

bed-foot before the patient's eyes; and then, with a word of

consolation, descended again to the road, and after a long look towards

the forest, slowly moved off the nearest border of it.

It was between eight and nine when Father Fabiano, moving slowly and

irresolutely, thus sauntered off in the direction of the forest; but it

was nearly time for him to sound the "Angelus" at midday before he

returned.

Perhaps it was the fear that he might be late for this duty,--a task

which devolved on him, the lay brother being ill,--that made his steps,

as he returned, very different from those with which he had set forth.

He came back hurrying, with a haggard, wild terror in his eyes, shaking

in every limb, and with great drops of perspiration standing on his

brow. One would have said that all this evident perturbation could not

be caused only by the fear of being late to ring the "Angelus." His

first care, however, was to pay another visit to his patient.

"Ah! Padre, you are going to have your turn again. It is early this

year. All this wet weather. Why, your hand is shaking worse than mine!"

said the sick man, as the old monk handed him his draught. And it was

true enough that not only Father Fabiano's hands were shaking, but he

was, indeed, trembling all over; and any one but a sick man, lying as

the fevered lay-brother was lying, could not have failed to see that it

was from mental agitation, rather than from the shivering of incipient

ague, that he was suffering.

"You think of getting well yourself, brother Simone. I have not got the

fever yet," said the monk, making an effort to control himself and speak

in his ordinary manner.

"May the saints grant that your reverence do not fall ill before I am

able to get up, or I don't know what we should do."

"It is years, brother Simone, that make my hand shake, more than ague

this time, years, and many a former touch of the fever. I am not ill

this time yet. And now I must go and ring the 'Angelus.'"

And the old monk did go, and the "Angelus" was duly rung. But Brother

Simone, as he lay upon his fevered bed, was very well able to tell that

the rope was pulled by a very uncertain and unsteady hand. "Poor old

fellow! he's going fast! I wonder whether there's any chance of their

moving me when he's gone?" thought Brother Simone to himself.

But Father Fabiano, for his own part, judged that prayer and penance

were more needed for the healing of his present disorder, than either

bark or quinine. And when he had rung the bell, he betook himself again

to the altar of St. Apollinare, and with cowl drawn over his head, and

frequent prostrations till his forehead touched the marble flags of the

altar-step, spent before it most of the remaining hours of that day.

Nevertheless, it was true that, be the cause what it might, the aged

friar was ill, not in mind only, but also in the body. And before the

hour of evensong came,--his coadjutor, Fra Simone, the lay-brother,

being by that time so much better as to be able to crawl out,--Father

Fabiano was fain to stretch himself on the pallet in his cell. And Fra

Simone took it quite as a matter of course in the ordinary order of

things, that the father was laid up in his turn with an attack of fever

and ague.

It was much about the same time that Father Fabiano had set out on that

walk to the forest, from which he had returned in such a state of

agitation, that old Quinto Lalli, the prima donna's travelling

companion, was made acquainted with the escapade of his adopted

daughter. Though she bore his name, the fact was that the old man was in

no way related to the famous singer. But they had lived together in the

relationship first of teacher and pupil, and then of father and

daughter, by mutual adoption ever since the first beginning of the

singer's public career; and they mutually represented to each other the

only family ties which either of them knew or recognized in the world.

The old man had been several hours in bed, when Bianca had returned from

the ball, at about five in the morning of that Ash Wednesday. And it was

not till he came from his room, between eight and nine, that he heard

from Gigia, Bianca's maid, that her mistress had not gone to bed, but

had only changed her dress, and taken a cup of coffee before going out

with the Marchese Ludovico more than an hour ago in a bagarino.

There was nothing sufficiently strange to the former habits of his

adopted daughter in such an escapade, or so unlike to many another

frolic of the brilliant Diva in former days, as to cause any very great

surprise to the old singing-master--for such had been the original

vocation of Signor Lalli. Yet he seemed on this occasion to be not a

little annoyed at what she had done.

"And a very great fool she is for her pains," cried the old man, with an

oath; "it is just the last thing she ought to have done--the very last.

I really thought she had more sense!"

"I am sure, Signor Quinto, she has not had one bit of pleasure all this

Carnival. A nun couldn't have lived a quieter life, nor more shut up

than she has. With the exception of the old gentleman and the Marchese

Ludovico, she has never seen a soul!"

The old gentleman thus alluded to, it may be necessary to explain, was

the Marchese Lamberto. "And where's the use of never seeing a single

soul, if she throws all that she has gained by it away in this manner?"

"Why, Santa Virgine, Signor Quinto! Where's the harm? Isn't the Signor

Ludovico the old one's own nephew?" expostulated Gigia shrilly.

"The old one, as you call him, is not a bit the more likely to like it

for that. It is just the very last thing she should have done. I do

wonder she should not have more sense," grumbled Quinto.

"Misericordia! why what a piece of work about nothing! The old gentleman

will never know anything about it, you may be very sure. He is safe

enough in bed and asleep after his late hours, you may swear. Besides,

it's both best and honestest to begin as you mean to go on, and accustom

him to what he's got to expect," said Gigia, fighting loyally for her

side.

"All very well in good time. But it would be as well for Bianca to make

sure first what she has got to expect."

"Why, you don't suppose, Signor Quinto, nor yet that old Marchese don't

suppose, I should think, that he's going to marry a woman like my

mistress, to keep her caged up like a bird that's never to sing, except

for him?"

"I tell you, Gigia, and you would do well to tell her, and make her

understand, that she is not Marchesa di Castelmare yet, and is not

likely to be, if this morning's work were to come to the ears of the

Marchese. It is just the very worst thing she could have done; and I

should have thought she must know that. I had rather that she should

have gone with any other man in the town."

"I am sure," said Gigia, with a virtuous toss of the head, "she would

not wish to go with any one of them."

"And she would wish to go with the Marchese Ludovico! There's all the

mischief. Just what I am afraid of. I tell you, Gigia, that if the

Marchese Lamberto hears of her going off in this manner with his nephew,

the game is all up. He would never forgive it."

"You will excuse me, Signor Quinto," said Gigia, with a demure air of

speaking modestly on a subject which she perfectly well understood--"You

will excuse me, if I tell you that I know a great deal better than that.

There's men, Signor Quinto, who are in love because they like it; and

there's others who are in love whether they like it or no, because they

can't help themselves!"

"And you fancy the Marchese Lamberto is one of those who can't help

himself, eh?" grumbled Quinto discontentedly.

"If I ever saw a man who was so limed that he couldn't help himself,

it's that poor creature of a Marchese! He's caught safe enough, you may

take my word for that, Signor Quinto. He's caught, and can't budge, I

tell you--hand nor foot, body nor soul! Lord bless you, I know 'em. Why,

do you think he'd ever have come near my mistress a second time if he

could have helped himself? He's not like your young 'uns, who come to

amuse themselves. Likely enough, he'd give half of all he's worth this

day never to have set eyes on her; but, as for giving her up, he could

as soon give himself up!"

"Humph!" grunted the old singer, with a shrug, and a sound that was half

a sneer and half a chuckle. "I suppose he don't above half like the

price he has to pay for his plaything! But that don't make it wise in

Bianca to drive him to the wall more than need be. Limed and caught as

he is, he's one that may give her some trouble yet. For my part, I wish

she had not gone on this fool's errand this morning. Now, I will go and

get my breakfast. I shall be back in half-an-hour. I expect Signor

Ercole Stadione here this morning."

Signor Ercole Stadione was the impresario of the Ravenna theatre.

"And if he comes before you are back, Signor Quinto?" asked Gigia.

"If he should come before I am back, let the boy call me from the cafe.

And, Gigia, whenever he comes, you can let him understand, you know,

that your mistress is in her own room,--resting after the ball, you

know. He's hand and glove with the Marchese."

"I wasn't born yesterday, Signor Quinto, though you seem to think so,"

returned Gigia, as the old man began to descend the stairs.

Signor Quinto went to the cafe, and consumed his little cup of black

coffee, with its abominable potion of so-called "rhum" in it, and the

morsel of dry bread, which constituted his accustomed breakfast; and

then, as he was returning to his lodging, encountered the "impresario"

in the street.

"Well met, Signor Lalli!" cried little Signor Ercole, cheerily. "I was

on my way to your house to settle our little matters. I have not seen

you, I think, since Sunday night. The bustle of these last days of the

Carnival! How divinely she sang that night! If Bellini could have heard

her, it would have been the happiest day of his life."

"I am glad that you were contented, Signor Ercole."

"Contented! The whole city was enraptured. There never was such a

success. You have got that little memorandum of articles--?"

"No. I've got the paper signed at Milan; but not--"

"Stay, let me see. True, true. I remember now. It remained with the

Marchese. We shall want it, you know, just to put all in order. We can

call at the Palazzo Castelmare on our way, and ask the Marchese for it?"

"Will he be up at this hour, after last night's ball?" asked Quinto.

"He? The Marchese? One sees you are a stranger in Ravenna, my dear sir.

I don't suppose the Marchese has ever been in bed after eight o'clock

the last quarter of a century. He is an early man, the Marchese,--an

example to us all in that, as in all else."

"Very well; then we can call for the paper on our way to my lodging; it

is not much out of the way."

So they walked together to the Palazzo Castelmare, talking of the

brilliant success of the past theatrical season, and of the eminent

qualities and virtues of the Marchese Lamberto; and when they reached

the door the impresario desired the servant who answered the bell to

tell the Marchese that he, Signor Ercole, wished to speak with him, but

would not detain him a moment.

The Marchese, the man said, was not up yet. He, the servant, had been to

his door at the usual hour, but had received no answer to his knock; so

that it was evident that his master was still sleeping. He had been very

late the night before,--far later than was usual with him,--and no doubt

he would ring his bell as soon as he waked.

"The fact is," said Signor Ercole, as he and Quinto Lalli turned away

from the door, "that the Marchese has not been well of late. He very

often does me the honour of conversing with me,--I may say indeed of

consulting me on subjects of art;--and I grieve to say that I have of

late observed a change in him. He is not like the same man."

"Getting old, I suppose, like the rest of us," said Quinto.

"Like some of us," corrected Signor Ercole; "but, Lord bless you! the

Marchese is a young man--a young man, so to speak,--he's not above

fifty, and a very young man of his years; at least he was so a month or

two ago. But changed he is. Everybody has seen it. Let us hope that it

is merely some temporary indisposition. Ravenna can't afford to lose the

Marchese."

"I suppose we had better put off settling our little bit of business

till another time?" said Quinto. "Shall we say to-morrow, at the same

hour? And I will get that paper from the Marchese in the meantime,"

returned Signor Ercole.

"That will suit me perfectly well; to-morrow, then, at my lodgings at

ten, shall we say?"

"At ten; I will not fail to wait upon you, Signor Lalli, at that hour.

In the meantime I beg you to present my most distinguished homage to the

divina Cantatrice," said the little impresario, taking off his hat and

holding it at arm's length above his head, as he made a very magnificent

bow.

"Servitore suo, stimatissimo Signor Ercole! A dimane!" replied old

Quinto, as he returned the impresario's salutation, with a slighter and

less provincial bow.

"A dimane alle dieci!" rejoined the impresario; and so the two men

parted.

"Not a bad bit of luck," thought the old singing master to himself, as

he sauntered towards his lodging, "that the Marchese should be in bed

this morning. It gives a chance that he may never hear of this mad

scappata with the Signor Ludovico. Lose the Marchese Lamberto! No, per

Bacco! there are other people, beside the good folks of the city of

Ravenna, who can't afford to lose the Marchese Lamberto just yet!"

CHAPTER VII

An Attorney-at-law in the Papal States

At a little after twelve o'clock on that same Ash Wednesday morning, a

servant in the Castelmare livery brought a verbal message to the

"studio" of Signor Giovacchino Fortini, "procurators,"--attorney-at-law,

as we should say,--requesting that gentleman to step as far as the

Palazzo Castelmare, as the Marchese would be glad to speak with him.

The message was not one calculated to excite any surprise either in the

servant who carried it, or in Signor Fortini himself. Signor Giovacchino

was, and had been for many years, the confidential lawyer of the

Castelmare family. And the various business connected with large landed

possessions made frequent conferences necessary between the lawyer and

such a client as the Marchese, who, among his other activities, had

always been active in the management and care of his estates.

Signor Giovacchino Fortini was very decidedly the first man of his

profession in Ravenna, as indeed might be expected of the person who had

been honoured for more than one generation by the confidence of the

Castelmare family. For the lawyer was a much older man than the

Marchese, and had been the confidential adviser of his father. And old

Giovacchino Fortini's father and grandfather had sat in the same

"studio" before him, and had held the same position towards previous

generations of the Castelmare family.

For three generations also the Fortini, grandfather, father, and son,

had been lawyers to the Chapter of Ravenna; a fact which vouched the

very high standing and consideration they held in the city, and at the

same time explained the circumstances under which it had come to pass

that the "studio" they had occupied for so many years, seemed more like

some public building than the private offices of a provincial attorney.

In fact the "Studio Fortini" was a portion of an ancient building

attached to the Cathedral, in which some of the less dignified members

of the Chapter had their residences. The building in question encircled

a small cloistered court, the soil of which was on a lower level than

that of the street outside it; and the residences, to which a series of

little doors around this cloister gave access, looked as if they must

have been miserably damp and unwholesome. But the "Studio Fortini" was

not situated in any part of this damp lower floor. In the corner of the

cloister nearest to the Cathedral, there was a wide and picturesque old

stone staircase, which led to an upper cloister, as sunny and pleasant

looking as the lower one was the reverse. There, near the head of the

stair, was a round arched deeply sunk stone doorway, closed by a black

door, bearing a bright brass plate on it, conveying the information,

altogether superfluous to every man, woman, and child in Ravenna, that

there was situated the "Studio Fortini."

This black door was never quite closed during the day. It admitted

anybody who chose to push it into a small ante-room, on one side of

which might be seen through a glass door a long low vaulted room, or

gallery rather, running over some half dozen of the inhabited cells

below. And along the whole length of it on either side, up to the height

of the small round arched windows placed high up in the wall, were

ranges of shelves occupied by many hundreds of volumes, all of the same

size, and all bound alike in parchment, with two red bands of Russian

leather running across the backs of them, and all lettered and dated in

black ink, of gradually shaded degrees of fadedness. The place looked

like the archive-room of some public establishment, which kept its

archives in very unusually good order.

All these were the documents and pleadings in all the lawsuits and other

legal transactions of all the clients of the three generations of the

Fortini. And it would not have been too much to say, that Signor

Giovacchino Fortini would have deemed the destruction of this mass of

papers as a misfortune to be paralleled only by that of the Alexandrian

library.

On the opposite side to the long gallery the anteroom gave access to a

large and lofty vaulted chamber, about one-sixth part of the space of

which--that is, a third of the floor and a half of the height--was

partitioned off by a slight modern wall and ceiling. Two young clerks

occupied the larger unenclosed portion of the large hall,--for such its

size entitled it to be called,--and Signor Fortini's senior and

confidential clerk sat on the top of the ceiling, which enclosed the

smaller portion. A small wooden stair gave access to this lofty

position, which was admirably adapted for keeping an eye on the

youngsters on the floor below. Under the same ceiling, in the snug

little room thus divided off, sat Signor Fortini himself. And a very

snug and bright-looking little room it was, with a pretty

stone-mullioned three-lighted casement window opening to the south; and

in the wall at right angles to it another window, offering accommodation

of a much more unusual and peculiar kind. It opened, in fact, into the

transept of the cathedral, and had been intended to enable the occupier

or occupiers of the apartment, now inhabited by the lawyer, to enjoy the

benefit of attending mass without the trouble of descending into the

church for that purpose. If Signor Giovacchino Fortini did not often use

it for that purpose, it, at all events, had the effect of imparting an

ecclesiastical air to his habitat, which seemed to have a certain

propriety in the case of a gentleman whose business connections with the

hierarchy were so close, and unquestionably added to the savour of

unimpeachable respectability which appertained to Signor Fortini and all

belonging to him.

Signor Fortini was a tall, thin, adust old man, with a large,

well-developed forehead, a keen, bright hazel eye, and bristling,

iron-grey hair, which had once been black, and a beard to match, which

seemed as if the barber entrusted with the care of it were always two or

three days in arrear with his work. By some incomprehensible combination

of circumstances it seemed as if Signor Fortini's face were never seen

fresh shaven. His sharp chin and lanthorn jaws appeared to be

perennially clothed with a two days' old crop of grisly stubble,--two

days' growth,--neither more nor less!

Long years ago he had buried a childless wife, who was said to have been

a wonderful beauty, and to have been in many ways a trouble greater than

Signor Fortini knew how to manage, and a trial that made his life a

burthen to him. Those old troubles were now, however, long since past

and gone; and Signor Fortini lived only for his law and his artistic and

antiquarian collections. He was like many of his peers in the provincial

cities of the Papal dominions--a great antiquary and virtuoso.

Antiquarianism is a "safe" pursuit under a government the nature of

which makes and finds very many intellectual occupations unsafe. And

this may account for the fact, that very many competent historical

antiquaries and collectors are found in the Pope's territories among

such men as Signor Fortini.

The son and grandson of thriving lawyers, who had for nearly an hundred

years managed the affairs of the Chapter and the estates of the

principal landed proprietors of the neighbourhood, was not likely to be

otherwise than well off; and it was generally understood that Signor

Fortini was a wealthy man. He loudly protested on all occasions that

this was a most mistaken notion; but there never occurred an opportunity

of adding to his very remarkable collection of drawings of the old

masters, or his unrivalled series of mediaeval seals, or his all but

perfect library of the Municipal Statutes of the mediaeval Communes of

Italy, which found Signor Fortini unprepared to outbid most competitors.

There were very few among his clients whom Signor Fortini would not have

expected to call on him at his "studio," instead of summoning him to

wait on them. But the Marchese di Castelmare was one of these

few,--perhaps as much, or more, on the score of old friendship as on

that of rank and social importance.

The old lawyer was not more importantly occupied when he received the

Marchese's message, than by intently examining a bronze medal through a

magnifying-glass; and he sent back word that he would be with the

Marchese immediately. The fact was he did not like the look of this

summons at all. He, too, had observed the unmistakable change in his old

friend; and jumped to the conclusion that what he was wanted for was to

make, or to be consulted about making, the Marchese's will.

"To think of his breaking up so suddenly, in such a way as this. No

stamina! Why, he must be twenty years my junior; and I don't feel a day

older than I did ten years ago, not a day. He has led a steady life too;

and seemed as likely a man to last as one would wish to look at. I

suppose everything will go to the nephew,--legacies to servants, and

something, I should not wonder, to the town hospital,--not that I think

he can have saved much, if any thing. I should like that little cabinet

Guido and I don't suppose Signor Ludovico would care a rush about it."

With these thoughts in his mind Signor Fortini presented himself at the

door of the Castelmare palace within ten minutes of the time when he had

received the summons of the Marchese, and was immediately ushered into

the library.

A bright ray of sunshine was streaming in at the large window, and

flooding half the room with its comfortable warmth and cheerful light.

But the Marchese, though he held a scaldino (a little earthenware pot

filled with burning braise) in his hand, and was apparently shivering

with cold, sat in his large library-chair, drawn into the darkest corner

of the room, cowering over this scaldino, which he held between his

knees. He jumped up from his seat, however, to receive his visitor with

an air, one would have said, of having been startled by his entrance.

"It is kind of you to come to me so quickly, Signor Giovacchino," he

said; and then turning angrily to the servant, who was leaving the room,

added in a cross and irritable voice, very unlike his usual manner, "Why

are not those persiane shut? Close them directly, and then

begone--quick!"

The man, with a startled look, did as he was bid; and the heavy wooden

jalousies thus shut reduced the room to comparative darkness.

"I am afraid I find you very far from well, Signor Marchese. Would not a

little sun be pleasant this bright morning? the air is quite fresh

despite the sunshine."

"I don't like the sun indoors! I don't know how my rascals came to leave

the persiane open."

"I thought you seemed cold, Signor Marchese," said the lawyer, kindly.

"So I am cold--very cold," he said, and his teeth chattered as he said

it; "but the light hurts my eyes."

"It very often does so when one is not well."

"Not well! I'm well enough, man alive. But I think I must have caught a

little cold at the ball last night," rejoined the Marchese, striving

hard to speak in his usual manner.

The lawyer, whose eyes had by this time become accustomed to the

diminished light, looked hard at his old friend from beneath his great

shaggy black eye-brows, with a shrewdly examining glance, and then

slightly shook his head.

"Well, I daresay you'll be all right again in a day or two. But any way,

I am glad you sent for me all the same. These things have to be done,

you know. And a man does not die a bit the sooner for doing them. For my

part, I always advise my friends to have all such matters settled while

they are in health."

"What, in Heaven's name, are you talking about? I don't know what you

mean," said the Marchese, with an angry irritability that was totally

unlike his usual manner. "I sent for the lawyer; and you come and talk to

me as if you wanted to play the doctor."

"I assure you, Signor Marchese, I have not the slightest desire to play

any part but my own. And that I am perfectly ready to enter on. I am

ready to take your instructions, and will draw up the instrument

to-morrow or the next day. Thank God there is no cause for hurry. And

that is one of the advantages of arranging all testamentary dispositions

while we are in health. My own will, Signor Marchese, has been made

these ten years."

"What is that to me? I may make my will ten years hence, and yet get it

done in quite as good time as you have, Signor Fortini. Pray allow me to

judge for myself, when I think it right to make my will. I have usually

been able to manage my own affairs." He spoke with a degree of anger and

petulance, jumping up from his chair, and taking a turn to the window

and back again, which seemed to conquer the shivering fit from which he

had been suffering.

"Manage your own affairs, Signor Marchese! Who would dream of

interfering with your management of them? But did you not send for me to

make your will?" said the lawyer, standing also.

"Send for you to make my will! No devil told you I wanted to make my

will? I said nothing about making my will."

"I beg your pardon, Signor Marchese. Perhaps I jumped at a conclusion

over hastily. I thought it a wise thing to do, and so imagined that you

were going to do it;--that's all. Let us say no more about it. What

commands have you then to give me?"

The Marchese took another turn across the room before replying; and the

observant lawyer saw him, when his back was turned, pass his hand across

his brow, with the action of one ill at ease. Then resuming his seat,

and motioning the lawyer to take a chair, he said--"If you will take a

chair, Signor Giovacchino, I will tell you the business for which I have

sent for you. I have thought it my duty--family considerations--in fact,

I've been thinking on the subject for a long time--in short, Signor

Fortini, I am about to be married."

"Whew--w--w!" whistled the lawyer, without the least attempt at

concealing the extremity of his astonishment; and pushing back his chair

a couple of feet, as he raised his head to stare into his companion's

face.

"And pray, Signor, what is there to be astonished at in such an

intention?" said the Marchese, evidently wincing under the lawyer's

look.

"I beg your pardon, Signor Marchese, but--the fact is--one is always

astonished at what one does not expect, you know. You may depend on it,

I am not one bit more astonished than every human being in Ravenna will

be," said the lawyer, looking hard at him.

"I am not aware, Signor Fortini, that I have to answer to any one save

myself for the wisdom of my resolution," said the Marchese, with a

dignity more like his usual manner than he had yet spoken.

"Certainly not, Signor Marchese. Certainly not. But the exception is an

important one. You will have to answer for the wisdom of your resolution

to yourself," rejoined Fortini, drily.

"That, Signor Fortini, is my affair. As I told you, I have considered

the matter well; and I have made up my mind."

"May I ask, Signor Marchese, whether your intention has been

communicated to your nephew?" asked the lawyer.

"As yet I have announced it to no one save yourself. As soon as the

necessary arrangements with regard to matters of property have been

determined on, it will be the fitting time to do so."

"Before any word can be said on that head, of course, it is necessary

that your lordship should mention, what you have not yet confided to

me,--the name of the lady with whom you are about to ally yourself."

"Of course; and it is for the purpose of doing so that I have requested

your presence here this morning, Signor Fortini. Before naming the lady,

I will merely remark to you, that a man at my time of life may be

expected to know his own mind, and has a right to please himself. And

bearing these remarks in mind, you will understand that I do not wish to

hear any observations on the subject of the choice I have made. My

choice is made; and that is sufficient."

The Marchese looked up into the lawyer's face, and paused for some reply

to these preliminary observations before proceeding to tell his secret;

but the lawyer maintained a look and attitude of silent expectation.

"It is my intention," proceeded the Marchese, "to marry the Signora

Bianca Lalli;--the lady whose conduct, as well as her talent, has won

the good opinion of the entire city."

The old lawyer flung down on the table, with a clatter, a paper-knife

which he had taken into his hand while speaking, and rising abruptly

from his chair, took one or two turns across the room before he answered

a word. Then coming in front of the Marchese, and still continuing to

stand, he said,

"You have warned me, Signor Marchese, not to make any remarks on the

communication you have just made to me. There is one, however, which

perforce I must make. It is that I must decline to take any

instructions, or to act in any way, for the forwarding of such a

purpose."

"There are other attorneys in Ravenna, Signor Fortini."

"Plenty, Signor Marchese; plenty who will be abundantly ready to do your

bidding. But Giovacchino Fortini will not. Good heaven! I should expect

to have my dear and honoured old friend and patron, your father, coming

out of his grave to upbraid me. Signor Marchese, you know right well--as

well as I do myself--that at this time of day, I don't care two straws,

as a mere matter of gain, whether I continue to be honoured with the

transaction of your legal affairs or not. But I do care on other

grounds. And I do implore you to believe that I am speaking to you more

as a friend than as a lawyer;--that I am speaking to you as the whole

city would speak, and will speak when it hears of this--this

incredible--this monstrous notion,--when I entreat you to think yet

further on this most disastrous purpose."

Of course when a man speaks as Signor Fortini spoke to the Marchese, he

does it not without some hope that his words may produce an effect on

the person he addresses. But the lawyer had not much expectation that in

the present case what he said would be listened to. He spoke more for

the discharge of his own conscience, and because the feelings he

expressed were strong within him, than for any other reason. And he

fully expected that he should be answered with words of anger and

uncompromising rejection of his interference.

It was not without considerable surprise, therefore, that he heard the

Marchese's moderate answer to the strong opposition he had offered to

his intention. "Well, Signor Fortini, I cannot doubt that what you have

said has been, at all events, dictated by a strong regard for my

welfare, as you understand it. I have, as I told you, made up my mind

upon the subject. Nevertheless, counsel cannot but be useful, and it is

well not to be precipitate. I will, therefore, so far accept your advice

as to promise you that I will give myself time to deliberate yet further

on the step. In the meantime you will note that my first communication

to you on the subject was made on this first day of Lent; so that when I

again seek your assistance in the matter, you will know that I have at

least not acted in a hurry, but have given myself due time for mature

reflection."

"I am delighted, Signor Marchese, to have obtained from you at least

thus much. It is at all events something gained. And I shall still hope,

that further reflection may lead you to change your purpose. Hoping

that, I shall, you may depend upon it, breathe no word of what you have

said to me to any living soul. But you must understand that, without

such hope, I should have deemed it my duty to speak on the subject with

the Marchese Ludovico."

"How so, Signor Fortini? A lawyer--"

"Very true, Signor Marchese. A lawyer, as you would observe, is

addressed by his client in confidence, and the confidence should be

sacred. But you must remember that I have the honour to act in this, as

I and my father have done on all other occasions for now three

generations, not only for your lordship, but for the whole of the

family. I am the legal adviser of the Marchese Ludovico, as I was his

father's, and as I am yours. It is my duty, therefore, as I understand

it, to look upon myself as bound to consider the welfare and interests

of the entire family; and I need not remark to you how cruelly those of

the Marchese Ludovico would be compromised by such an event as we were

contemplating just now."

"With regard to speaking to my nephew on the subject, Signor Fortini, I

can have no objection to your doing so, if you think it your duty. He

will, of course, be informed of my intention by myself. Do not forget,

however, that my first communication to you on this subject was on the

first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday."

"Forget it, Signor Marchese! I am not likely to forget it for a long

time to come, I assure you," said the lawyer, not a little surprised.

"I mention it because I am anxious that you should not accuse me of

acting with precipitancy in this matter; that when I shall renew my

application to you, you may remember that I have had due and sufficient

time for reflection. Addio, Signor Giovacchino," said the Marchese,

reverting to the more friendly form of address; "addio, ed a rivederci

fra poco!"

"Servo suo, Lustrissimo Signor Marchese, a rivederci!"

CHAPTER VIII

Lost in the Forest

Signor Fortini went straight home to his pleasant little snuggery under

the wing,--it might almost be said, under the roof,--of the Cathedral,

and sat down in his easy chair to resume the occupation that had been

interrupted by the summons from the Marchese. He took up the medal he

had been examining, and the magnifying glass, in a manner that implied a

sort of ostentatious protest to himself that the calm and even tenour of

his own life and occupations was not to be disturbed from its course by

all the follies and extravagances of the world around him.

But "mentem mortalia tangunt!" The glass was soon laid aside: the medal

remained idly in his hand, and his mind would recur to the things he had

just seen and heard.

That an old bachelor should be caught at last by a pretty face, and make

a fool of himself in his mature age, was no unprecedented phenomenon.

That a man, who had never in any way made a fool of himself at the

proper age for such an operation, should, after all, do so when those

who did so in their salad days have become wise, was not unheard of.

Nevertheless, Signor Fortini, who, in the course of his seventy years,

had had a tolerably wide experience of mankind, was astonished that the

Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare should have been tempted to act as he

proposed to act.

"The very last man," said Signor Fortini musingly to himself, "that I

could have suspected of such a thing! The man who has the highest

reputation in the city for sound judgment and unexceptionable conduct,

to turn out the greatest fool! An old ass! How little be dreams of what

he is bringing upon himself. Let alone the terrible fall, the

disgrace,--in every way, disgrace and contempt and ridicule! It seems

impossible, even now, that he should be in earnest. He must be mad! And,

davvero, his manner was at times so strange, that I could almost believe

he really is not quite in his right mind. Very strange his manner

was,--very! And very ill he looked, too. Everybody has been saying that

he looked ill,--that he looked old,--that there must be something wrong

with him. Wrong with a vengeance! So this was the cause of it all: the

Marchese Lamberto is in love! Bah!--Bah!!--Bah!!!--(with crescendo

expression of disgust). Poor devil! Well, I was in love once, or fancied

myself so. But then. I was twenty-five years old. Un altro paio di

maniche! And I very soon found out my mistake. But he, at his time of

life! And such a woman! Well, the Emperor Justinian married Theodora.

So, I suppose we Ravennati have authority for madness in that kind. And

that poor good fellow, the Marchese Ludovico, too! It is too bad. And

all because such a creature as that is cunning enough to know how to

drive a hard bargain for the painted face she has to sell. But that is

the sort of woman who can make that sort of conquest. A good woman now,

who would have made him an honoured and good wife, would never have made

such a blind, abject slave of him. He is bewitched! He is mad! and ought

not to be allowed to carry out so insane a project! Perhaps it may still

be possible to induce him to hear reason. It was very odd, that way,

that just at last he promised me he would think of it again before he

finally decided. Very odd. Just as if a man has not finally decided in

such a matter before he sends to his lawyer! It is all very--very

strange. And I have a good mind to speak to Signor Ludovico at once. I

think it would be the right thing to do,--I do think that would be the

most proper thing to do. The old fool ought to be treated as one non

compos!"

And then the old lawyer, after spending nearly an hour in such musings,

got up and went to his house,--not two minutes' walk from his

"studio"--to his solitary but comfortable two-o'clock dinner.

By the time he had finished his repast, he had made up his mind that he

would at once confer with the Marchese Ludovico on the subject of his

uncle's disastrous project. It was by that time nearly half-past three;

and Signor Fortini walked out towards the Circolo, having little doubt

that he should find Ludovico there at that hour.

But on his way thither he met the man he was in search of in the street.

The young Marchese was walking at a hurried pace, and appeared to be

scared, troubled, and heated. Nothing could be more unlike his usual

easy, lounging, poco-curante bearing. The lawyer saw at once that

something was the matter; and thought that, in all probability, the

Marchese Lamberto had been already forestalling him, by speaking to his

nephew himself on the subject of his projected marriage.

"Oh, Signor Ludovico," said Fortini, as he met him, "I was on my way, to

the Circolo, on purpose to see if I could meet with you there."

"Why, what is it? Have you any news to tell me?" said the young man in a

hurried manner, that the lawyer thought odd.

"Yes. I wished to speak to you on rather an important matter. Have you

seen the Marchese Lamberto this morning?"

"No. I have been out of the town. I am but this moment come back,"

replied Ludovico, evidently anxiously.

"I should be glad to speak to you for a few minutes before you go to the

Palazzo Castelmare. If you are going to the Circolo, I would walk with

you, and we could speak there," said Fortini.

"I'll be there in less than ten minutes. But I want first to run just as

far as La Lalli's lodging in the Strada di Porta Sisi, only to ask a

question," said Ludovico.

"La Lalli again! The devil fly away with her! It was about her that I

wanted to speak to you," said the lawyer.

"What about her? Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?" asked

Ludovico, hurriedly and anxiously.

"I seen her! No. Where she is? In her bed most likely, after dancing all

last night, I should think!"

"Well, I must run and just ascertain whether she is at home!" said

Ludovico, again trying to escape. But the old lawyer, partly put a

little bit out of temper by the young man's evident wish to get rid of

him, partly angered by finding the nephew thus running after the same

mischief that was threatening to ruin his uncle, and partly thinking

that it was desirable that the news he had to tell should be told before

Ludovico should come to speech with his uncle, was determined not to let

him escape till he had said what he had to say.

"Very well, Signor. I can say what I have to say in the street as well

as anywhere else. Though I confess I expected a somewhat more ready

reception of information which concerns you nearly, Signor Marchese, and

which I am prompted to tell you by my interest in your welfare. Listen!

Your uncle sent for me this morning for the purpose of announcing to me

his intention of marrying this Bianca Lalli!"

"So I have been told this very morning," said Ludovico.

"I thought you said that you had not seen your uncle this morning!"

returned the lawyer.

"No more I have; but are there not two persons from whom such an

intention may be learned?" said Ludovico, with a slight approach to a

sneer.

"The lady, you mean?" said Fortini.

"Exactly so--the lady!" rejoined Ludovico.

"The lady herself told you that the Marchese Lamberto had proposed

marriage to her?" persisted the lawyer.

"The lady herself told me so," replied the Marchese.

"But I thought you said that you had only just now returned to the

city?" objected the lawyer again.

"Really, Signor Fortini, one would think that I was being examined

before a police-magistrate! However, since my tongue has let the cat out

of the bag, you may take the creature, and make the most of her! I did

receive the intelligence in question from the lady concerned, and I have

just returned to the city. She communicated the fact to me during a

little excursion we made together to the Pineta this morning, after the

ball. Now you know all about it," said Ludovico, still in a hurry to get

away.

"Not quite!" rejoined Fortini, quite imperturbably. "If you went to the

Pineta with her--(did anybody ever hear of such a mad thing?)--and

returned this morning, how can you want to go now to her house to ask

whether she is there?"

"Because, you very clever inquisitor, though I went to the Pineta with

her, I did not say that I had come back with her."

"The deuce you did not! Did another gentleman undertake the duty of

escorting the lady back to town? It is all exceedingly pleasant for the

Marchese Lamberto, upon my word!--oh, exceedingly!--and really a

foretaste to him of the joys to come, quite frankly offered to him on

the part of the lady!" sneered the old lawyer.

"Pshaw! how she may have come back, or with whom, I don't know, and

can't guess; and that is just what I am anxious to find out," said

Ludovico, in provoked impatience.

"I don't understand. Where did you part with the lady?" persisted the

lawyer, interested rather by the evident uneasiness of the Marchese

Ludovico, than by any care how and in what company Bianca might have

found her way back to the city.

"Well, that's just the curious part of the matter. If you want to know

how the thing happened, since you know so much already, walk with me to

the Strada di Porta Sisi, and I will tell you how it happened. At the

ball we spoke of the Pineta,--she had never seen it,--asked me to show

it to her. In short, we agreed to start on leaving the ball, instead of

going to bed. I got a bagarino, and drove her to the farmhouse by the

edge of the wood, just behind St. Apollinare; left the bagarino there,

and strolled into the wood. It was there that she told me of my uncle's

purpose. And I was not a little taken aback, as you may suppose.

However, that is matter for talk by-and-by. We strolled about a good

while, then sat down. She told me a good deal of the history of her

life. We must have been talking--I don't know how long; but a long time.

Then she said she was so sleepy, she must have a little sleep; she could

keep her eyes open no longer. Natural enough! She had been dancing all

night--had never closed her eyes for a minute since. The bank we were

sitting on was the most delicious place for a siesta that can be

conceived. In two minutes she was fast asleep. She slept on and on till

I was tired of waiting. No doubt I should have slept too, had not the

intelligence she had given me been of a sort to keep me waking, for one

while at least. Having my mind full of this, and not being able to

sleep, I strayed away from her, and returned in a few minutes, as I

think, to the place where I had left her, but could not find her. I

could not be sure about the place. One bit of the forest is so much like

another,--just the same thing over and over again,--that I could not

feel quite sure of the spot. I still think I went back to the right

place; but there she was not. Then I searched the wood all round, far

and near, for, I should think, a couple of hours or more. I called

aloud, again and again, all to no purpose. And what on earth has become

of her I cannot imagine."

"And why you need trouble your head about it, I don't see. I wished the

devil might fly away with her just now! And if the devil has taken the

hint and done so, I confess it seems to me about the best thing that

could happen! Why on earth you, of all people in the world, Signor

Ludovico, should be so anxious to recover the lady, I confess I cannot

understand. Would it not be the best thing in the world for you if she

were never heard of again?"

"Oh, per amore di Dio, Signor Giovacchino, don't talk in that way. Never

heard of again! I shall be really uneasy if I don't hear of her again in

a very few minutes. It is so extraordinary. What can have become of

her?"

"Become of her! Why, she waited, of course: got tired of waiting for

you, and so strolled back to the town. That sort of lady does not much

like waiting, I fancy."

"That sort of lady does not much like walking so far as from the Pineta

here, I fancy. Besides, I should have overtaken her on the road."

"In any case what is there to be uneasy about. No harm can have happened

to her. No such luck, per Bacco!"

"Harm! No; no harm can have happened to her, beyond losing herself in

the forest. What I am afraid of is that she has strayed and not been

able to find her way. And God knows how far she may wander. When I tell

you that in wandering away from the place where I left her, for not

above a quarter of an hour, I lost my way, and that when I found, as I

supposed, the place where we had been, I could not be sure whether it

was the same spot or not; you may suppose how easy it is to lose

oneself. And I don't suppose the poor girl would be able to walk very

far. If she has not returned, I must get help and go back to the forest

and search till I find her."

"It's far more likely that you will find that she has returned home. I

wish, for my part, that she had never set foot within a dozen miles of

Ravenna. Just think what it would be! But I trust--I trust we may yet be

able to induce your uncle to listen to reason."

"I'll tell you what, Signor Fortini. I should not be surprised if it

should be found more possible to make the other party hear reason."

"What, the lady!"

"Yes, the lady--if we set about the matter in the right way."

"Well, Signor Ludovico, it may be that you may understand such matters

and such people better than I can pretend to do. It is not improbable.

But my conceptions of the power of persuasion have never risen yet to a

belief in the possibility of persuading a dog who has got a lump of

butter in his mouth to relinquish it."

"Umph! you are not particularly gallant, Signor Giovacchino. We shall

see. But all that must be matter for future conversation. Here we are at

her door. Let us see if anything has been heard of her." Ludovico,

leaving his companion for an instant in the street, sprang up the stairs

to make inquiry; and in the next minute returned looking very much vexed

and annoyed, with the information that nothing had been seen or heard of

the Diva since she left the house in his company at an early hour that

morning.

CHAPTER IX

"Passa la Bella Donna e par che dorma"--Tasso

"What's to be done now? I absolutely must find her," said Ludovico,

looking, as he felt, exceedingly puzzled and annoyed.

"Well, yes. Considering the nature of the information she gave you this

morning, and bearing in mind that her existence in the flesh promises to

be the means of leaving you without the price of a crust of bread in the

world, and the further fact she was last seen starting on a tete-a-tete

expedition with you at six o'clock in the morning, I admit that it is

desirable that you should find her," said the lawyer, with somewhat grim

pleasantry.

"For heaven's sake, Signor Giovacchino, don't talk in that sort of way,

even in jest," replied the young man, looking round at the lawyer with

an uneasy eye. "After all, nothing can have happened to her, you know,

worse than losing herself in the Pineta."

"Pooh! happen to her. What should happen to her? Either you did not go

back to the place where you left her; or, likely enough, after strolling

a little away from it, and not finding you, she sat down, and two to

one, fell asleep again. I would wager that she is, at this moment, fast

asleep under the shadow of a pine-tree, making up for last night."

"But what had I better do? If she is still either sleeping or waking in

the forest, I must find her."

"Let us just step as far as the gate, and make some inquiry there. If

she returned to the city she must have come to the Porta Nuova. And she

could hardly have entered the town without drawing the attention of the

men at the gate. Just let us make inquiry there in the first place."

So they went together to the Porta Nuova, and nothing more was said

between them during the short walk. But it seemed as if the manifest

uneasiness of Ludovico had infected his companion. Yet it was evident

that thoughts of a different nature were busy in their minds. The

Marchese Ludovico pressed on faster than the old lawyer could keep up

with him, and was very unmistakably anxious about the object of his

quest, and the tidings which he should be able to hear at the gate.

Signor Fortini had apparently got some other and newly-conceived thought

in his mind. He looked two or three times shrewdly and furtively into

the face of the young Marchese; and closely compressed his thin lips

together, and drew into a knot the shaggy eye-brows over his clear and

thoughtful eyes. Some notion had been suggested to his mind which very

plainly he did not like.

At the gate nothing had been seen of the object of their search. The

octroi officers perfectly well remembered seeing the Marchese Ludovico,

who was well known to them by sight, drive through the gate very early

that morning in a bagarino with a lady. One man had recognised the lady

as the prima donna at the opera. And they were very sure that she had

not returned to the city since, at least by that gate.

But one of the officers volunteered the information that another young

lady had that morning passed out of the city on foot a little before the

time at which the bagarino had passed with the Marchese and the prima

donna. And the men, after some consultation together, were sure that

neither had that young lady returned by the gate they guarded.

Ludovico looked at the lawyer, and the lawyer looked at Ludovico; but

neither of them could suggest anything in explanation of so strange a

circumstance.

"I saw nothing of any such person either in the Pineta or on the road,"

said Ludovico. "Who could it have been?"

The old lawyer only shrugged his shoulders in reply

"There is a young lady," resumed Ludovico, after some minutes of

thought, "a friend of mine--a young artist engaged in making copies from

the mosaics in our churches. I know that it was her purpose shortly to

begin some work of this kind at St. Apollinare in Classe. It may be that

she had selected this morning for the purpose of going out to look at

her task,--though I almost think that I should have been informed of her

intention."

"The plot seems to thicken with a vengeance," said the lawyer, with an

impatient shrug, and a slight sneer of ill-humour, provoked by the

multiplicity of his young client's lady friends. "I daresay," he added,

"the young ladies are not playing hide-and-seek in the Pineta all by

themselves."

"But what had I better do?" said the young Marchese, looking with

increased anxiety into the lawyer's face; "the fact is--you see, Signor

Giovacchino, this new idea, this possibility that Paolina--that is the

young artist's name--may be--may have been in the forest--in short, I

feel more uneasy than before till I can learn what has become of both of

them."

"Do you mean," said the lawyer, with a sneer in his voice, but at the

same time looking into his companion's face with a shrewd expression of

investigation in his eye,--"do you mean that the two ladies may possibly

have fallen in with each other, and may in such case not improbably have

fallen out with each other? You know best, Signor Marchese, the

likelihood of any trouble arising out of such a meeting."

"For God's sake don't speak in such a tone, Signor Giovacchino. I tell

you I am seriously uneasy. Should they have met under such

circumstances--God only knows--What would you advise me to do, Signor

Giovacchino?" said the Marchese, looking into the lawyer's face with

increasing and now evidently painful anxiety.

"It is ill giving advice without knowing all the circumstances of a

case, Signor Marchese," returned Fortini, somewhat drily, looking hard

at the young man as he spoke, and putting a meaning emphasis on the word

"all."

"You do know all the circumstances as far as I know them myself. The

thing happened exactly as I told you," replied Ludovico.

"You left her sleeping on a bank in the forest, and have never seen her

since?" said the lawyer, thoughtfully.

"Exactly so! I returned to the spot where I had left her--at least as

far as I could tell it was the same spot--and she was no longer there,"

replied Ludovico.

"But you were not sure that you did return to the same spot? You could

not recognise it again with certainty?"

"So it seemed to me when I was there. I think it must have been the same

place. But when I did not find her, I could not feel sure of it. Every

spot in the Pineta is so like all other spots. One pine-tree is just

like another; and the grassy openings, and the little thickets of

underwood, are all the same over and over again. I felt that I could not

be sure that the place was the same."

"Was there no fallen tree, no track of road, no specialty of weed or

flower, that the spot might be identified by?"

"None I think--none that I am aware of or can remember. There was a

little rising of the ground,--a sort of bank, and the grass was

sprinkled all over with wild flowers. There were violets close at hand,

I know, because I remember the scent of them! But when I came to try, it

seem'd to me that I found all these things in a dozen other places."

"Nevertheless, you know at what point you entered the Pineta; it cannot

be very difficult to have the whole wood, within such a distance as it

is at all likely that she should have strayed to, thoroughly searched.

But the best men for the purpose would be some of the foresters in the

employ of the farmers of the forest. I dare say that we might find--what

is that coming along the road yonder?" said the lawyer interrupting

himself.

The two gentlemen had been standing during the above short conversation

just on the outside of the gate, and looking down the stretch of long

straight road towards St. Apollinare and the pine forest.

"It is a knot of men coming along the road. They are likely enough some

of the very fellows we want. In that case we might get them to go back

with us without loss of time."

"With us?" said the lawyer, who had not bargained when he left his home,

for any such expedition. "Well, I don't mind helping you, Signor

Marchese, in your search," he added, after a moment's consideration;

"but I am not going to walk to the Pineta this afternoon; and I should

think you must have had enough of it for to-day. But I will tell you

what I can do. We will send one of these fellows to my house to order my

servant to come here with my calessino as quick as he can; and if these

men are the people we want--What are they doing? They are carrying

something! Why surely--Signor Marchese!" said the old lawyer, looking

into his companion's face, while a strange expression of understanding,

mixed with a blank look of dismay and alarm, stole over his own

features.

"What is it?--What have they got?--Why, heavens and earth! it is--Signor

Fortini, is it not a dead body they are carrying? My God!"

The young man griped his companion's arm hard, as he spoke, and the

action enabled the lawyer to remark that he was shaking all over.

In another minute the men whom they had seen coming along the road were

close to the gate. They were six in number; and they were

bearing--somewhat, between them. They advanced beneath the covered

gateway, and there, as it is necessary to do in the case of everything

brought into the town, they set their burthen down on the flag-stones,

at the feet of the officers of the gate, and of the Marchese and the

lawyer.

Their burthen was a door lifted from its hinges, and supported by three

slender stakes drawn green from a hedgerow. And on the door there lay,

covered with a sheet, what was evidently a dead body.

Ludovico, with his eyes starting from his head, and horror in every

feature of his face, still clutching one hand of the old lawyer in his,

stretched forward with one advanced stride towards the extemporized

bier, and with his other hand lifted the sheet.

A shriek of horror burst from him. "Ah! Paolina mia!" he cried aloud;

and then with a deep groan, as of one in physical pain, he fell into

Signor Fortini's arms, and sunk in an insensible state of sick faintness

on the flag-stone pavement beneath the old gateway.

BOOK II

Four Months before that Ash Wednesday Morning

CHAPTER I

How the good News came to Ravenna

Such were the events of that last night of carnival, and of the Ash

Wednesday that followed it;--an Ash Wednesday remembered many a year

afterwards in Ravenna.

The old lawyer, Fortini, standing a pace behind the Marchese Ludovico,

when the latter lifted up the sheet from the face of the dead, saw only

that it was the face of a woman. Paolina Foscarelli he had never seen;

and Bianca Lalli he had seen only once or twice on the stage; the lawyer

not being much of a frequenter of the theatre. There could be little

doubt that the body lying there beneath the gateway, with the officials

standing with awe-stricken faces around it, together with the six

peasants who had brought it thither, was that of one or other of those

two young women.

Of course there were plenty of persons at hand who were able to set at

rest all doubt as to the identity of the murdered woman,--for such it

was pretty clear she must be considered to be. And of course all

interests in the little provincial city were for many days to come

absorbed in the terrible interest belonging to the investigation of the

foul deed which had been done.

But in order to set before the reader the whole of this strange story

intelligibly, and to give him the same means of estimating the

probabilities of the questions involved in it, and of reaching a

solution of the mysterious circumstances which the authorities, who were

called upon to investigate them, were in possession of, it will be

expedient to go back to a period some four months previous to that

memorable Ash Wednesday.

It was a bitterly cold night in Ravenna, towards the latter end of

November, some four months before that Ash Wednesday on which the events

that have been narrated occurred. Untravelled English people, who have

heard much of "the sweet south," of the sunny skies of Italy, and of its

balmy atmosphere, do not readily imagine that such cold is ever to be

found in that favoured clime. But the fact is that cold several degrees

below the freezing point is by no means rare in the sub-Alpine and

sub-Apennine districts of northern Italy.

And Ravenna is a specially cold place. At Florence, the winter, though

short, is often sharp enough; and the climate of the old Tuscan city is

considered a somewhat severe one for Italy. But the district which lies

to the north-eastward, on the low coast of the upper part of the stormy

Adriatic, is much colder. There is nothing, neither hill nor forest,

between the Friulian Alps and Ravenna, to prevent the north-eastern

winds, bringing with them a Siberian temperature, from sweeping the low

shelterless plain on which the ancient capital of the Exarchs is

situated.

They were so sweeping that plain, and howling fiercely through the

deserted streets of the old city, on the November evening in question.

Nevertheless there were several persons loitering around the door of

that ancient hostelry, the "Albergo della Spada," in the Via del Monte,

then as now, and for many a generation past, the principal inn of

Ravenna. They were wrapped in huge cloaks, most of them with hoods to

them, which gave the wearers a strange sort of monkish appearance. And

they from time to time blew upon their fingers, in the intervals of

using their mouths for the purpose of grumbling at the cold. But they

none of them resorted to tramping up and down, or stamping with their

feet, or threshing themselves with their arms, or had recourse to

movement of any kind to get a little warmth into their bodies, as

Englishmen may be seen to do under similar circumstances. However cold

it may be an Italian never does anything of this sort. It must be

supposed, that to him cold is a less detestable evil than muscular

exertion of any kind.

There were some half-dozen men standing about the door; and though they

were doing nothing, it was not to be supposed that they stood there in

the bitter cold for their own amusement. The fact was, they were waiting

for one of the great events of the day at Ravenna,--the arrival of the

diligenza from Bologna. It was past six o'clock in the evening; and it

could not now be long before the expected vehicle would arrive.

It is a distance of some sixty miles from Bologna to Ravenna; the

diligence started at five in the morning, and was due at the latter city

at five in the evening. But nobody expected that it would reach its

destination at that hour. It had never done so within the memory of man,

even in the fine days of summer, and now, when the roads were rough with

ridges of frozen mud! It was now, however, nearly half-past six--yes,

there went the half-hour clanging from the cracked-voiced old bell in

the top of the round brick tower, which stands on one side of the

cathedral, and by its likeness to a minaret reminds one of the Byzantine

parentage of its builders.

Half-past six! The loiterers about the inn door remark to each other,

that unless "something" has happened old Cecco Zoppo can't be far off

now.

The arrival of the Bologna diligence, the main means of communication

between remote out-of-the-way Ravenna and the rest of the world, was

always a matter of interest in the old-world little city, where matters

of interest were so few. And on a pleasant evening in spring or summer

the attendance of expectant loungers was wont to be far larger than it

was on that bitter November night, and to include a large number of

amateurs; whereas the half-dozen now waiting were all either officially

or otherwise directly interested in the arrival. Indeed, there was a

very special interest attached to the coming of the expected vehicle on

that November night; and nothing but the extreme severity of the weather

would have prevented a very distinguished assemblage from being on the

spot to hear the first news that was expected to be brought by one of

the travellers.

"Eccolo! I heard the bells, underneath the gate-way. Per Bacco, it is

time! I'm well-nigh frozen alive," said Pippo, the ostler.

"If they don't keep him an hour at the gate," rejoined a decidedly more

ragged and poverty-stricken individual, who held recognized office as

the ostler's assistant.

"Not such a night as this! Those gentlemen there at the gate can feel

the cold for themselves, if they can't feel nothing else," rejoined the

ostler, who was a frondeur and disaffected to the government, in

consequence of a drunken grandson having been turned out of the place of

third assistant scullion in the kitchen of the Cardinal Legate. "There's

the bells again! They've let him off pretty quick. I thought as much,"

added the old man, with a chuckle.

"Wasn't Signor Ercole's woman here with a lanthorn just now?" said

another of the bystanders, a young man, who, though wrapped to the eyes

in the universal all-levelling cloak, belonged evidently to a superior

class of society to the previous speakers.

"Si, Signor Conte, she is there in the kitchen. Per Dio! she would have

had no fingers to hold the light for her master, if she had stayed out

here," replied the ostler. And then the rattle of wheels became

distinct, and in the next instant the feeble light of a couple of lamps

became visible at the far end of the street, as the coach turned out of

the Piazza Maggiore into the Via del Monte, and struggled forwards

towards the knot at the inn door; it came at a miserable little trot,

but with an accompaniment of tremendous whip-cracking, that awoke echoes

in the silent streets far and near, and imparted an impression of

breathless speed to the imagination of the bystanders, who, being

Italians, accepted the symbol in despite of their certain knowledge that

the reality of the thing symbolised was not there. Like the immortal

Marchioness, Dick Swiveller's friend, in the Old Curiosity Shop, the

Italians, when the realities of circumstances are unfavourable, can

always manage to gild them a little by "making believe very strong."

"Now then, Signora Marta, bring out your light," called the deputy

ostler in at the inn door.

The individual addressed as Signor Conte became evidently excited, and

prepared himself to be the first to present himself at the door of the

coach as it drew up opposite the inn. The ostler stepped out into the

street with his stable lanthorn. Signora Marta, shivering, with a huge

shawl over her head, took up her position, lanthorn in hand, behind the

Signor Conte, and the ramshackle old coach, rattling over the uneven

round cobble-stones of the execrable pavement with a crash of noise that

seemed to threaten that every jolt would be its last, came to a

standstill at the inn door.

The Signor Conte Leandro Lombardoni--that was the name of the young man

hitherto called Il Signor Conte--opened the door with his own hand, and,

putting his head eagerly into the interior, cried,

"Are you there, Signor Ercole? Well! What news? Have you succeeded? Let

me give you a hand."

"Grazie, Signor Leandro, grazie," replied a high-pitched voice of

singularly shrill quality from within the vehicle, "I don't know whether

I can move. Misericordia! che viaggio! What a journey I have had. I am

nearly dead. My blood is frozen in my veins. I have no use of my limbs.

I shall never recover it; never!"

And then very slowly a huge bundle of cloaks and rags and furs, nearly

circular in form and about five feet in diameter, began to move towards

the door of the carriage, and gradually, by the help of Signor Leandro

and Signora Marta, to struggle through it and get itself down on the

pavement.

"And this I do and suffer for thee, Ravenna!" said the bundle in the

same shrill tenor, making an attempt, as it spoke, to raise two little

projecting fins towards the cold, unsympathising stars.

"But have you succeeded, Signor Ercole?" asked the other again,

anxiously.

"I have succeeded in sacrificing myself for my country," replied the

shrill voice with chattering teeth; "for I know I shall never get over

it. I am frozen. It is a very painful form of martyrdom."

"But you can at least say one word, Signor Ercole? You can say yes or no

to the question, whether you have succeeded in our object?" urged the

Conte Leandro.

Signor Ercole Stadione, however, who was, as the reader is aware, no

less important a personage than the impresario of the principal theatre

of Ravenna, knew too well all the importance that belonged to the news

he had to tell to part with his secret so easily. "Signor Conte," he

quavered out, "I tell you I am frozen! A man cannot speak on any subject

in such a condition. I know nothing. My intellectual faculties have not

their ordinary lucidity. I must endeavour to reach my home. Marta, hold

the lamp here."

"And I who have waited here for your arrival ever since the

venti-quattro! Per Dio! Do you think I ain't cold too? And the Marchese

is expecting you. Of course, you will go to him at once?"

"I don't know that I shall ever recover myself sufficiently to do so. It

is useless for the city to expect more from a man than he can

accomplish. When I have got thawed, I will endeavour to do my duty. Good

night, Signor Conte!" said the little impresario, preparing to follow

his servant with the lanthorn, as well as the enormous quantity of wraps

around him would allow him to do so.

"Come now, Signor Ercole, you won't be so ill-natured. You know how much

interest I take in the matter. Think how long I have waited here for

you, and nobody else has cared enough to do that. Come now, be

good-natured, and tell a fellow. Just one word. Look here now," added

the Conte Leandro, seeing that he was on the point of losing the

gratification for the sake of which he had undergone the penance of

standing sentinel in the cold for the last hour, and that his only hope

was to bring forward les grands moyens,--"see now, the only thing to

bring you round is a glass of hot punch. Now, while you go home and get

your things off, I will go to the cafe and get you a good glass of

punch, hot and strong--smoking hot! and have it brought to your house,

all hot, you know, in a covered jug. But before I go; you will just say

the one word: Have you been successful? Come now. Just one word."

Signor Ercole Stadione, the impresario, would much have preferred not

saying that one word just then. He knew perfectly well that the grand

object of his questioner was to be the first to carry the great news to

the Circolo--the club where all the young nobles of the town were in the

habit of congregating; and to make the most of the sort of reputation to

be gained by being the first in Ravenna to have accurate information on

the matter in question. He knew also that within a quarter-of-an-hour

after the news should be told to Signor Leandro Lombardoni it would be

known to all Ravenna. Further, he was perfectly aware that, frozen or

not frozen, he must wait that evening on the Marchese, of whom Signor

Leandro had spoken--the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare, in order to

communicate to him the news which Signor Leandro was so anxious to hear;

that not to do so would be as much as his standing and position in

Ravenna were worth. And he would have preferred that the Marchese should

not have heard what he had to tell before telling it to him himself;

which he thought likely enough to happen, if he let the cat out of the

bag to Signor Leandro. But the offer of the punch was irresistible. The

poor little impresario knew how little possibility there was of finding

any such pleasant stimulant in the cold, cheerless, wifeless little

quartiere which he and Marta called their home. His teeth were

chattering with cold; and the hot punch carried the day.

"Troppo buono, Signor Conte! Truly a good glass of hot ponche would be

the saving of me! It is very kindly thought of. Well, then; listen in

your ear. But you won't say a word about it till to-morrow morning. It

is all right. The thing is done. The writings signed. Have I done well,

eh? Have I deserved well of the city, eh? But you won't say a word!"

"Bravo, Signor Ercole! Bravo, bravissimo! Not a word. Not a word. I run

to order the punch. Good night. Not a word to a living soul!"

And the Conte Leandro ran off to give a hasty order at the cafe in the

Piazza, on his way to the Circolo to spread his important news all over

the town.

CHAPTER II

The Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare

Signor Leandro Lombardoni felt himself to be abundantly repaid for his

hour of waiting in the cold street, and for the bajocchi expended on the

glass of punch, by the position he occupied at the Circolo all that

evening. He was the centre of every group anxious to gain the earliest

information respecting a matter of the highest interest to all the

society of Ravenna. And the matter belonged to a class of subjects

respecting which the Conte Leandro was especially desirous of being

thought to be thoroughly well-informed, and to have interest in the

highest quarters.

The fact was, that Signor Ercole Stadione, the Ravenna impresario, had

undertaken a journey to Milan, in the hope of accomplishing a

negotiation in which the whole of the smaller provincial city had felt

itself deeply interested. He had gone thither for the purpose of

engaging the celebrated prima donna, Bianca Lalli, to sing at Ravenna

during the coming Carnival. The pretension was a very ambitious one on

the part of the impresario--or, as it may be more properly said, on the

part of the city--for the step was by no means the result of his own

independent and unaided enterprise. Such matters were not done in that

way in the good old times in the smaller cities of Italy. The matter had

been much debated among the leading patrons of the musical drama in the

little town. The chances of success had been canvassed. The financial

question had been considered. Certain sacrifices had been determined on.

And it had been settled what terms the impresario should be empowered to

offer.

It had been fully felt and recognised that the hope of engaging the

famous Bianca Lalli to sing at remote little Ravenna, during a carnival,

was a singularly ambitious one. But there had been circumstances which

had led those who had conceived the bold idea to hope that it would not

prove to be so impossible as it might at first sight appear. There had

been whispers of certain difficulties--untoward circumstances at Milan.

Ill-natured things had been said of the "divina Lalli." Doubtless she

had been more sinned against than sinning. But to put the matter

crudely--which, of course, no Italian who had to speak of it, was ever

so ill-bred as to do--it would seem that the great singer had placed

herself, or had been placed, in such relations with somebody or other

bearing a great name in the Lombard capital, that the paternal Austrian

government, at the instance of that somebody's family, had seen good to

hint, in some gentle, but unmistakable manner, that it might, on the

whole, be better that the divine Lalli should bless some other city with

her presence during the ensuing season. And then came the consideration,

that in all probability most of the great cities of the peninsula had,

by that time, made their arrangements for the coming Carnival. Not

impossible, too, that the "diva" herself might be not disinclined to

allow a certain period of such comparative obscurity as an engagement at

Ravenna would bring with it, to pass after her exit from Milan under

such circumstances, before re-appearing on other boards where she would

be equally in the eyes of all Europe. But this ground of hope, though it

may have been felt, was never so much as alluded to in words, in

Ravenna. In short, Ravenna had determined to make the bold attempt. And

Don Signor Ercole Stadione had returned from the arduous enterprise to

announce that it had been crowned with complete success.

None but those who have had some opportunity of becoming acquainted with

the social habits and manners of the smaller cities of Italy--and that

as they were some twenty years ago, and not as they are now--can imagine

the degree in which a matter of the kind in question could be felt there

to be a subject of general public interest. From the Cardinal Legate,

who governed the province, down to the little boys who hung about the

cafe doors, in the hope of picking up a half-eaten roll, there was not a

human being in the city who did not feel that he had some part of the

glory resulting from the fact that "La Lalli" was to sing at Ravenna

during the Carnival. The contadini--the peasants outside the gates--even

though they were only just outside it, cared nothing at all about the

matter: another specialty of the social peculiarities of the peninsula.

The Cardinal Legate, restrained by the professional decorum of his

cloth, said nothing save among his quite safe intimates; but, perhaps,

like the sailor's parrot, he only thought the more.

As for the jeunesse doree of the Circolo, to whom Signor Leandro

recounted his great tidings with all the self-importance to which the

exclusive possession of news of such interest so well entitled him, it

is impossible to do justice to the enthusiasm which the news excited

among them.

All sorts of pleasing anticipations were indulged in. They were all

jealous of each other by anticipation. Already, in the gravest spirit of

business, a scheme for taking off her horses at the city gates and

harnessing their noble selves to the carriage of the expected guest was

discussed.

The reputation enjoyed by the great singer Bianca Lalli at that time was

very high throughout Italy. But, perhaps,--any one of her rival

goddesses would have said undoubtedly,--it was a reputation not wholly

and exclusively due to her strictly vocal charms. She was, in truth, a

woman of more than ordinary beauty; and was universally declared to

exercise a charm on all who came within reach of her influence beyond

that which even extraordinary beauty has always the privilege of

exercising. All kinds of stories were told of her boundless power of

fascination. In crude language, again,--such as her own countrymen never

used concerning her,--the reputation of "la diva Lalli" was tout soit

peu, a reputation de scandale. And it will be readily imagined that the

enthusiasm in her favour of the young frequenters of the Circolo at

Ravenna was none the less vehement on this account.

It must, however, be added that she undoubtedly was a very admirable

singer. Had this not been the case, the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare

would not have interested himself so much as he had done in the plans

and negotiations for bringing her to Ravenna. The Marchese was not a man

to be much influenced by the prima donna's reputation for beauty and

fascination. But he was "fanatico per la musica." He was the

acknowledged leader in all matters musical in Ravenna; the most

influential patron of the opera in the city; and all-powerful in the

regulation of all theatrical affairs.

The Marchese Lamberto held a rather special position in the social world

in Ravenna. His fortune was large; and the nobility of his family

ancient. But it was not these circumstances only, or even mainly, that

caused him to hold the place he did in the estimation of his

fellow-citizens. He was a bachelor, now about fifty years old; and

during some thirty of those years he had always been before the public

in one manner or another, and always had in every capacity won golden

opinions from all men. Though abundantly rich enough to have gone

occasionally to Rome, or even to have resided there entirely, if he had

chosen to do so, he had, on the contrary, preferred to pass his whole

life in his native city. And Ravenna was flattered by this, to begin

with. Then his residence in the provincial city had been in many

respects a really useful one, not only to that section of the body

politic which is called, par excellence, society, but to the public in

general. He had held various municipal offices, and had discharged the

functions belonging to them with credit and applause. He was treasurer

to a hospital, and a generous contributor to its funds. He was the

founder of an artistic society for the education of young artists and

the encouragement of their seniors. He was the principal director of a

board of "publica beneficenza." He was the manager, and what we should

call the trustee for the property of more than one nunnery. He was

intimate with the Cardinal Legate, and a frequent and honoured guest at

the palace. Of course in matters of orthodoxy and well-affected

sentiments towards the Church and its government he was all that the

agents of that government could desire. It has already been said that he

was at the head of all matters musical and theatrical in Ravenna. And

besides all this, he gave every year three grand balls in Carnival; and

his house was at all times open every Sunday and Wednesday evening to

the elite of the society of the city.

Gradually it had come to be understood, rather by tacit agreement among

the society which frequented these reunions than in obedience to any

desire expressed by the Marchese on the subject, that on the Sunday

evening ladies were expected; and on those days a sister-in-law of the

Marchese, the widow of a younger brother, was always there to do the

honours of the Palazzo Castelmare. The Wednesday evening parties had

come to be meetings of gentlemen only. And on these occasions one marked

element of the society consisted of all that the city possessed in the

way of professors of natural science. For the Marchese was, in a mild

way, fond of such pursuits, and had a special liking for anatomical

inquiries and experiments.

In one respect only could the world fail to be wholly and perfectly

contented with the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. At the age of fifty

he was still a bachelor! Not that the continuance of the noble line of

Castelmare was thereby compromised. The sister-in-law already mentioned

had a son, a young man of two-and-twenty, at the time in question, who

was the heir to the wealth and honours of the house, and who, it was to

be hoped, would also inherit all that accumulated treasure of public

esteem and respect which his uncle had been so uninterruptedly laying

up. Neither could a social objection to the Marchese's bachelorhood be

raised on the score of any such laxity of moral conduct as the world is

wont to expect, and to tolerate with more or less of indulgence, in

persons so free from special ties. Had the Marchese been an archbishop

himself, instead of being merely the intimate friend of one, it could

not have seemed in Ravenna more out of the question to mention his

respected name in connection with any scandal or inuendo of the kind.

There was not a mother in Ravenna who would not have been proud to see

her daughter honoured by any such intercourse with the Marchese as might

be natural between a father and his child. Proud indeed the most noble

of those matrons would have been could she have supposed that any such

intercourse tended towards sentiments of a more tender nature. But all

hopes of this kind had been long given up in Ravenna. It was quite

understood that the Marchese was not a marrying man.

Not that even now, in his fiftieth year, he might not well have entered

the lists with many a younger man as a candidate for the favour of the

sex. He was a man of a remarkably fine presence, tall, well made, and

with a natural dignity and graceful bearing in all his movements, which

were very impressive. He had never given in to the modern fashion of

wearing either beard or moustache. And the contours of his face were too

good and even noble to have gained anything by being so hidden. The

large, strong, rather square jaw and chin, and smooth placid cheeks were

strongly expressive of quiet decision and dignified force of will. The

mouth, almost always the tell-tale feature of the face, seemed in his

case rather calculated to puzzle any one who would have speculated on

the meanings shadowed forth by the lines of it. It was certainly, with

its large rows of unexceptionably brilliant teeth, a very handsome

mouth. And it was often not devoid of much sweetness. Nobody had ever

imagined that they detected any evil expression among its meanings. But

whereas a physiognomist looking at that generally faithful expositor of

the moral man, when it was at rest, would have been inclined to say,

that it was a mouth indicative of much capacity for deep and strong

passion, a further study of it in its varied movements would have led

him to the conclusion that no strong or violent passions had ever been

there to leave their traces among its lines. The whole face was so

essentially calm, unruffled, and placidly dignified.

The loftly noble forehead, the strongly marked brow, the well-opened

calm grey eye, all told the same tale of a mind within well-balanced,

thoroughly at peace with itself, and thoroughly contented with its

outward manifestations, and with every particular of its position.

Clearly the Marchese di Castelmare was a remarkably handsome man. And

yet there was something about him,--and always had been even as a young

man, which seemed to be in natural accordance with the fact that he had

never seemed to seek female society, save as an amphytrion receiving all

Ravenna within his hospitable doors. There was a kind of austerity about

his bearing;--a something difficult to define, which would have

prevented any girl from fancying that he was at all likely to want to

make love to her; a something which made it as impossible that the

refined courtesy of his address should have called a pleased blush to

any girl's cheek, or made her pulse move one beat the faster, as that

she should have been so affected by the imposition of the hands of the

bishop who confirmed her!

Such as the Marchese was, any committee in the world would have chosen

him its president, any jury in the world would have named him its

foreman, any board in the world have selected him as its chairman, any

deputation in the world would have put him forward as its spokesman; any

sovereign in the world might have appointed him grand master of the

ceremonies; but never at any period of his life would the suffrages of

the ball-room have pitched upon him to be the leader of the cotillon.

Perhaps it was that his life had been always too full to spare any space

for such lighter matters. He had been left the head of his family when

quite a young man, and had at once, in a great degree, stepped into the

place he had ever since occupied in the social world of his native city.

And what with his music, which was with him really a passion, and what

with his dabblings in science, and what with the multifarious business

he had always made for himself by real and useful attention to the

affairs pertaining to all the functions he had filled, his life had

really been a fully occupied one.

Any man, woman, or child in Ravenna would have said, if such an

unpleasant idea had crossed their minds, that what Ravenna would do

without him it was frightful to think. He was very popular, as well as

profoundly respected by all classes of his fellow-citizens. Though

certainly a very proud man, his pride was of a nature that gave offence

to nobody. He was not only proud of being Marchese di Castelmare; he was

very proud of the esteem, the affection and respect of his

fellow-citizens. And perhaps this was, next to his love of music, what

most resembled a passion in his nature, and what most ministered to his

enjoyment of life.

It was to this phoenix of a Marchese that Signor Ercole Stadione, the

impresario, having comforted himself with the Conte Leandro's punch, and

got somewhat thawed, and having changed his mountain of travelling wraps

for a costume proper for presenting himself in such a presence, repaired

to report the result of his journey to Milan.

CHAPTER III

The Impresario's Report

It has been said that Signor Ercole Stadione, when he was first

introduced to the reader under circumstances somewhat unfavourable to

that dignity of appearance and deportment on which he specially prided

himself, presented the appearance of a round mass some five feet in

diameter. And it may be thence concluded, that when reduced to the

proportions familiar to the citizens of Ravenna, his utmost longitudinal

dimensions did not exceed that measure. The impresario was in truth a

very small man, weighing perhaps seven stone with his boots. But Signor

Ercole held, and very frequently expressed, an opinion that dignity and

nobility of appearance depended wholly on bearing, and in no wise on

mere corporeal altitude. Men were measured in his country (Rome), he

said, from the eyebrow upwards. And though Rome is not exactly the

place, of all others, where one might expect to find such an estimate of

human value prevailing,--unless, indeed, smallness of that which a man

has above his brow be deemed the desirable thing,--it was undeniable

that little Signor Ercole carried a mass of forehead which might have

been the share of a much taller man.

Nor were the pretensions put forward by the impresario on this score

altogether vain. He was no fool;--a shrewd as well as a dapper little

man, active and clever at his business, and well liked both by the

artists and by the public, for which he catered, despite of being one of

the vainest of mortals. Vanity makes some men very odious to their

fellows;--in others it is perfectly inoffensive; and though damaging to

a claim to respect, is perfectly compatible with a considerable amount

of liking for the victim of it.

A very dapper little man was Signor Ercole, as he stepped forth, about

eight o'clock, entirely refitted, to wait upon the Marchese at the

Palazzo Castelmare. He was dressed in complete black, somewhat

threadbare, but scrupulously brushed. He had a large frill at the bosom

of his shirt, and more frills around the wristbands of it; one or two

rings of immense size and weight on his small fingers; boots with heels

two inches high, and a rather long frock-coat buttoned closely round his

little body. Signor Ercole had never been known to wear a swallow-tailed

coat on any occasion. And spiteful people told each other, that his

motive for never quitting the greater shelter of the frock was to be

found in his fear of exhibiting to the unkindly glances of the world a

pair of knock-knees of rare perfection.

When his toilet was completed, he threw over all a handsome black cloth

cloak turned up with a broad border of velvet, which he draped around

his person with the air of an Apollo, throwing the corner of the garment

round the lower part of his face and over his shoulder, in a manner

wholly unattainable by any man born on the northern side of the Alps;

and kindly telling Marta that he would take the key, and that she had

better not sit up for him in the cold, stepped forth on his errand.

"Ben tornato, Signor Ercole! I thank you for coming to me," said the

Marchese, rising from his seat at his library-table, which was covered

with papers and books, to receive the impresario.

Despite the extreme cold, this owner of a large fortune, and of one of

the finest palaces in Ravenna, was not sitting in an easy-chair by the

fire, as an Englishman might be expected to be found at such an hour.

The Italian's day is not divided into two portions as clearly as an

Englishman's day is divided by his dinner hour into the time for

business or out-door exercise, and the time for relaxation, for a book

or other amusement. He is quite as likely to apply himself to any

business or work of any kind after dinner as before. Still less has he

the Englishman's notion of making himself comfortable in his home.

There was a miserable morsel of wood fire in the room in which the

Marchese sat; but it was at the far end of it. And in many a well-to-do

Italian home there would have been none at all. In order not to be

absolutely frozen, he sat in a large cloak, and had beside him, or in

his hands, a little earthen-ware pot filled with burning braize--a

scaldino, as it is called,--the use of which is common to the noble in

his palace, and the beggar in the street.

He pointed to a chair near the table, and as he spoke, paid his visitor

the ordinary courtesy of offering him his scaldino.

"My duty, my mere duty, Eccellenza," said Signor Ercole, letting his

cloak fall gracefully from his shoulders, and declining the proffered

pot of braize with an action that might have suited an Emperor. "Of

course my first care and object on arriving was to wait on your

Excellency. I arrived with barely a breath of life remaining in my body.

What a journey! What a journey! But if I had been frozen quite I could

not have forgotten that my first duty was to report what I have

accomplished to your Excellency."

"Thanks, good Signor Ercole, thanks; you know the interest I take in all

that concerns the honour of our theatre, and the pleasures of our

citizens; and I may truly add, in all that touches your interest, my

good Signor Ercole."

"Troppo buono! Eccellenza! Troppo buono davvero!" said the little man,

half rising from his chair, to execute a bow in return for the

Marchese's speech, while his cloak fell around his legs.

"I suppose that in such weather as this the diligence was behind its

time--E naturale--but I have already heard, in a general way, that you

have been successful. I congratulate you on it, Signor Ercole, with all

my heart!"

"I trusted that I should have been the first to tell your Excellency the

news. I am conscious that it was due to you, Signor Marchese, to be the

first to hear the result of my negotiation. But che vuole? There was the

Conte Leandro waiting for the coach, and standing at the door as I got

out of it, more dead than alive! And there was no way of getting rid of

him. I was forced to tell him, in a word, that our hopes were crowned

with success. He faithfully promised to keep the fact secret. But,

doubtless, all the town knows it by this time! Che vuole?"

"E naturale! e naturale!" returned the Marchese, with a graceful wave of

his hand; "naturally they are all anxious to know the result of our

impresario's labours. And I was not left in ignorance. My nephew ran in

from the Circolo to tell me; he had just heard it from Signor Leandro.

But I thought that I should have a visit from yourself, Signor Ercole,

before long."

"E come, e come, Signor Marchese; could your Excellency imagine that I

could so fail in my duty as to have omitted waiting on your lordship!

Had it not been that I was half killed by this awful weather, I should

have placed myself at your Excellency's orders an hour ago. Oh, Signor

Marchese, such a journey from Bologna hither! I know what is my duty to

the city; I know what is expected of me. But--Eccellenza, there are

benefactors to their country, who have statues raised to them, that have

suffered less in the gaining of them, than I have this day."

"Povero, Signor Ercole! But who knows? Perhaps we may see the day when

Ravenna will reward your exertions with a monument. Why not? It must be

a statue, life size, nothing less, with 'Ercole Stadione, La Patria

riconoscente,' on the base," said the Marchese, with an irony, the fine

flavour of which did not in the least pierce, as it was not intended to

pierce, the plate armour of the little impresario's vanity.

"Oh, Eccellenza!" said the poor little man, with the most perfect good

faith in the propriety, as well as the seriousness, of his patron's

proposition.

"And now, then," said the Marchese, "let us hear all about it. She

accepts our terms?"

"The scrittura has been signed before a notary, Eccellenza."

"Bravo! she sings--?"

"The whole repertorio, Signor Marchese! What is there she could not

sing?"

"And three representations a week?"

"Three representations a week. My instructions were formal on that

point, as your Excellency knows."

"Good! quite right! And now what is she, this diva? What is she like? We

know that Signor Ercole Stadione is as good a judge of the merits of the

lady as of the singer?" said the Marchese, with a smile. "I don't ask

you about her singing," he added. "We have all heard all that can be

said about that."

"Well, Signor Marchese, if I am to speak my own poor opinion, I take the

Signora Lalli to be decidedly the most beautiful woman it was ever my

good fortune to see," said Signor Ercole, with a voice and manner of

profound conviction.

"Paris himself, if called on to be umpire once again, could require no

more conclusive testimony, my good Signor Ercole. But that is not

exactly what I mean. Her mere beauty is a matter that does not interest

me very keenly. What I want to know, is what sort of a scenic presence

has she? Can she take the stage? I do not ask if she is captivating in a

drawing-room; but has she the face and figure needed to be effective in

the theatre? I need not tell you, my friend, that these are two

different things, and do not always go together," said the Marchese,

whose interest in the matter was, as he said, wholly theatrical; first,

that he and the society of Ravenna should enjoy some fine singing during

the coming Carnival; and, secondly that the Lalli should produce such an

enthusiasm as should lead all the theatrical world to think and say that

a great stroke had been achieved, and a very public-spirited thing done

in bringing about the engagement. He was anxious that the step, which he

had had a large share in taking, should result in a great and

universally admitted success.

"Eccellenza! I have no doubt that your lordship will be satisfied in

these respects. Most true it is, as your Excellency so judiciously

remarks, that we require something more than merely a beautiful face, or

even than a fine figure. And I have never had the good fortune to see

'La Lalli' on the boards. But as far as my poor judgment goes, she is

admirably gifted with all the requisites for achieving the result we

desire. Then there is the testimony of all Milan! And I succeeded in

speaking with an old friend who had seen her the year before last at

Naples, and whose report I can trust. The opinion seems to be universal

that few artists have ever possessed the gift of fascinating an audience

to the degree that she does. Your Excellency may take my word for it,

she is a very clever woman. My own interviews with her sufficed to

convince me of that fact. And I need not tell your Excellency, that

little as some of the empty-headed young gentlemen in the stalls may

suspect it, talent,--not only the special talent of song but general

talent,--has much to do with the power of fascination that a gifted

actress exercises."

"Most true, mio bravo Signor Ercole; you speak like an oracle; and if

she left on you the impression that she is a clever woman, I have no

doubt in the world that she is so."

There was no irony in the Marchese's mind when he said this; and the

little impresario, highly gratified again, half rose from his chair to

bow in return for the compliment.

"As for the specialties of her face and person," continued the

impresario, "they appeared to me highly favourable. Very tall,--perhaps

your lordship or I might say too tall. But--on the stage the prejudice

is in favour of a degree of tallness that we might not admire off it.

Gestures, bearing, and the movement of the person equally capable of

expressing majestic dignity, or heart-subduing pathos. A most graceful

walk. In short, a persona tutta simpatica. As for the head--magnificent

hair,--blonde, which for choice I would always prefer--the true Titian

sun-tinged auburn,--a telling eye, finely formed nose, and mouth of

inexpressible sweetness!"

"Per Bacco, Signor Ercole, a Phoenix indeed! A Diva davvero!" said the

Marchese.

"Eccellenza, she'll do," said the little man nodding his head with its

top-heavy forehead three or four times emphatically. "If she do not make

such a sensation in Ravenna as we have not known here for a long time,

say that Ercole Stadione knows nothing of his profession."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the Marchese, gleefully rubbing his hands. "And

now, my good friend, I won't keep you from the bed and the rest you so

well deserve any longer. You may depend on it that your zeal in this

matter won't be overlooked or forgotten."

"Troppo buono, Eccellenza! But there was one word I wished to say to

your lordship," continued little Signor Ercole, dropping his voice to a

lower key, and speaking with some hesitation,--one little word that I

thought it might be useful, or--or--desirable to mention--"

"Yes, speak on, my dear Signor Ercole, I am all attention. What is it?

No drawback I hope!"

"Only this, Signor Marchese," said the little man casting a glance round

the room, dropping his voice still more, and bringing his head nearer to

the ear of the Marchese; "only this:--you see if there had been

nothing-disagreeable,--nothing untoward, as I may say--your lordship

understands, we should never have had La Lalli at Ravenna. There has

been a--sort of difficulty--your lordship understands--spiteful things

have been said--calumny--all calumny no doubt-the constant attendant of

merit, alas! we all know. But--in short--here in Ravenna--it would not

be--desirable,--your Excellency understands and appreciates what I would

say a thousand times better than I can say it. It would be in every

point of view better, as your Excellency sees, that no idle chatter of

this kind should be set about here. It would be inexpedient for more

reasons than one."

"Quite so; quite so. Your ideas on the subject are happily judicious,

Signor Ercole. What have we to do with misunderstandings that may have

arisen at Milan? Of course, it is not our business to have ever heard

anything of the kind. And I'll tell you what I'll do, and that at once,

before there is time for any mischief to be done. I will just give my

nephew a hint. He can be trusted. He is discreet. And it will be easy

for him to put down at once and discountenance any talk of the kind, or

any rumour that might find its way among our youngsters."

"The very thing, Eccellenza! The Marchese Ludovico will understand the

thing at once. And half a word from him would give the key-note, as I

may say, to the tone of talk about the lady. Ravenna must not be thought

to be contenting herself with that which Milan rejects," said Signor

Ercole, with the air of a patriot.

"I should think not, indeed! And, doubtless, Milan would have been but

too glad to retain La Lalli, had it not been for some unimportant

contretemps. Ludovico shall put the matter in its right light."

As he spoke, the Marchese rang a little hand-bell which stood on his

library table; and on a servant entering from the anteroom, he told him

just to step across to the Circolo, and request the Marchese Ludovico to

be so good as to come to him for five minutes.

In very little more than that time the man returned, saying that the

Marchese Ludovico was not at the Circolo. He had been there for a few

minutes at the beginning of the evening, but had gone away without

saying whither he was going.

The Marchese knitted his brows when this message was given to him; and

after a minute's thoughtful silence, shook his head in a manner that

showed him to be not a little displeased. From a look of intelligence

that might have been observed in Signor Ercole's eyes, it might have

been judged that he understood that the Marchese was more annoyed than

on account of the momentary frustration of his immediate purpose, and

that he was aware of the nature of his annoyance. But he did not venture

to say any word on the subject; and the Marchese took leave of him,

merely saying that he would not forget to act on Signor Ercole's caution

when he should see his nephew the next morning.

CHAPTER IV

Paolina Foscarelli

The young Marchese Ludovico di Castelmare had in the early part of the

evening lounged into the Circolo, as was the habit of most of those of

his class, seniors as well as juniors; but he had, as had been correctly

reported to his uncle, very shortly left it without saying a word to any

one as to how he intended to dispose of his evening. The Marchese

Ludovico flattered himself, as people are apt to flatter themselves in

similar cases, that his absence would be little noted, and that his

reticence would suffice to leave all Ravenna in ignorance as to the

errand on which he was bound when he left the Circolo. So far was this

from being the case, however, that there was not one, at all events

among the younger men, whom he left behind him, who did not know

perfectly well where he was gone; and that his uncle, when by the

unforeseen accident that has been related he was made aware of his

absence from the club, was at no loss to guess what he had done with

himself.

But in order that the reader may have a like advantage, it will be

necessary to mention very briefly, some circumstances which occurred

previously to the period referred to in the former chapters.

Some months before the time of Signor Ercole Stadione's journey to

Milan, a wandering Englishman had arrived at Ravenna, and having spent

three or four days in examining with much interest the wonderful wealth

of Mosaics of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries, still preserved in

the churches of the ancient capital of the Exarchs, had continued his

route to Venice.

There, in the gallery of the Academia, his attention had been attracted

by a female student, who was engaged in copying a canvas of Tintoretto.

As it so happened that the traveller was a competent judge of such

matters, he was struck by the goodness of the work, especially when

considered in connection with the appearance of the artist. She was

evidently very young,--a slim, slender girl, whose girlish figure looked

all the more willow-like from the simple plainness, and what seemed to

the Englishman the insufficiency, of her clothing. For the weather,

though not so severe as when it had half frozen Signor Ercole Stadione,

was already very cold,--cold enough to have depopulated the gallery of

its usual crowd of copying artists. At some distance from the young

girl's easel, sitting in a corner lighted up by a stray ray of sunshine,

there was an old woman busily knitting,--probably the girl's mother, or

protectress. And besides those two, and the Englishman, and a lounging

attendant wrapped in his cloak, there was no other soul in the gallery.

Yet the young student busily plied her task; nor was she surprised into

looking up by the stopping of the stranger behind her chair. He did not

see her face, therefore; and it would be consequently unfair to imagine

that any portion of the interest he could not help feeling in her was to

be attributed to the ordinary charm of a pretty face, whereas it was

really due partly to the artistic merit of her copy, partly to her

bravery in sticking to her work despite the severity of the season, and

partly to her youth and very apparent poverty.

Suddenly, as he watched the progress of her work slowly growing beneath

the rapid movements of her slender, blue-cold fingers, the idea came

into his mind that here might be a favourable opportunity of obtaining

what he had much wished to procure when he had been at Ravenna,--some

drawings of several of the most remarkable of the Mosaics in the

churches of San Vitale and St. Apollinare in Classe. He was quite

satisfied from what he saw that the young artist was competent to

execute the drawings he required. The conscientious determination, which

alone could have made her continue her work under such circumstances,

was a guarantee to him that she would do her best. It was not probable

that the expectations of the girl before him as to remuneration would go

beyond such sum as he was willing to pay. And lastly--though truly not

least in that Englishman's mind--it might be that such a proposal would

be a very acceptable boon to a poor and meritorious artist. So managing

to speak to the attendant, when he was at a far part of the gallery, he

learned from him that the girl's name was Paolina Foscarelli; that the

old woman was, the officer believed, her aunt; that her name was Orsola

Steno; and that they lived together at No. 8 in the Campo San Donato.

That same evening the stranger desired his servitore di piazza to make

inquiries about Signora Orsola Steno, and her niece, who copied in the

gallery; and the next morning he was told that, if he would call upon

the Director of the Gallery, that gentleman would be happy to reply to

any inquiries about the Signorina Paolina Foscarelli.

The Englishman waited on the Director forthwith, and from him learned

that such a commission as he had thought of giving to the young copyist

could not be better bestowed in any point of view. The Director spoke

highly of her artistic capabilities, and more highly still of her

character and worth. She had been left an orphan, wholly unprovided for,

several years ago. Her father had gained his living by copying in the

gallery. The old woman, Orsola Steno, with whom she lived, was no

relation to her, but had been the dear friend of her mother, and had

taken the orphan to live with her out of pure charity. They were very

poor,--very poor, indeed. But Paolina was beginning to do something. She

had already sold one or two copies of small pictures. The larger work,

on which she was engaged, she had undertaken by the advice of the

Director, in the hope of disposing of it when the following summer

should bring with it the usual incoming tide of travellers.

The result was that the stranger, taking with him a little note from the

Director, went again to the gallery the next day, and finding Signorina

Paolina at her post as usual, then and there made his proposition to

her.

He was glad, when in doing so he spoke face to face with the girl, that

the matter had been settled in his mind before he had seen her. For he

was pleased to be sure that his judgment had not been warped in the

matter by the irresistible prejudice in favour of a beautiful girl. And

had he seen Paolina first, he could have had no such assurance. In

truth, the poor Venetian painter's orphan child was very beautiful. It

is little to the purpose to attempt a detailed description of her

beauty; for such descriptions rarely, if ever, succeed in conveying to

the imagination of a reader any accurate presentation of the picture,

which the writer has in his mind's eye. She was dark. Hair, brows, eyes,

and complexion, were all dark; and the contour of the face was of the

long or oval type of conformation--very delicate--transparently

delicate--more so, the Englishman thought, not without a pull at his

heart-strings, than was quite compatible with a due daily supply of

nourishment. Still she did not look unhealthy. At seventeen a good deal

of pinching may be undergone without destroying the elastic vigour of

youth.

But the chief and most striking charm of the beautiful face was

unquestionably imparted to it from the moral and intellectual nature

within. There was a calm and quiet dignity in the expression of the pure

and noble brow, which may often have been seen in women of similar

character, and of some twenty-five years of age. But it is rare to find

such at seventeen. Doubtless the having been left alone in the world at

so tender an age, had done much towards producing the expression in

question. It was added to, moreover, by the singular grace of the girl's

figure and mode of standing there before the stranger, as she had risen

from her easel on his presenting her with the Director's note.

She was rather above the middle height, and very slender;--more so, the

Englishman thought again, than she ought to have been. She was very

poorly and even insufficiently clad. But the little bit of quite plain

linen around her slim throat was spotlessly clean; and her poor and

totally unornamented chocolate-coloured stuff dress was in decently tidy

condition, and was worn with that nameless and inexplicable grace which

causes it to be said of similarly gifted women that they may wear

anything.

And the stranger was delighted, too, with her manner in accepting his

proposition. Though she made no attempt to conceal, and, indeed, eagerly

expressed her sense of the value to her of the proposal that was made to

her, there was a modest, and at the same time self-respecting, dignity

about her acceptance of it, which was to his mind an earnest of the

highly conscientious manner in which the task would be carried out.

It was therefore settled at once that Paolina, together with her friend

and protectress, the Signora Orsola Steno, should proceed to Ravenna as

soon as she could conveniently do so. A list of the works of which she

was required to make copies was given to her. It included, besides the

whole of the very interesting Mosaics in San Vitale, and several of the

curious Mosaic portraits of the early bishops of the city in the church

of St. Apollinare in Classe, two remarkable full-length figures from the

ancient baptistery, the representation of the Saviour as the "Good

Shepherd" in the celebrated mausoleum of the Empress Galla Placidia, and

the portraits of the Apostles in the private chapel of the Cardinal. Of

all these works, exact copies were to be executed on a scale of one

sixth the size of the originals; and it was calculated that the work

would require at least fifteen months to do it in. A sufficient sum of

money was paid in advance to enable Signora Orsola Steno and her ward to

move to Ravenna, and to begin their residence there; and satisfactory

arrangements were made for subsequent quarterly payments of two-thirds

of the price to be paid for the completed copies.

Besides all this, the English patron provided the young artist with a

letter of introduction, which he doubted not would make smooth all

difficulties which might lie in the way of her obtaining the permissions

and facilities necessary for the execution of her task. This letter was

addressed to the "Illustrissimo Signor il Signor Marchese Lamberto di

Castelmare." The English traveller had brought from Rome a letter of

introduction to the Marchese, and had received from him, during his

short stay at Ravenna, all that courteous attention and friendly

interest in his artistic researches which Englishmen are always sure to

meet with in the smaller cities of Italy, even in yet larger measure

than in the larger capitals, where strangers of all sorts are more

abundant.

Thus equipped and provided, Paolina Foscarelli, accompanied by Signora

Orsola Steno, had arrived in Ravenna in the March of the same year, in

the November of which Signor Ercole Stadione had made his journey to

Milan.

CHAPTER V

Rivalry

The first care of the two Venetian women, on arriving in their new place

of abode, which seemed to them almost as much a foreign country as Pekin

might seem to an Englishman, was, of course, to present their letter of

introduction to the powerful and illustrious protector to whom they were

recommended. But there had, thereupon, arisen a difference of opinion

between the older and the younger lady. Old Orsola Steno, acting on the

wisdom which certain observations of life picked up in her sixty years

of passage through it had probably taught her, was strongly of opinion

that the important letter should be presented to the Marchese by Paolina

in person,--or if not that, by both of them together. But Paolina

strongly objected to this mode of proceeding; and urged her friend to

take upon herself the duty of waiting on the Marchese. Orsola contested

the point as strongly as she could. But as it was very rarely that

Paolina had ever opposed her in any thing, she was the less prepared to

resist opposition on the present occasion. And as Paolina was in this

matter obstinate, old Orsola yielded; and set forth by herself to walk

to the Palazzo Castelmare. Nobody had ever any difficulty in obtaining

access to the popular Marchese; and the Signora Orsola Steno was at once

ushered into his library,--presented her letter, and was received with

all courtesy and kindness.

To receive recommendations of all sorts, to be asked to render all kinds

of services, was nothing new or uncommon to the Marchese. He ran over

the Englishman's letter rapidly.

"Va bene! va bene! At your service, Signora! I shall be most happy to

give you all the assistance in my power. I remember very well that

Signor Vilobe (Willoughby was the Englishman's name) was desirous of

procuring copies of some of our mosaics. I am very happy he has found so

competent a person to execute them."

Signora Orsola made a feeble attempt to point out that she was not

herself the artist who was to make the copies in question; but what with

her awe of the grand seigneur to whom she was speaking, and what with

the strangeness of her Venetian tones to her hearer's ear, and what with

the Marchese's hurry, her explanation failed to reach his comprehension.

"Yes! You and your companion will need to find a suitable lodging, the

first thing. We must see to it for you. But the fact is, Signora

Foscarelli, that I am more than usually busy this morning. I am

expecting some gentlemen here on business every minute. If you will

excuse me, therefore, I will entrust the commission of finding a proper

quartiere for you to my nephew. He will be more likely than I am to know

where what you require is likely to be found. He shall call upon you

this morning. Where are you? At the locanda de' Tre Re! Very good. Of

course you don't want to remain in an inn longer than can be helped. I

will tell my nephew to go to you this morning."

So Signora Steno returned to the "Tre Re;" a little alarmed at the

thought that she had passed herself off for another person and a

somewhat different one, but charmed with the courtesy and kindness of

the Marchese. And in less than an hour the strangers from Venice heard

two voices below in the entrance of the locanda inquiring for two

Venetian ladies who had recently arrived in Ravenna.

Two voices!--for it had so happened that when the servant, whom the

Marchese Lamberto had sent to his nephew to request him to undertake

this little commission for him, found the Marchese Ludovico at the door

of the Circolo, the Signore Conte Leandro Lombardoni was lounging there

with him.

"Bah! what a bore? My uncle is always making himself the maestro di

casa, the manager, the protector, the servant of all the world. Tell the

Marchese I'll go directly," he said to the servant; then added to his

companion, "Come, Leandro, don't desert me! Let's go together and see

what these Venetian women want."

"I ought to go to the Contessa Giulia at two. She'll be waiting for me,

and will be furious if I disappoint her. Never mind, what must be, must

be! I Tre Re! Ugh, what a distance; why, it is at the other end of the

town?"

"Never mind, come along; it will do you good to walk half a mile for

once and away," returned Ludovico, who knew perfectly well how much to

believe about the Contessa Giulia's despair at his friend's

non-appearance.

Thus the two young men went together to the locanda de' Tre Re to

execute the commission entrusted to his nephew by the Marchese Lamberto.

"Yes," said a slatternly girl, who came forth from some back region at

the call of the two young men, and who stared at them with an offensive

mixture of surprise and understanding interest, when they inquired for

the ladies recently arrived from Venice. "Yes, they were upstairs, on

the right hand, in No. 13." So they climbed the stairs, knocked at No.

13, were told to passare by the voice of Signora Orsola, and in the next

instant were in the room with the two strangers.

The first glance at the occupants of the chamber produced a shock of

surprise, which manifested itself in so sudden a change of manner and

bearing in the two young men, that it would have been ludicrous to any

looker-on. The two hats came down from the two heads with a spring-like

suddenness and quickness; and both the young men bowed lowly.

"Ladies," said Ludovico, addressing himself mainly to the elder, but

turning also towards the younger as he spoke, while the Conte Leandro

stared unmitigatedly at Paolina; "we come to you, sent by my uncle the

Marchese di Castelmare, and charged by him to assist you in finding a

convenient quartiere for your residence in Ravenna. Permit me to say on

my own behalf," he added, turning more entirely towards Paolina, "that I

hope it may not be a short one!"

"If the Signorina would make her stay among us as long as we would wish

it, she would never leave Ravenna any more," said the Conte Leandro,

with a glance from his sharp little eyes, and a bow of his fat person,

that were meant to be quite killing.

"It is this young lady, I conclude, who has undertaken to copy some of

our mosaics for the Englishman, who writes to my uncle, then?" said

Ludovico with a good-humoured and bright smile.

"That is it, Signor--though she is but such a slip of a thing to look

at. I was afraid the Signor Marchese had taken it into his head that I

was Paolina Foscarelli. Lord love you! I could not make, nor yet copy a

picture, if it were to save my life!"

"My uncle will be equally happy to have it in his power to oblige either

lady," rejoined Ludovico.

"I am sure the Marchese is too good," said Signora Steno; "we remain

here till the Signorina Foscarelli has finished the job she has

undertaken, and no longer, nor no shorter. And some place we must find

to live in the while. And if your lordship could tell us where we would

be likely to find a couple of bedrooms, a bit of a sitting-room, and the

use of a kitchen, it would be very kind."

"There will be no difficulty about that, I think, Signora," said the

Marchese Ludovico; "I will go at once and inquire! I think I know where

what we want may be had. If you will permit me, I will return to you

here in less than half an hour."

"Troppo garbato, Signor Marchese!" said Orsola.

"If the Signorina will permit me," said Leandro, "I think I know of just

such a little quartierino as would suit her, snug, quiet, and

parfettamente libero."

To this offer, Paolina felt herself constrained to reply by a silent

little bow. His former speech had received no reply whatsoever.

"I think I had better do what my uncle has told me to do, Leandro," said

the Marchese Ludovico, drily.

And Paolina felt sufficiently grateful to him for the amount of snubbing

contained in his accent to say the first words she had spoken since they

entered the room. "We shall be exceedingly obliged to you, Signore, if

you will do so. Any quartiere which the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare

could recommend to us," she added, with a significant emphasis on the

words, "would be sure to suit us."

"But perhaps the Marchese Lamberto may not know half as much about such

matters as I do, bella Signorina. People forget so many things by the

time they come to the age of the Marchese," said the Conte Leandro, with

a leering smile, which was meant to establish a confidential

understanding between him and Paolina. But the young girl's only answer

was to turn in her chair a little more away from him towards the window.

"I think we had better leave the ladies, and see if we can find for them

what they require. I should prefer doing myself what my uncle has

entrusted to me," said Ludovico, with a frown on his brow.

"Very good--do so. You say you shall be back here in half an hour; if

these ladies will permit me I will remain with them till you come back,

and then we can all go and look at the quartiere you have found

together," said the Conte Leandro.

Poor Paolina, though perfectly determined not to acquiesce in this

arrangement, was quite at a loss what to say or do to prevent it from

being carried out.

"But you forget your engagement to the Contessa Giulia," said Ludovico;

"surely you had better make haste to keep it."

He had no belief whatever in any such engagement, and had a very faint

hope that any care for consistency would avail to induce his friend the

Conte Leandro to affect the necessity of keeping it. But he also was

perfectly determined not to leave him in the room with the strangers,

though almost as much at a loss as Paolina how to prevent it.

"Oh, hang the Contessa Giulia! In any case, it is too late to go to her

now, and I am sure I shall like much better to stay here," said Leandro.

"Very likely. But you forget that it may not be equally agreeable to

these ladies that you should remain here, and they just arrived from a

journey too," said the Marchese Ludovico, who was inwardly cursing his

folly in having brought his friend with him on this errand, which he

unquestionably would not have done had he had the remotest idea what

manner of ladies they were that his uncle had deputed him to attend on.

"By-the-by, Leandro," he said, suddenly, as he was moving towards the

door, "you must come with me--after all; for now I remember that the

rooms I had in my mind were let a short time since, and the best thing

we can do will be to go and look at those you spoke of."

"Oh! I will tell you where they are--" said Leandro.

"No, no! that won't do at all; come--come along. I won't go there

without you. Come!" said the Marchese.

And this was said in a manner that had the effect of making Leandro take

leave of the ladies, with many hopes that they might meet again ere

long.

Very soon after the two young men were in the street together, Ludovico

protested that he must call at the Circolo before attending to the

business they were on; and when he got there he pretended to be obliged

to run home for a minute to the Palazzo Castelmare, which was hard by,

saying that he would return and rejoin the Conte Leandro in less than

five minutes. And very heartily did that deceived gentleman abuse his

friend, when he had waited an hour, and found that he did not return at

all. Then, poor gentleman! he knew that he had been bamboozled,--cruelly

treated, as he said himself. And he perfectly well understood his dear

friend's object, too!

"Such an intolerable, abominable coxcomb as that Ludovico is! As if he

fancied that nobody was to have a chance of speaking to that pretty girl

but himself. As if he thought that he had the ghost of a chance with a

woman, if I thought it worth while to cut him out!" grumbled the

gallant, gay Leandro to himself.

The Marchese Ludovico, meanwhile, the instant he had succeeded in

freeing himself from his companion, darted off in search of an

apartment, which he thought would just suit his fair clients; hurried

back to them, at the inn; and had them installed in their new quarters

by that evening.

"I am sure I do not know how to thank you enough for all your kindness,

Signor Marchese. I do not know what we should have done without it,"

said the Signora Orsola.

"For all your kindness!" repeated Paolina, with a look and an emphasis

which, while it expressed her gratitude, left him at no loss to

understand what part of all he had done for them had chiefly seemed to

the pretty Paolina to merit her special thanks.

And these were the facts and the circumstances that had brought about a

state of matters which left the Marchese Lamberto and the gossips of the

Circolo in no doubt where the young Marchese Ludovico had gone to pass

his evening, when his uncle sent for him to the club for the purpose

which the reader wots of, and failed to find him there.

CHAPTER VI

The Beginning of Trouble

Nearly eight months had elapsed between that day when the Signora Orsola

and the Signorina Paolina were installed in their new lodging and the

day when the Marchese Ludovico was sitting in the more than modest

little room over a miserable morsel of fire, with the two Venetians,

when his uncle sent for him to give him the hint about any inconvenient

gossip that might be whispered concerning the Signora Bianca Lalli, in

accordance with the suggestion of the impresario.

The Marchese Lamberto had made the personal acquaintance of the young

artist, who had been recommended to his protection very shortly after

the day on which he had deputed his nephew to find a lodging for her;

and he had instantly become aware that he had made a mistake in so

doing;--that he would certainly have deemed it better to take that care

upon himself rather than have confided it to the young Marchese, if he

had had the least idea what sort of person the Venetian artist was.

Nevertheless, he had been very strongly impressed with the propriety of

Paolina's manner and bearing, and after one or two more interviews, with

the thorough modesty of her mind, and purity and dignity of her

character. And the Marchese was a man well competent to form a sound

judgment of such matters.

He had no reason to think that the young man, his nephew, was as

prudent, as steady, as little liable to the influence of female beauty,

as cold, if you will, as he himself had been at the same age. On the

contrary, the character, which the Marchese Ludovico had made for

himself in Ravenna, was a rather diametrically opposite one. But he was

strongly of opinion that in any enterprise of an illegitimate nature

which his nephew might attempt with the young artist, he would have his

trouble only for his pains. And, of course, any enterprise of any other

nature was wholly out of the question.

Still, as the months went on he would have been far better contented

that his nephew should have been less often at the home of the two

Venetians. There were circumstances which made such visits especially

inexpedient at the present time. He knew that the young man was there

much oftener than he judged to be in any way desirable; and the young

man was there much oftener than his uncle knew. The Marchese Lamberto

was still very much persuaded that Paolina had not been led by his

nephew into any false step of a seriously blamable nature. But this was

by no means any reason with the Marchese for approving of his nephew's

conduct. The intercourse was altogether objectionable. Talk was

engendered,--talk of an undesirable description; and this was

excessively disagreeable to the Marchese, who had views for his nephew

which might be seriously compromised by it. A liaison of the kind, let

the real nature of it be what it would, was in any case discreditable to

his nephew and heir, and damaging more or less to the position which he

wished to see the young man occupy in the town. It was especially so, as

has been said, at the present conjuncture.

Then, of course, it could not be otherwise than injurious to the girl.

She had, in some sort, been recommended to his care. And it disturbed

him much, that the conduct of his nephew should be the means of damaging

her reputation.

Yet the Marchese, being a man of sense, knew very well that it would not

have done any good to attempt to exercise any such authority over the

young man as to forbid him to visit the lodging of the Venetians. In the

first place, such a step would, according to the notions and ways of

looking at things of the society in which he lived, have placed him

himself in a very ridiculous light;--a danger which was not to be

contemplated for an instant! And, besides, the Marchese was very well

aware that even if such an attempt did not cause his nephew to assume a

position of open rebellion, it would only have the effect of making him

do secretly and still more objectionably what he did, as it was,

comparatively openly.

Comparatively, it must be said; for Ludovico was very much more

frequently at the little house in the Strada di S. Eufemia than his

uncle wotted of.

Not much more frequently, however, than was very well known by most of

his contemporaries and fellow-habitues of the Circolo,--by pretty well

the whole of the "society" of Ravenna, that is to say. And in the

earlier part of the time in question,--of the eight months, that is,

from the March in which the young artist came to Ravenna, to the

November in which Signor Ercole Stadione had made his journey to Milan

there had been plenty of joking and raillery about Ludovico's

enthralment by the "bella Veneziana," and many attempts to compete with

him for so very attractive and desirable a "buona fortuna." But all this

had only been at the beginning of the time. Ludovico had taken the

matter in a tone and in a humour, that had soon put an end to all such

joking and to all such attempts. It was in all ways easy for him to do

this. He was popular, and much liked among the young men, in the first

place. His social position, as the heir of one of the first families of

the province whether for wealth or nobility of race, and of a man of

such social standing as his uncle, made it a very undesirable thing to

quarrel with him. And even without any of such vantage-ground of

position, Ludovico di Castelmare was a man, whose path it would have

been dangerous to cross in such a matter as this, and who was very well

capable of affording to any woman, in whom he was interested, a very

efficient protection against any such offence as the most enterprising

of the jeunesse doree of Ravenna might have been disposed to offer her.

The Conte Leandro Lombardoni had made the utmost of the chance that had

rendered him the earliest acquaintance of the beautiful Venetian in

Ravenna, with the exception of Ludovico himself. He had chattered, and

boasted after the manner of his kind. He had succeeded in finding out

the lodging, which Ludovico had taken so much pains to conceal from him,

and had endeavoured to establish himself on the footing of a visiting

acquaintance in the Strada Sta. Eufemia. But it had come to pass, that a

degree of intimacy had very quickly grown up between Paolina and

Ludovico, which permitted her to let him understand that, he would

render her an acceptable service by once again ridding her of the Conte

Leandro, as he had done on that first day of their acquaintance. And the

result was that, one evening, the gallant Conte, on knocking at the door

of the house in the Strada di S. Eufemia, had it opened to him by his

friend Ludovico,--and further, that he never came back there any more,

or was heard again to make any allusion whatever to his Venetian

acquaintances.

But what was no longer said jestingly before Ludovico's face was none

the less said enviously, sneeringly, or knowingly behind his back. It

was perfectly well understood by all the young men in Ravenna that he

was desperately in love with the beautiful Venetian artist. As to the

terms on which he stood with her there were differences of opinion. But

by far the more accredited notion was that the affair was quite a normal

and ordinary one; and that the charming Paolina was the young Marchese's

mistress.

Would he give her up, when the marriage, which, as was well known to all

Ravenna, his uncle had been arranging for him with the young Contessa

Violante di Marliani, and which was expected to come off shortly, should

be consummated? That was the more interesting point for speculation.

Would he, as really seemed not impossible, be mad enough to carry on

with the Venetian girl to such an extent as to give umbrage to the

family of the Contessa, and perhaps even endanger the match? This also

was debated among his young peers of the Circolo, while he was passing

the hour in the Strada di Sta. Eufemia.

His uncle was far from being aware how far matters had gone with his

nephew in this matter. But he knew enough to make him uneasy about it,

and to lead him to endeavour to push on the match with the Contessa

Violante by every means in his power: for the marriage with the Lady

Violante was, in every point of view, a desirable one. The Cardinal

Legate of Ravenna was a Marliani, and the young lady in question was his

great-niece--the granddaughter of his only brother. She had lost both

her parents at an early age, and now lived at Ravenna with a

great-aunt,--the younger sister of the Cardinal, under his protection

and wing, as it were. The family was not a rich one, but the Cardinal

had worn the purple many years. He had held very lucrative offices in

the Apostolic Court previously, and had doubtless amassed very

considerable wealth, and the Lady Violante was his only heiress. Besides

that, of course the position of her great-uncle as Legate rendered her

all that was desirable as a match for the noblest of the province--not

to mention other grander possibilities in the background. The reigning

Pontiff was a very aged man. The Cardinal di Marliani was thought to

stand very well at Rome. Who knew what might happen? It would have been

too monstrous if the hope of such a marriage as this were to be

endangered by a silly fancy for the pretty face and slim figure of a

little artist.

The Marchese Lamberto had felt his position to be a difficult one. He

really did not know what line it would be wisest to take. Ludovico had

spoken among his associates at the Circolo in a manner which had

effectually silenced all light allusion to the ladies in the Strada di

Santa Eufemia. He could not speak exactly in the same tone to his uncle;

but the hints that the Marchese Lamberto had from time to time thrown

out to the effect that, under the circumstances of the case, he did not

approve of his nephew's intimacy with the Signorina, Paolina Foscarelli,

had been received in a manner by the younger man which had warned the

elder that some caution was required in the task of guiding his nephew

in this matter. He had never had much cause to be dissatisfied with his

nephew's conduct, or with his behaviour towards himself: but some years

before the present time, he had been made aware that the Marchese

Ludovico was one of those whom it is easier to lead than to drive; and

that any attempt at a little too much driving would be likely to lead to

kicking, and perhaps to an entire breaking of reins and traces.

And, being a man of sense, he had acted on the hints thus given him with

considerable success. The Marchese Ludovico had submitted on most

occasions to be led with all desirable docility. But now, in this

matter, wherein judicious leading was more than ever before in his life

necessary to him, he seemed to decline to be led at all.

How could the perplexed Marchese do otherwise than frown when he was

told that his nephew was not at the Circolo at that hour of the evening,

knowing very well where such absence showed him to be? Yet he probably

would have done, or attempted to do, some thing else,--or, at all

events, the frown would have been a yet heavier and blacker one,--could

he not only have guessed where his nephew was at that moment, but have

also heard what was passing in the little salottino of the Strada di S.

Eufemia.

Some account of the conversation there may perhaps serve the purpose of

saving all necessity for a detailed account of the intercourse which had

taken place between Ludovico and Paolina during the last eight months.

The story of it will be sufficiently understood from a peep at its

result.

CHAPTER VII

The Teaching of a Great Love

Paolina had been working all day in the church of San Vitale. She had

very nearly completed the copies she was to make there; and they were

the most important in extent of all she had engaged to execute. It had

been necessary to erect a scaffolding for the purpose of bringing the

artist sufficiently near to her subject; and the permission to have this

done had been obtained by the all-powerful interest of the Marchese

Lamberto. Many an hour had Ludovico passed on that scaffolding by the

artist's side as she plied her slow and laborious task; and many a

"Paul" had the old sacristan pocketed with a grin of understanding, as

he had opened the door of the church to the young Marchese, the object

of whose visit he had long since learned to understand.

And Paolina herself? Did she approve of these visits made thus in the

perfect seclusion of that old church at the hours when its doors were

shut to the public? Did she like the hours so spent in tete-a-tete

conversation with the handsome young Marchese? She, who had so readily

found the means to make the entreprenant Conte Leandro keep his

distance, and had succeeded in disembarrassing herself of him

altogether,--could she find no possible means for avoiding the

assiduities of the Marchese Ludovico; could she not at least have

induced old Orsola to accompany her in the church of San Vitale, as she

had accompanied her in the gallery at Venice?

Perhaps old Orsola did not like climbing up a ladder to a scaffolding.

Perhaps she had the superstitious dislike to an empty, and lonely church

not uncommon to uneducated Italians. The fact was at all events that,

even after Ludovico had, upon more than one occasion, brought the

rushing blood into the dark face of Paolina by surprising her at her

work on the scaffolding near the vaults of the church, old Orsola never

made her appearance there. She was always at her place on one side of

the fire during the visits of the Marchese to the quartiere in the

Strada di Santa Eufemia in the evening; but it was equally true that she

almost always went to sleep.

It is so natural and so desirable that the old should sleep under such

circumstances and on such occasions! It is so evidently for the benefit

of all the parties concerned, that the tendency may be reckoned among

the instances of beneficent adaptation with which the whole order of

Nature is filled!

It can hardly be doubted,--Ludovico could hardly be blamed for the

persuasion--that Paolina did like his visits. It may be pretty safely

assumed that those blushes, which greeted the appearance of his head

above the planks as he climbed to the scaffolding, were not painful

blushes. How early in those eight months it came to pass that her heart

leaped at the click of the huge old key in the lock, as the sacristan

admitted Ludovico by a turn of it which, as she had well learned,

heralded his coming, it might be hard to say. Paolina herself could not

probably have told this to her own heart. But that such had come to be

the case long before the evening when the Marchese Lamberto sought his

nephew at the Circolo, and could not find him, can hardly be doubted.

Thus much having been admitted, it seems as if there might be reason to

fear that Paolina may appear worthy of censure to those of her own sex,

to whom her story is here commended, to a degree which truth, and an

acquaintance with times, places, and national manners, would not quite

justify. But in these matters of national appreciation, of fitness and

unfitness, and of propriety and impropriety, the nuances are so fine and

subtle, that it is somewhat difficult, in trying to explain them, to say

just what one means without seeming to say more than one means.

One thing is clear. Paolina was as thoroughly and essentially modest and

innocent a girl as ever breathed; but she was so "by the grace of

God,"--from natural idiosyncrasy and instinctive purity of heart, that

is to say, rather than from teaching of any kind, or from any knowledge

of good or evil. She was an orphan, the child of parents who were

"nobody," and she was left in the world to find her own way in it as she

could. So much the more, replies the prudent English matron, ought she

to have been extra careful lest the breath of misconception should even

for a passing moment sully her. It is the sentiment of a people, who,

"aristocratic" as they may be, do really feel that that which is best

and purest in the highest lady of the land may be, and should be, also

the heritage of lowliest. But such is not practically the feeling in

those social latitudes where Paolina was born and bred.

The breath that tarnishes the clear mirror of a noble damsel's name,

says and teaches that social feeling, brings dishonour to a noble race;

and she has failed in her duty to her race. But who could be injured by

any light word spoken or light thought of such an one as poor Paolina?

She was an "artist." What treason to art, what lese-majeste against the

beautiful in every one of its manifestations, to conceive that in that

fact any reason was to be found why a less nice conduct in such matters

should be expected of her! And yet, for reasons which it would take a

volume to elucidate, so it is, that in the countries where art is deemed

to be most at home, and where it is in the largest degree the occupation

of large sections of the people, it is deemed that a less strict rule

with reference to the matters under consideration is laid on them than

on others. What if a young female artist "perfectly free from ties," as

would be urged, and whose conduct in such a matter could hurt

nobody,--what if such an one chose to form a tie not recognized by the

Church? The Church herself would look very leniently on the venial

fault. And though Paolina was such as she has been described, it was

impossible but that such notions, not specially set forth or taught, but

pervading all the unconscious teaching of the world around her, should

have rendered her less sensitively anxious as to the possibility of

misconception lighting on her, than an equally good English girl would

have been. Could she have been indifferent to the danger that slander

should tarnish her good name? asks an Englishwoman. But the whole world

in which she lived would not have felt it to be slander. It would have

been too much in the ordinary course of things.

How Paolina felt in the matter, Ludovico was made to understand on that

evening which has been so often referred to; and the reader may gather

from the conversation that passed between them.

Paolina had worked hard all day. The mosaics in San Vitale were nearly

finished. Ludovico had been with her on her scaffolding during the few

hours of light of the short afternoon. He had become sensible that the

intercourse between him and Paolina had latterly been growing to be less

frank, unreserved, and easy than it had been. He had once been quite

sure that Paolina loved him with the whole force of a thoroughly virgin

heart. He had latterly begun almost to think that he had been mistaken

in her. She would turn from him. She would fall into long silences. She

was embarrassed in speaking to him; and it had often happened lately

that talk had passed between them, which had seemed as if they were

speaking at cross-purposes--as if there were something not understood or

misunderstood between them.

And Ludovico had come to the house in the Strada di Sta. Eufemia that

evening, safely relying on the expectation that the Signora Orsola would

go fast asleep, and determined to bring matters to an understanding

between him and Paolina.

"You can hardly, I think, doubt, Paolina mia, that I love you dearly,

far more dearly than anything else on the face of the earth. Do you not

see and know that all my life is devoted to you? You do not doubt,

darling, do you?" said Ludovico, as he sat holding one of her hands in

his.

She sat silent for awhile, and with her face turned away from him,

though she made no attempt to take her hand from his.

"You do not doubt it, Paolina?" he asked again.

"If I did doubt it,--if I had doubted it, Ludovico, you could not have

taught me the lesson which you have taught me--the lesson which you well

know you have so thoroughly taught me, to love you. We neither of us

doubt of the love of the other. But--."

She still continued to sit with her face averted from him; and, after

another pause, finished her speech only by a little sad shake of her

head.

Now the truth was that Ludovico often did doubt very much whether

Paolina really loved him. He did not understand the position in which

they stood towards each other at all. Here was a little utterly

unpretending artist, dependent on no one but herself, owing no duty to

any one, to whom he had been making love for the last eight months, as

he had never in his life made love before, who assured him that she

loved him; how was it that she had not been his mistress months and

months ago? How to account for so strange a phenomenon? He knew very

well, that if the exact truth of his position with regard to the little

Venetian artist were known or guessed at by any of the men with whom he

lived, he would have appeared to them an object of the utmost

ridicule,--a dupe,--a fool of the very first water. What on earth could

he have been about all the time?

And there were moments in which he was tempted to think the same of

himself; bitter moments of cynical world-wisdom, in which he scoffed at

himself for having been led to play the part he had played for these

last eight months. He would resolve at such moments to "speak plainly"

to Paolina; and, if such plain-speaking failed of the effect it was

intended to produce, to put her out of his mind and never waste a minute

or a thought upon her again.

But such plain-speaking had never got itself spoken,--had seemed, when

he was in presence of the intended object of it, utterly impossible to

be spoken. And as for the other alternative, he knew at the bottom of

his heart, that it was as much out of his power to put it in practice,

as it was to forget his own identity.

Something there was in the girl different from anything he had ever

known in any other specimen of the sex he had ever become acquainted

with. Something too there unmistakably was in his feeling towards her

very different from aught that he had ever felt before. What spell had

come over him? And what the deuce was the nature of her power over him?

And what the deuce was her own meaning, and feeling, and the motives of

her conduct?

It really was necessary, however, that they should in some way come to

understand each other. If he had been becoming for some time past

discontented with the state of matters between them, it was evident that

Paolina had been becoming ill at ease and unhappy also. In some fashion

or other some more or less plain speaking was evidently needed.

And Paolina herself? What was her feeling on the subject? Whence did her

unmistakable malaise, distraught behaviour in Ludovico's presence,

paling cheeks, hours of reverie, when she should have been busily at

work--whence did all this come? What was really in her mind when she

told him that doubtless they both loved each other, and then ended her

words with a "but," and a sad shake of her drooping little head?

She had found this man, her first acquaintance, in a strange land,

good-natured, pleasant, kind, useful, handsome, protecting and, at the

same time, deferential in his manner; and she had liked him. He had

delivered her from the Conte Leandro, and there had come into her mind

comparisons between the two men. He had been on her side in that matter;

they had wished the same thing, and had accomplished it against a third

person; there had been, as it were, a secret between them on the

subject; and hence had grown a bond of union. She had advanced from

liking to admiring. Thence to the consciousness that she was admired.

She had gone onwards through the usual phases of surprising herself in

the act of thinking of him at all sorts of hours, and gradually

discovering that he filled an immense portion of her lonely life there

in the strange city, till she came to the stage of mingling the avowal

"Gli voglio tanto bene" with her last prayers to Mary Mother by her

bedside at night, and meditating on the words he had said and the looks

be had looked, after she had laid her head upon the pillow.

She had thus quietly walked onwards into the deep waters of a great

love, before any question had ever suggested itself to her as to whither

she was going, and whether there might not be danger of perishing in

those deep waters.

Now nothing is clearer or more undoubted by every good and

well-conditioned girl among ourselves, than the certainty that any man

who unmistakably seeks to win her love either means and hopes to make

her his wife, or is merely fooling her for his own abominably selfish

amusement, or is insulting her and endeavouring to injure her in a

manner that makes it at once her duty and her inclination to spurn him

from her with horror and loathing.

But here, again, as the lawyers say, "locus regit actum." That which the

English girl feels, under such circumstances, so naturally, that she

deems it an inseparable part of her nature that she should so feel, she

feels because of the teaching of the whole social atmosphere in which

she has lived. The Italian girl, in the position of Paolina, does not

feel it, because she has lived in a very different social atmosphere.

It is quite certain that Paolina,--if the question, whether it was in

anywise on the cards that the Marchese Ludovico di Castelmare had

conceived, or was likely to conceive, any project of marrying her,

Paolina Foscarelli, had suggested itself, or had been suggested, to her

at any time during those eight months,--would at once have replied to

her own heart or to any other person, that such an idea was utterly

preposterous and out of the question.

But he had been striving to convince her that he loved her by every

means in his power for months past, and had succeeded in so convincing

her. Was he merely playing with her? That idea never entered into her

head. As she, with sad and transparent frankness, had told him, neither

of them could doubt the love of the other. What doubt could remain,

then, as to the alternative? What doubt of the atrocious nature of his

designs and intentions towards her? No doubt at all. Ought she not,

therefore, with the intensest scorn of what-do-you-take-me-for-sir

indignation to have repelled the insult offered to her?

Poor Paolina had no conception that any insult at all was offered to her

or intended. Ludovico was minded to offer to her that which it was in

his power to offer, for her to accept if it suited her, or to decline if

it suited her not. The species of tie that he offered her was all he

could offer her. It was one very frequently offered and very frequently

accepted in similar cases. Had the possibility that she might one day

accept such been suggested to her, it would have produced no horror in

her mind. She had no conviction during all these eight months that she

never could or would accept such a position from any man. Why, then, did

not matters proceed harmoniously and smoothly between them? Why had not

Paolina become Ludovico's mistress before this time? What was the

meaning of the averted face, and of that broken off "but--" which she

had found it so difficult to follow with a completed sentence?

The meaning was, that Paolina's own heart, during those hours of reverie

filled with the meditation of her love,--during those pourings forth of

her confessions of love to her heavenly confidant in her bedside

prayers;--during her nightly review of the love-passages of the

day,--her own heart, as it became clearer to her, had revealed to her,

that she could not accede to any such proposal as that which, she was

well persuaded, the Marchese could alone offer to her;--had revealed it

to her, not in obedience to any moral principle; not by any

what-do-you-take-me-for process of indignant virtue; but by an

instinctive feeling irresistible and not to be gainsayed, that the love

she had to bestow must possess its object wholly and entirely, or not at

all. It was quite a matter of course that Ludovico would marry some lady

in his rank of life. She was not ignorant of the position in which he

stood with regard to the Contessa Violante. And his openness to her on

this subject is a curious indication of the very wide difference between

the mode in which the whole subject would be looked at by both parties

in the world in which they lived, and in our own.

Philosophers, as the result of much learned observation and long

reasonings, come to the conclusion that monogamy is best suited, on the

whole, to the nature, the requirements, and progressive improvement of

mankind. A pure-hearted woman, who loves with a true and great love,

finds a shorter cut to the same conviction.

And the growing depth and earnestness of Paolina's love had arrived at

teaching her this with unmistakable clearness. She might pine, might

die--might compel her heart to turn to stone;--might seek the refuge of

a cloister, which is the southern equivalent for suicide;--but she could

not--she felt she could not live and be content to share her lover's

love with another. It was not any sensation of the nature of jealousy so

much as an unconquerable feeling that not to have all was to have

nothing;--that she must have all and for ever; that she and he must be

one;--one flesh and one spirit.

Of course all this ought to be taught, and is taught to all respectably

educated young persons in more regular and didactic fashion. But to poor

little unschooled Paolina it was taught not less authoritatively by the

greatness and the purity of her own love.

CHAPTER VIII

A Change in the Situation

"Neither of us can any more doubt the love of the other, Ludovico mio!"

Paolina had said in reply, to his pleading, "but--"

But what, tesoro mio? What 'but' can come between us, if there is no

such doubt to come between us?" urged Ludovico, gently drawing her

towards him by the hand he still held locked in his own.

Again Paolina paused some minutes before replying, less apparently from

hesitation to speak what was in her mind, than because she was applying

her whole mind to the better understanding of her own meaning.

"It is not, that I doubt whether you love me, Ludovico mio!" she said at

length, but still without turning towards him; "I know you love me truly

and well. But I sometimes think, that you do not love me in the same way

that I love you. I never knew before that there could be different ways

of loving. But now it seems to me,--and I have thought so much, oh, so

much of it,--that somehow you look less to the whole, of

everything,--how can I say what I mean?--less to all our lives, and all

our selves, in your love, than I do."

"What can you mean, Paolina? A different way of loving! I know but of

one way!" said Ludovico with a somewhat banal flourish.

"What would become of me, Ludovico mio," she said, now looking round

into his face, with a look in her deep true eyes, that made him feel for

the moment as though all the world were truly as nothing to him, in

comparison with her love;--"what would become of me, if you were to

cease to love me? I should wither away, and die. It is probably what

will happen to me!"

"Paolina!" he exclaimed, in a voice of strong reproach.

She put her hand upon his shoulder, as if to beg him to let her complete

what she wished to say, and continued,--"But what would happen to you,

if I were--it is impossible, but if I were--to cease to love you? would

not that show you, that there is a difference between ways of loving?"

"No, cara mia, it would shew no such thing. Look now, Paolina! They tell

of lovers' perjuries. But I never said one word to you that I did not

believe to be true. Nor will I ever do so. Were you to be taken from me,

by your own heart, and your own act, or in any other way, I do not

believe that I should wither and die. But it does not follow, that I

should suffer less. I should live on, not because my love is weaker, but

because my body is stronger than yours. God grant that such a lot may

never befall me."

"It never can befall you, amor mio! but, Ludovico, you could not only

live, but you could love--some other woman;" she uttered the words with

a little gulp of emotion, and continued: "Do you imagine, that if I

lived to a thousand years, I could ever love any other than you?"

"What right have you to say, Paolina, that I should ever, or could ever

love another but you?" said Ludovico, indignantly.

"Nay, Ludovico, must you not do so always? Are you not professing to do

so even now? Are you not promising your love to the Contessa Violante?

will she not have a better right to your love than I?"

Ludovico started, and drawing himself a little back from Paolina, looked

at her with reproachful surprise. It was not that he was surprised at

learning that she was aware of his engagement to the Contessa. He had,

as has been said, concealed nothing from her in that respect. But he was

vexed, and surprised at the feeling she manifested on the subject.

"You surprise me, Paolina!" he said. "Would it have been better if I had

concealed all this from you? Many men,--most men perhaps, in similar

circumstances would have done so. But I cannot treat you in that way. I

have been, and would always be open and sincere to you in all things.

You know all about this match. You know that it is a family arrangement

managed by my uncle. You know, that if I wished it ever so much, I can't

avoid it. You know, or ought to know, that it is not, and cannot be a

matter of affection in any way. You know that in the world such

marriages are arranged and are known and understood to be arranged, for

reasons, and on ground with which love has nothing to do. Does not all

Ravenna know, including the lady herself doubtless, that I am to marry

her because she is the great-niece of the Cardinal Legate? Can I be

expected to love her, because she is the Cardinal's niece? Surely, my

Paolina, you are not speaking or thinking of this matter, with your

usual good sense!"

"I can't help it, Ludovico; I am, at all events speaking with my whole

heart!" she said in a tone of profound sadness. "If what you say is

true,--and do not imagine, dearest, that I have the smallest doubt that

all you say to me is entirely and perfectly true,--just think of the lot

of that povera Contessa Violante! Poverina! I dare say she,--think of

the wrong I should be doing her! Think how she would hate me!" She

shuddered as she spoke. "Nobody, I think, ever hated me yet," she

continued; "and it seems to me so horrible to be hated. And more

horrible still to know that I should be justly hated! And then, tesoro

mio!--Mio!--How could I ever say mio? Never, never, never, mio!" she

cried, bursting into passionate tears. "No, never mine! The very word

itself, which comes so naturally to my lips, tells me, like a knell in

my heart, that it can never be!"

"But, Paolina, angiola mia," said Ludovico, who had heard her with a

look of consternation, "what has thus changed you? For it is a change.

You knew all these things before. What has occurred to put such notions

into your mind all of a sudden?"

"Not all of a sudden, Ludovico! The blessed Virgin knows for how many

sad and solitary hours I have been thinking, and thinking, and thinking

of all this! She knows how many nights I have passed in tears to think

of it. What has put it into my head, you say? Ludovico, it is my love

for you that has put it into my head! It is my strong love that has

opened my eyes, and made me see that I cannot--cannot--I mean--that I

cannot share your love with another!"

The words came forced from her with a great effort, and with a sob that

seemed as if it would choke her.

"Oh my Paolina, what words are these?" said he, his own voice trembling

with trouble and emotion.

"It is true, Ludovico! It is my true love that has opened my eyes. I

fear that I have done very wrong; and the blessed Saints know that I

shall have my punishment! I have done wrong in loving you, and letting

you love me! But I did not know it, I did not think, I did not see where

I was going! I ought to have known that love was not for a poor girl

like me! I ought to have known that evil and misery would come. But till

I loved you with my whole, whole heart, Ludovico; and till I found out

that I did, I did not know that--that it would be so,--that I should

feel as I feel now."

Ludovico got up from his seat, and began walking up and down the floor

of the little room, sighing deeply, and passing his hand again and again

across his forehead. Presently he sat down again, bringing his chair so

as to front her fully as he sat.

"Paolina," he said, looking sadly into her eyes with a deeper meaning in

his own than she had ever seen there; "your words have made me very,

very miserable! I never in all my life was so unhappy as I am now. You

must listen now, my Paolina, to what I am going to say; and you must

think well before you answer me. You see, dearest, that it is necessary

that we should quite understand this matter, and understand each other.

Many men, if they had been told what you have now told me, would begin

to reproach a girl with not loving them,--to say that it was clear she

did not care for them. I will not do so. I will not pretend to think

that you do not love me. I know that you do, as well as you know that I

love you with my whole heart. And with this knowledge in both our

hearts, think what is the meaning and the end of what you have been

saying. You know that this marriage is inevitable! And the consequence

of it is to be that we two are both to be broken-hearted,--to condemn

ourselves to pass loveless lives,--to give each other up,--see each

other no more,--make all the future a blank to both of us. Good God,

Paolina! You cannot mean that!"

"When you have married, Ludovico mio,--when I have said those dear words

for the last, last time, you will have plenty of things to make you

forget your poor Paolina! And for me, I shall be heart-broken doing no

wrong to any other, instead of heart-broken and doing terrible wrong all

the time! And, dearest, it would be worse than heart-break. I could

not--it is stronger than I am! It seems like a new horrible thing shown

to me, which I never saw or thought of before! When it comes close to me

I shudder at the thought--."

"At what thought, Paolina? At the thought of my being married to the

Contessa Violante?" asked Ludovico, looking steadfastly into her eyes.

She bore his gaze without withdrawing her sad, still eyes for awhile,

thinking deeply before she answered.

"No, Ludovico; not at the thought of your being married to the Contessa

Violante! That is a thought which may break my heart. But it does not

make me shudder, as that other thought does;--the thought of--of--- of

loving one, who--who--who owes his love to another; the thought of

taking by stealth whatever share of love may be given to me stolen from

the rightful owner. Never! never! never! Would you then be mine,--all

mine, for ever, and ever, and ever! Oh, my love, my love! If you don't

understand this, love has not opened your eyes as it has mine. Do you

think that I could endure the thought of being married to another man?

The bare notion is horror--horror--HORROR! Would I not rather die this

minute; ay, or die a thousand times!"

Again Ludovico got up from his chair and paced the room, sometimes

stopping abruptly in apparently deep thought, and sometimes resuming his

walk with every appearance of despair in his face and gestures. It is

needless to say that Paolina had spoken the very inmost truth that was

in her heart in all its entirety; but she had also succeeded in making

him feel that it was so.

There is often a feeling in a man's mind on such occasions--a feeling

too closely allied to selfishness--which leads him to be dissatisfied

with what seems to him the unwillingness of a woman to make sacrifices

to her love. And often a woman, knowing this, and calculating mostly

falsely, is urged to yield by a desire of proving that she does not

deserve such a suspicion. But Ludovico had no such thought in his mind.

He knew that Paolina had not only spoken truly, but had represented her

mind accurately. It was not that she "respected herself." The poor child

had never received any lessons which could teach her such respect. She

had been perfectly ready to accept the social position of Ludovico's

mistress, until the power of a great, true, and pure love had unsealed

the eyes of her understanding, of her imagination, and of her heart to

the nature--not of the social position of such a tie as that proposed to

her--but of the absolute imperious necessity of sharing such a love with

none. Putting all notion of principle, of duty, of the understood

expediency of conforming to laws divine, and human, out of the question,

such a love as Paolina felt demands this with a cogency of insistence

that cannot be set aside. And the man who hopes, or flatters himself, or

suffers himself to be persuaded that such a love has been given to him

upon any other terms, is--he may rely upon it with the certainty due to

an eternal law of nature--deceived. The quality of the love which may

have so been given to him is of a different kind.

After awhile Ludovico came again and stopped directly in front of the

chair in which Paolina was sitting; but he remained standing, and

placing his two hands, one on either of her shoulders, and looking down

into her face with moist eyes, he said,--"My love, my true and best--my

only love! I cannot lose you, Paolina; I cannot give you up.

Truly--truly I had rather that any other thing--any other evil that

could happen, should happen to me. We are, and we must be, all in all to

each other, my Paolina, now and ever. There is no alternative

possibility to this. Love has opened my eyes, too, my darling angel!

Your love has opened my eyes; I will know no other love,--no other

woman--call none other wife but you! Paolina, you will be mine?--my all?

my only one?"

"Ludovico!" she exclaimed, looking up at him with an ecstasy of joy, and

yet with a great terror upon her face; "but what will happen--what will

happen to you? What will be done to me?"

"We must see, my heart's treasure! We must have patience; you must trust

to me. You do trust me, non e vero? I must put off this marriage; then

find means to break it. And, after all, what can my uncle do? I am

dependent on him while he lives; but I must succeed to all he has when

he dies. My promised wife! Are you mine--mine for ever? Will you now put

your dear little hand in mine, and promise me, and have faith in me, and

wait for me, and have patience till I can see my way, and love me all

the time, my own--my darling?"

"I am your own, Ludovico;--yours, any way: to live for you, if such a

lot may be mine; to die still yours, if it may not! Wait! Patience! What

shall tire my patience? So I know that you are loving me--me only--all

the time, I shall ask nothing more! But, oh, I am so frightened! And

then I shall be a cause of such mischief and trouble to you. Would it

not have been better for you if you had never seen poor Paolina?"

"No, no, no, no! It would have been a thousand million times worse for

me! Be of good heart, my treasure; nothing can hurt you. We must keep

our secret for a while; and nothing will hurt me, if we manage well. But

I must think; my mind is in a confusion;--a joyful confusion, dearest!

But I must think it all over. If you see me less often, be sure that it

is because I am planning for our happiness. And now, darling,--my own,

my own, now really and for ever, my own--one kiss to seal our contract!

You won't refuse me that. I take you thus in my arms, my Paolina; for

the first time as your promised husband. Good-night--good-night--my own!

I trust I may be able to think of what I am doing at the Palazzo

tonight. Good-night, my own!"

And thus the Marchese Ludovico returned that evening to the Palazzo

Castelmare, about an hour after Signor Ercole Stadione had quitted it;

pledged to find some means of breaking off the match with the Contessa

Violante Marliani, to which all Ravenna was looking forward, and engaged

to be married to the little obscure Venetian orphan artist.

CHAPTER IX

Uncle and Nephew

Ludovico di Castelmare did not see his uncle that evening. He returned

to the Palazzo, thoughtful enough, direct from the house in the Strada

di Santa Eufemia, and there learned that the Impresario had been with

the Marchese; that he had brought the good news of his success in having

engaged "La Lalli" to sing at Ravenna during the coming Carnival; and

that he, Ludovico, had been sent for by his uncle from the Circolo. What

for, the servant could not tell him. He could only say that the Marchese

had seemed much put out at the Signor Marchese Ludovico's absence, and

that he had shortly afterwards gone out to pass the remainder of the

evening at the palace of the Cardinal Legate.

Ludovico was by no means so anxious to see his uncle as to wait to do so

till he should return at night. He betook himself to his own

quartierino, locked the door, and sat down to think.

He had said no more than the truth to Paolina when he professed that he

had never spoken a word with the intention of deceiving her. Nor had he

been otherwise than entirely sincere in all that he had just been saying

to her. Nevertheless he felt, somewhat more strongly and clearly,

perhaps, than while he had been looking into Paolina's eyes, that he had

undertaken rather a tremendous task in declaring that he would break off

the projected marriage with the Lady Violante, the great-niece of the

Cardinal,--a match which both families considered to be definitively

arranged, and which was expected and looked forward to by all Ravenna,

and that for the purpose and with the view of making so terrible a

mesalliance as that he contemplated. The Marchese Ludovico felt all the

weight of the inheritance of a great name and a still greater social

position, which devolved upon him from his uncle. It was bad enough to

contemplate the effect which would be produced, as regarded himself, by

the step he contemplated. But it was perfectly terrible to think of the

effect it would produce on the Marchese Lamberto. Ludovico was proud, in

his more easy-going way, of the position he occupied as his uncle's

nephew in the society of the city; but it was not to him the breath of

his nostrils as it was to his uncle.

He felt, as a weak man is apt to feel in similar positions of

difficulty, that the best and quickest, and, above all, the easiest, way

out of all embarrassment would be to run away from it--to quit Ravenna,

and give it up--it, and all its inhabitants for ever. He could do this.

He felt that Paolina would be worth such a sacrifice. But how to

accomplish such a step while his uncle lived?

As it was all he could do was to procrastinate, he thought of the old

Italian proverb, "Gain time, and you will pull through," and he

determined to profit by the wisdom of it. Even procrastination would not

be without difficulty. But something might be done in that way,--some

time might be gained. And then there was always that never-failing

resource and consolation of those who, in the words of Horace, limit

their ambition to adapting themselves to circumstances instead of

adapting circumstances to them, something might turn up; though, for the

present, it was difficult to see what that something could possibly be,

unless it were the death of his uncle, a perfectly robust and healthy

man in the fiftieth year of his life.

Might possibly the something take the shape of a change or mitigation of

Paolina's resolve? No sooner did the idea cross his mind than he felt

ashamed of it, and his heart smote him for having for a moment harboured

a thought that involved falseness to his promise to her. Nevertheless,

it was not the last time that the thought recurred.

The next morning he met his uncle.

"I had Stadione with me yesterday evening," said the Marchese, "and I

wanted to speak to you about something he said. I was sorry to be told

that you were not at the Circolo."

"I was sorry that Beppo did not find me. What was it? Signor Ercole has

succeeded in his mission, I hear."

"Yes; and it was on that matter I wanted to speak to you; but this

morning will do as well for that. It was not that that vexed me,

Ludovico. I won't ask you to tell me where you were, and I don't want to

play the inquisitor; but the fact is, I know very well without asking.

And, my dear nephew, I cannot but tell you that you are acting

unwisely,--imprudently even."

"What have I done that is wrong, sir? Is it not fitting that I should

show some attention to people, who came here recommended to you, and

whom you yourself first commissioned me to assist?" said Ludovico.

"What is the good of answering in that way, Ludovico. Just as if we both

did not know better than that, and know too what we both mean? Pay some

attention! Pshaw! Do you think that I am quite a fool? As if I did not

know what you go there for, and what you have been going there for these

eight months past, since first I was blockhead enough to throw that

pretty girl in your way. Now, figliuolo mio, it is my duty to tell you

that that sort of thing won't do--just at present. I don't want, as I

said, to play the inquisitor, nor do I wish to play the preacher. When

you are married you must guide your own conduct as you may think fit;

but now every consideration of propriety and prudence should teach you

that you must not continue to run after that young person in the sight

of all the town in the way you do. Here you are on the point of

contracting a marriage, which--"

"On the point, uncle? We are surely a long way from that yet?" said

Ludovico.

"A long way! I don't know what you mean by a long way; if we are not

further advanced, it is your own fault. We might bring the negotiation

to a conclusion at once. It might all be settled this Carnival.

"This Carnival, uncle? Impossible! I must have a little time. There are

so many things to be thought of."

"What is there to be thought of, that has not been thought of already?

They are in no hurry; they look upon the matter as arranged. But in

decency, we cannot show any backwardness; it does not look well.

"Well, uncle: at all events, let this Carnival pass over. Let me have

this last Carnival; then Lent is of no use: after that we will see about

it."

"Well, be it so. But, my dear boy, you know all the importance of this

marriage! You know how desirable it is in every point of view; family,

rank, station, influence, money,--though that happily we have no need to

seek; why, it was only last week,--this is a secret, and must go no

further, but I know I can trust to your discretion;--only last week,

that I got a letter from my old friend, Monsignore Paterini at Rome, in

which he speaks in almost open terms of the chance, and even

probability, that our Cardinal might--ahem!--find the next conclave a

particularly interesting one. You know how Paterini stands at Rome, and

that a hint from him is as good as a volume from another; and just think

of the possibilities that such a contingency might open before you! I

won't say any more; but do now during this Carnival, show yourself a

little more at the palace, and pay a little attention, and let the world

see that you occupy the place with regard to the Contessa Violante, that

you really do occupy. Basta!"

"I will do the best I can, sir, to merit your approbation," said

Ludovico, feeling that he was expected to say something, and not well

knowing how to do it.

"And now about the matter I wanted to speak of last night. La Lalli

comes to us, you see, for the Carnival: it is a great triumph for

Ravenna. She is certainly the first singer in Italy, since England with

its brute power of money, robbed us of poor Sparderini. But between you

and me, figliuolo mio, we should never have got her, if there had not

been certain difficulties--certain scandals,--che so io?--at Milan. All

that is no business of ours, you know, tutt' altro! But there has been

talk;--stories have got about!--mere calumny probably, as Signor Ercole

very justly remarked,--but it is very desirable that such things should

not be the talk of the town here. It is mauvais genre to chatter about

such matters. You can make it mauvais genre among the youngsters at

Ravenna, if you choose. Do so; you understand! That's all."

"Perfectly, uncle! Lasci fare a me! I'll see to it; though I confess I

do not quite understand why we need trouble ourselves about any such

gossip," said Ludovico, delighted to be able to fall in with his uncle's

wishes in something.

"Well, I should have thought that you might understand. In the first

place I don't want it to be said or imagined, either here or elsewhere,

that Ravenna has taken up with a singer, who could not get an engagement

elsewhere. Not that that is the case by any means. But don't you see, if

it is said that she was obliged to leave Milan, it puts us in the

position of a pis aller! And I don't like that. In the next place, I

don't want to have light talk about a person whom I have had so large a

share in bringing to the city. These are things you ought to learn to

think of, caro mio!" replied the Marchese, a little annoyed at having to

put his feelings on the subject into such plain words.

"I'll take care that things shall be as you wish. When is she to

arrive?" asked Ludovico.

"About the end of the year--in a month's time or thereabouts. Stadione

did not mention whether the day of her coming had been fixed. Her first

appearance will be on the night of the Beffana, the 6th of January."

"Because they were talking at the Circolo of getting up some little

matter of welcome,--taking the horses from her carriage, and drawing her

in, or some thing of that kind, and a serenata of course. Leandro is

busy already with a poem for the occasion, you may swear!"

"Bravo! bene! If only our good friend the Conte keeps his muse within

tolerable limits! It would not do to quite smother her in verse on her

first arrival; and, you know, our good Leandro has rather a special gift

that way. Well, get up any kind of dimostrasione you like for the

occasion,--it will all help to give eclat to our opening. You can

arrange all about the when, and the where, etc., with Stadione. We are

going to have a meeting of the Belle Arte Committee here this morning.

They'll be here directly!" said the Marchese Lamberto, pulling out his

watch.

"One word more, uncle, before I'm off," said Ludovico.

"What is it?--money, I suppose?" said the Marchese, again taking out his

watch.

"No, sir; not money this time,--unless, indeed, you insist on it," said

the nephew, laughing.

"Not at all, not at all! I won't press it on you by any means!" said the

uncle in a similar tone; "but what were you going to say?"

"Why, with reference to what you were saying just now, about the

Signorina Foscarelli," replied Ludovico, in quite a different tone. "I

am always anxious to shape my conduct in accordance with your advice,

uncle. You see La Foscarelli has all but finished her work at St.

Vitale, you know: she is to do her copying in the Cardinal's Palace

next, for you have kindly arranged for her permission to do so. Now, she

can't very well go to the palace, for the first time, alone, you know!

If you had not expressed the opinions you have on the subject, I should

have gone with her, thinking no harm. But perhaps--to the palace, you

know;--it would be better, if you would not mind it, to accompany her,

for the first time, yourself."

"Very right, very properly thought of, my dear boy! Yes; I can go with

her--or I can send Burini, which will come to the same thing."

"No, uncle; not the same thing--to send a mere maestro di casa,--a

servant! It would not be nice for the poor girl; it would make all the

difference with the servants and people at the palace: if I avoid going

with her to please you, you will go with her yourself, won't you?"

"Very well, very well; I'll go with her. If any man has more to do of

his own than all the rest of the city put together, there are sure to be

other folk's affairs thrust on him also; it has been sowith me all my

life. Well, I will find half an hour somehow."

"Thanks, uncle! Good-by, I wish you well through your meeting."

"We shall see each other at dinner?"

"Yes. A rivederla!"

CHAPTER X

The Contessa Violante

The Contessa Violante Marliani lived, as has been said, with her

great-aunt, a sister of the Cardinal. They occupied a small house nearly

contiguous to the palace, which was almost more their home than their

own dwelling. The Marchesa Lanfredi, the Cardinal's sister, though a

great-aunt, was not yet sixty years old. She had been left a childless

widow, very scantily provided for, early in life, and had retired from

Bologna, her husband's native place, to live first at Foligno, of which

city her brother had been bishop, and afterwards at Ravenna, to which he

had been subsequently promoted. The Cardinal was six or seven years her

senior. His elder brother, the grandfather of the Lady Violante, had

inherited the family estates in the neighbourhood of Pesaro, and had

died, leaving them to his only son, Violante's father, when the latter

was a very young man.

This Conte Alberto Marliani had married for love, as it is called. That

is to say, that he had not married for any of the reasons for which

marriages among people of his rank and his country are usually made; but

had been attracted by a pretty gentle face seen in a Roman ball-room.

The pretty gentle face had remained always gentle; but had soon ceased

to be pretty.

The Contessa Marliani was inclined to devotion. The Conte was very much

disinclined to anything of the sort. He soon got tired of his wife,

repented of his marriage, and commenced an active system of breaking her

heart. It was not a very difficult task, for she was as gentle in spirit

as in face. He completed it when his only child Violante was about nine

years old. But he had also completed, much about the same time, the

entire dissipation of the never very large Marliani property. And it so

happened that, very shortly afterwards, his own career was brought to a

conclusion, which his relatives felt to have overtaken him a few years

too late! He was travelling from Rome down to Pesaro to complete the

sale of the last portion of the estates, the proceeds of which had been

anticipated, when he was very opportunely drowned in attempting to cross

the Tiber swollen by flood.

The little Violante, thus left an almost destitute orphan, was

nevertheless a personage of some importance. She was the only remaining

scion of the family; and the position of her great-uncle seemed to

promise a renewed period of prosperity and fortune to the old name.

Violante was the Cardinal Legate's natural and sole heir. The Cardinal

was a very rich man; and in amassing wealth and attaining honours, he

had, like a true Italian, never thought the less of the additions to,

and provisions for, the fortunes and splendour of the family name, which

he was winning, because he was himself a priest, and would leave no

heirs of his name. The peculiarities in the position of a sacerdotal

aristocracy have engrafted the passion of nepotism in the hearts, as

well as the practice of it in the manners, of the members of Rome's

hierarchy.

Generally the family tie is a stronger one among the Italians than among

ourselves. In the upper classes, it is certainly so; and, probably,

among all classes. It may be thought strange, perhaps, that this should

be the case with a people whose lives are supposed to be less pervaded

by the sentiment of domesticity than our own. The explanation may,

however, perhaps be found in the greater and more frequent disruption of

family ties, which is caused by that more active social movement, which

pushes our younger sons away from the parental stock in search of the

means of founding families of their own.

And one of the results of the Italian mode of living and feeling is seen

in the very common family ambition of Churchmen.

The little Violante then, as has been said, was a personage of some

importance, at least in the eyes of the Cardinal and his sister; and

when she was left an orphan, was at once taken to live with her

great-aunt, under the auspices of her Cardinal great-uncle. Both of

those remaining members of the family would have preferred that the one

remaining scion of the race should have been a boy; but--when the young

Contessa should be married, of course her name should be thenceforward

borne as part of that of the family; into which she should marry,--as is

so commonly the case in Italy, (many of the oldest and most illustrious

names in the peninsula having survived to the present day solely by

virtue of such arrangements); and the Marliani be thus saved from

extinction.

The young Contessa Violante, when she reached the age of young-ladyhood,

had not the "fatal gift of beauty." Some people think that such a

deprivation is the most unfortunate from which a woman can suffer.

Others maintain that the absence of beauty is, upon the whole, no real

misfortune. But however philosophers may settle this question, it can

hardly be doubted that no young girl devoid of beauty, was ever yet

persuaded that to be unattractive in appearance, was otherwise than a

very, very sore affliction and misfortune. Nature often kindly mitigates

the blow by making the unlovely girl unconscious of her want of beauty.

But this was not the case with the young Contessa Violante Marliani.

Violante knew that she was not beautiful, or even pretty. Probably in

her own estimate of herself she exaggerated her plainness. She was one

of those persons who have not the gift of self-deception. Neither was

she elegant in person. And yet there was something about her bearing,

which would have prevented any one from imagining that she was other

than a high-born lady. There was strong evidence of intellect in her

face; and it was doubtless from within that came that quiet dignity of

bearing that marked her.

And it was a dignity compatible and combined with the most perfect

gentleness and almost humility of manner;--a dignity arising not from

the consciousness of any high position or high qualities, but from the

consciousness of that sort of gentle passive strength, which knows that

no external circumstance, or difficulty, or pressure will avail to make

its owner step but a hair's breadth aside from the path which conscience

has marked as that of right and duty.

Violante was tall and slender, but her figure was not graceful. People

did not say of her that she was slender; they said she was thin. And

that was incontestably true. She was very thin. But her shoulders were

high and square, and there was a sort of angularity and harshness about

all the lines of her person. Her head seemed somewhat too large for her

body; and the upper part of it seemed too large for the lower portion.

She had a large, square forehead, white enough, but strongly marked with

inequalities of surface, which, however much they might have delighted a

phrenologist, were not conducive to girlish comeliness. Her hair was of

the very light reddish quality, which has not a single touch in it of

that rich sunny auburn, which makes so many heads charming, red though

they be. Her face was perfectly white, yet not clear of complexion. And

the pale grey eyes beneath their all but colourless brows completed the

impression of a general want of vigour and vitality.

A little before the end of that year in which the Ravenna impresario

performed his memorable journey to Milan with the results that have been

recorded, Violante di Marliani reached her twenty-third birthday; a few

months before that day the Marchese Ludovico had reached his

twenty-second. It was a difference on the wrong side, but not so great

as to form any serious objection to the proposed match. But twenty-three

is a rather mature age for an Italian noble lady to reach unmarried.

That such should have been the case with the Signora Violante was by no

means because no suitor for her hand had ever presented himself. Several

such aspirants had entered the lists. For the Contessa Violante was the

great-niece of her great uncle. But some of these had appeared

objectionable to the Cardinal and his sister;--who also were not at all

likely to forget all that was due to the prospects arising from such a

relationship, and all that it implied; and all of them had been

objectionable to the young Contessa herself.

Violante's expectations, indeed, in that line, or in any other of all

the different ways in which happiness may come to mortals in this world,

was very small. For the first nine years of her life she had lived the

only companion of a very miserable mother. And all that mother's misery

had apparently come from the fact of her having a husband. Those first

years of the child's life had been very sad; very monotonous, very

depressing. Perhaps the effect of them did but confirm the speciality of

an idiosyncrasy, which would have been much the same without them. But,

at all events, when the child was brought to the house of her

great-aunt, it seemed as if her mind and character had been too long and

too uniformly toned to accord with sadness, for happiness to have any

power of taking hold of her.

The old Marchesa Lanfredi, who took the young Contessa under her roof,

and under her care, was not a bad sort of woman in the main; but she was

thoroughly and consistently worldly, and judged everything from a

worldly point of view. The Contessa Marliani was an important little

lady in her eyes; and was treated, by her with an indulgence and

consideration which she would have considered out of place in the case

of a child not born to such expectations and such a destiny. She was not

contented with her young relative; but was more perplexed and puzzled by

her than angered. And as Violante grew towards womanhood, her great-aunt

understood her less and less.

In the first place, she had a much stronger tendency towards devotion

than the Marchese Lanfredi thought either natural or becoming in a young

woman. Of course it was right and proper to pay due attention to one's

religious duties; there was no necessity to tell her, a Cardinal

Archbishop's sister, that, it was to be supposed. But she had a strong

objection to excess in such matters. And to her mind Violante carried

her devotional practices, and yet more her devotional ideas, to excess.

Of the latter, indeed, the old Marchesa Lanfredi disapproved altogether.

Young people had no ideas upon the subject in her time;--and the world

was certainly a better world then than it had been since.

And then, worst of all, it gradually became evident to the Marchesa's

mind that there was a more or less direct connection in the way of cause

and effect between her niece's religious notions and feelings and the

strange readiness she had shown to find objections to both of the two

persons who had been judged by her family to be admissible suitors for

her hand. The Marchesa began to entertain a strong apprehension that her

niece had conceived the idea of "entering into religion;" i.e. of

becoming a nun.

It had been necessary at the time of Violante's first coming to live

with her aunt, to select a governess for her; and a lady had been found

fitted to teach her all that it was proper for a noble young Italian

lady to know. But when she became seventeen it was judged expedient to

change this lady for another. A different sort of person was required.

Custom and the habits of life and convenience of the Marchesa made it

expedient that a duenna should be provided to attend on the young

Contessa; but she was supposed no longer to need an instructress.

The person selected for this trust was not perhaps altogether such as

might have been desired. By some fatality, arising probably from some

latent incompatibility between the institution itself and the eternal

order of things, it would seem as if the persons entrusted with that

responsible situation rarely did turn out to be exactly the right people

in the right place. Perhaps in the case of the young Contessa Violante

her great-aunt had sought to find some attendant and companion for her

who should have a tendency to correct that too great proclivity to

retirement from the world--to a life in which religion was the chief

interest and occupation, and to a sad and unhopeful view of the world

around and before her--which she lamented in her niece. If so, the

choice she made was not followed by the results she hoped from it; and

was attended by other inconveniences.

The Signora Assunta Fagiani, the widow of a distinguished Bolognese

professor of jurisprudence, was certainly quite free from all those

dispositions which the Marchesa regretted in her niece. But she was not

altogether discreet or judicious in the method she adopted for

reconciling the young girl to the world, and to worldly views and hopes

and objects.

She very soon perceived that to Violante the consciousness of her own

want of personal attractions was, despite her yearning for a life to be

filled with thoughts and objects to which beauty could contribute

nothing, a source of bitter and ever-present mortification. There was

inconsistency, doubtless, in regret for the deficiency of personal

attraction in persons who, with perfect sincerity, declared to

themselves that to enter a convent was their greatest object in life.

But Violante was not aware that if the beauty had been there the

devotional aspirations would not have been there! That, which causes

more deeply implanted in her nature than she knew of were impelling her

to desire and to yearn for, the imperfect teaching of the world around

her had led her to imagine to be unattainable save by the gifts of

personal beauty. And, knowing that if that were so there was no hope for

her, her bruised heart had sought the only refuge which seemed to be

open to such misfortune.

The Signora Fagiani's first attempt at finding a remedy for this state

of things consisted of a vigorous endeavour to persuade her pupil that

her own estimate of her personal appearance was altogether a mistaken

one. All the former experience of the old lady led her to consider this

an easy task. And she was much surprised to find that her insinuations,

assertions, and persuasions on this subject were totally thrown away on

her pupil. The precious gift of personal vanity had been denied to poor

Violante; and she saw herself somewhat more unfavourably than others saw

her.

Then the duenna changed her tactics; and strove to point out how very

little a pretty face signified to any girl in the position of the

Contessa di Marliani. To a poor girl, indeed, whose face was her

fortune, it was another matter. But the niece of the Cardinal Legate!

Bah! Did she imagine that she would lack suitors? She had nothing to do

but to make the most of the advantages in her hand, and she would see

herself surrounded by all the beaux, while the prettiest girls in the

room might go whistle for the smallest scrap of attention, And then,

when married, with rank, station, wealth at her command, what would it

signify?

And in urging all these considerations, the Signora Assunta Fagiani

spoke at least sincerely, and expended for the benefit of her pupil the

best wisdom that was in her.

Partly, however, she was working for her own purposes, as well as for

the advantage, as she understood it, of her charge. Of course, as she

judiciously considered, her position gave her, in a great degree, the

valuable patronage of the disposal of the Lady Violante's hand in

marriage. And, of course, this advantage of her position was equally

well understood by others; and among these by a certain Duca di San

Sisto, a Bolognese noble, whose sadly-dilapidated fortunes much needed

the aid that might be derived from the coffers of the wealthy Cardinal

Legate. The Duca di San Sisto had interests at Rome also, which might be

most importantly served by the influence of the Cardinal Marliani. So

that a marriage with the Lady Violante seemed to be exactly the very

thing for him. But the cautious, and carefully-masked inquiries which

the Duke had set on foot, after the fashion in which such things are

done in Italy, had brought him the information that a marriage was

almost as good as arranged between the lady in question and the Marchese

Ludovico di Castelmare, an old acquaintance of the family. Were it not

for that impediment, the Duke thought that he might have good reason to

hope that his plan might succeed.

Now it so happened that the Signora Assunta Fagiani was an old friend of

the Duca di San Sisto; and when the widow of the professor of

jurisprudence was promoted to the important post she held in the

household of the Marchesa Lanfredi, that nobleman did not fail to find

means for securing the continuance of her friendship. It was the object

and purpose, therefore, of Signora Assunta Fagiani that the Lady

Violante should become in due time Duchessa di San Sisto, and not

Marchesa di Castelmare. But she understood her position quite well

enough to be aware that the end she had in view must be approached

cautiously and patiently.

Violante had, of course, been informed at the proper time that her

family destined her to become the wife of the young Marchese Ludovico di

Castelmare. Now, if Violante's temper and disposition had been other

than it was; had she been able to think of herself differently from what

she did; had it been possible for her, in a word, to have supposed that

the Marchese Ludovico loved her, he was the man whom she could most

readily have taught herself to love. They had been, to a certain degree,

acquaintances from an early period of their childhood. He was the only

young man she had ever known with anything like the same degree of

intimacy; and Ludovico, as we know, was not devoid of qualities

calculated to win a lady's love.

But Violante knew right well that Ludovico did not love her, and that

there had never been any probability that he should do so; and, had she

any lingering doubt on the subject, the good Assunta took very good care

to dispel it. And there was a bitterness in this knowledge which did

much towards producing in Violante the state of mind that has been

described. She was not in love with Ludovico, but she had liked him--he

was the only man she had ever liked at all. She knew that she was to be

married to him if he could be persuaded to marry her, and if she were

sufficiently obedient to marry him. She thought that no man could ever

love her, and she knew very certainly that this man did not. Her own

hope and firmest purpose, therefore, was, if such resistance to the

higher authorities might in any way be possible to her, to avoid a

marriage with Ludovico di Castelmare: if possible to her, she would fain

escape from any marriage at all. If this should be altogether

impossible, then the Duca di San Sisto, as well as anybody else. It was

not that she had any hope that the Duca di San Sisto would love her:

but, at least, it had not been proposed to him to love her, and found

impossible by him to do so. At least the unloving husband would not be

the one man whom she felt she might have loved had he deemed it worth

his while to ask her love.

Yet, with all this, Violante had not learned, as perhaps most women in

her place would have done, to hate Ludovico for having found it

impossible to love her,--for having condemned her to feel the spreta

injuria forma, which so few of the sex can ever forgive. Had she ever

reached the point of loving him it might, perhaps, have been otherwise.

As it was, she was too gentle, too humble, in her estimate of her own

worth and power of attraction to be angry with him: and yet she was

sufficiently interested in the matter to listen not unwillingly to all

the gossip that the Signora Assunta poured into her ear about Ludovico,

tending to show that he was unworthy of pretending to her hand.

Assunta's object, of course, was to break the match with the Marchese di

Castelmare for the sake of bringing on one with the Duca di San Sisto.

Violante's object, it has been said, was to avoid any marriage at

all--specially that immediately proposed to her; and the stories, which

from time to time Assunta brought her of the goings on of Ludovico, had

a double interest for Violante. In some sort, all such intelligence was

acceptable to her, as tending to make it unlikely that her only escape

from a loveless marriage with him would be by her own resistance to the

wishes of her family. Yet, at the same time, it was bitter to her, and

ministered an unwholesome aliment to her morbid self-depreciation.

CHAPTER XI

The Cardinal's Reception, and the Marchese's Ball

On the first day of the New Year, according to long-established custom,

there was a grand reception in the evening at the palace of the Cardinal

Legate. It was to be, as always on that occasion, a very grand affair.

All the diamonds, and all the old state carriages, and all the liveries

in Ravenna were put in requisition. Old coats, gorgeously bedizened with

broad worsted lace of brilliant colours, and preserved for many a year

carefully, but not wholly successfully, against time and moth, were

taken by fours and fives from the cypress-wood chests in old family

mansions, where they lay in peace from year's end to year's end if no

marriage or other great family solemnity intervened to give them an

extra turn of service, and were used to turn dependants of all sorts

into liveried servants for the nonce; and nobody imagined or hoped that

anybody else would look upon this display as anything else than absolute

and frank ostentation. Nobody supposed that any human being would be led

into believing that this state indicated the ordinary mode of life of

the persons who exhibited it. Everybody in Italy has been for so many

generations so very much poorer than his forefathers were, that such a

state of things has long since been accepted by universal consent as a

normal one; and it is understood on all hands that these fitful displays

of the remnants of former grandeur, this vain revisiting of the glimpses

of the moon by the ghosts of long-departed glories, shall be taken and

allowed as protests on behalf of the bearers of old noble names to the

effect that their ancestors did really once live in a style conformable

to their ideas--that they perfectly know how these things should be

done, and would be found quite prepared to resume their proper state, if

only the good old days of prosperity should come again.

And there is the good as well as the seamy side (not, alas, to the old

liveries! for they had been mostly turned and turned again too often);

but to the feelings and social manners which prompted such a

manifestation of them. At least, in such a condition of social manners

and feelings mere wealth was not installed on the throne of Mammon in

the eyes of all men. If one of the old coaches was more pitiably rickety

than the rest; if the ancient-fashioned coat of some long-descended

marchese was itself as threadbare as the old family liveries; if some

widowed contessa had crept out from the last habitable corner of her

dilapidated palazzo, where she was known to live on a modicum of

chicory-water, brought in a tumbler from the nearest cafe, and a crust;

not on any such account was there the smallest tendency towards a

derisive smile on the lip, or in the mind of any man, at these pitiable

attempts to keep up appearances, which everybody considered it right to

keep up. Not on any such account was the stately courtesy of the

Legate's reception in the smallest degree modified. It was subject,

indeed, to many modifications; but these were wholly irrespective of any

such circumstances.

There is a peculiar sort of naivete about Italian ostentation, which

robs it of all its offensiveness. Nobody exhibits their finery or

grandeur for the sake of crushing another; nobody feels themselves

crushed by the exhibition of it. The old noble who turns out his gala

liveries and other bedizenments on a festal day, does it to make up his

part of the general show, which is for the gratification of all classes,

and is a gratification to them. But it is a curious commentary of the

past history of Italy that, as between city and city, there is the

feeling, the wish, and the ambition, to crush and humble a rival

community by superior magnificence.

Nobody expected much immediate gratification from attending the

Cardinal's reception. There was little to be done save to bow to the

host and to each other. Ices were handed round--none the less because it

was bitterly cold--and cakes and comfits. Old Contessa Carini, who had a

grandchild at home, and no money to buy bonbons with, emptied half a

plateful of them into her handkerchief, the old servant who handed them

helping her; and the Cardinal, who happened to be standing by, smilingly

telling her to give the little one his benediction with them. The brave

old Contessa still kept her carriage, as it became a Carini to do;

though she starved her poor old shrivelled body to enable her to keep

her half-starved horses. And "society" gave her its applause for

struggling so hard to do that which it became her to do in the state of

life to which it had pleased God to call her; and no soul in the room

dreamed of thinking the less of her because of the sharp poverty that

confessed itself in her eagerness to make the most of the opportunity of

the Legate's hospitality.

The Conte Leandro Lombardoni had a bilious headache the following

morning in consequence of overcramming himself with cakes and

sweetmeats. One active-minded old gentleman originated the remark that

the cold was greater than had been known in Ravenna for the last seven

years; and this fact, repeated again and again by most of the company to

each other, supplied the material of conversation for the first

half-hour. Then somebody, alluded to the circumstance that, whereas it

had been said that La Lalli was to have arrived before the end of the

year, the fact was, that she had not yet come: and thereupon the

Marchese Lamberto had authoritatively declared that the lady had been

detained by an unforeseen circumstance of no importance, and would

infallibly reach Ravenna on the evening of the 3rd.

And thenceforward this interesting news formed the sole topic of

conversation till the carriages were ordered; and all the finery was

taken home again to be laid up in lavender till that day twelvemonth.

There was to be, also according to annual custom, the first ball of the

Carnival at the Palazzo Castelmare on the following evening; but for

this the state trappings reserved for the Legate's reception on the Capo

d'Anno, were not required.

The balls given by the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare every Carnival

were the grand and principal gaieties of Ravenna. The whole of the

"society" were invited, and to be prevented from going by illness or any

other contretemps was a misfortune to be lamented during all the rest of

the year. At the Palazzo Castelmare people really did expect to enjoy

themselves. There was dancing for the young, cards for the old, and

eating and drinking for all. For the Palazzo Castelmare was the only

house in Ravenna at which suppers were ever given. There three balls and

three handsome suppers were provided for all the society of Ravenna

every year! And the first of these always took place on the 2nd of

January; the Capo d'Anno being left for the state reception at the

Legate's palace.

Well might little Signor Ercole Stadione say, what would become of

Ravenna if anything were to happen to the Marchese Lamberto!

All the people came much about the same time; and there was then half an

hour or so, before the dancing commenced, during which the main object

and amusement of the assemblage was to escape from misfortune, which it

was well known the Conte Leandro meditated inflicting on the society. He

was known to have written a poem for the opening of the new year, which

was then in his pocket, and which he purposed reading aloud to the

company, if he only could get a chance! He was looking very pale, and

more sodden and pasty about the face than usual, from the effects of his

excesses at the Legate's the night before. But his friends had no hope

that this would save them from the poem, if he could in anywise obtain a

hearing.

"Take care, he is putting his hand in his coat-pocket! That's where it

is, you know; he'll have it out in half an instant, if we stop talking!

Oh, Contessina, you are always so ready! Do invent something to stop

him, for the love of heaven!" said a young man to a bright-looking girl

next him.

"Oh, Signor Leandro, since you are riconciliato con bel sesso," said the

Contessina, alluding to words which, to the great amusement of all

Ravenna, Leandro had written in the album of a lady who asked the poet

for his autograph,--"since you are reconciled to the fair sex, will you

be very kind and see if I have left my fan where I put off my shawl in

the ante-room?"

"Bravo, Contessina; now let us get to another part of the room, before

he gets back. Oh, Ludovico," he continued, addressing the young Marchese

Castelmare, whom they encountered as they were crossing the room, "for

the love of heaven, let us begin! Make the musicians strike up, or we

shall have Leandro in full swing in another minute!"

"I assure you, Signor Ludovico, the danger is imminent!" said the

Contessina.

"When I saw him at work last night at the Cardinal's pastry, I thought

he must have made himself too ill to come here to-night," said the

former speaker; "but I suppose poets can digest what would kill you or

me!"

"If Leandro begins to read, I vote we all are seized with an invincible

fit of sneezing," said another of the grown-up children.

"Well, we may as well begin at once; I will go and tell the Contessa

Violante that we are ready," said Ludovico, moving off.

It was a matter of course, that he should open the ball with the

Contessa Violante,--not only by reason of her social standing in the

city, but because of the position in which he was understood to stand

towards her.

Violante was sitting at the upper end of the room between her great-aunt

and the sister of the Marchese Lamberto, Ludovico's mother. She was very

handsomely dressed in plain white silk, but was looking pale and

dispirited. When Ludovico came up and offered his arm, bowing low as he

did so, she rose and accepted it without speaking.

"I had almost made up my mind," she said as soon as they had moved a

pace or two towards the middle of the large ball-room, "not to dance at

all to-night: I am not well."

"Oh, Signorina, how unfortunate! What a disappointment! But it would be

cruel to force you to dance, when it is against your inclination," said

Ludovico, with a very unsuccessful attempt to put a tone of tenderness

into his voice.

"I will not do so, after this dance," said Violante; "but I suppose we

must dance the first dance together!"

"I am sorry it should be a matter of such disagreeable duty to you,

Signora Violante," said Ludovico in a tone of pretended pique.

"It is equally disagreeable to me to dance with any other partner; I am

not well, as I have told you, Signor Ludovico; I have no business to be

here; I think my health becomes weaker from day to day. And the blessed

Saints only know when it may be possible to think of carrying into

effect the arrangements desired by our parents!"

"I am sure that mine would not wish to urge you on the subject to--to

decide more quickly than you would wish to. I can assure you, Signora,

nothing would be more contrary to my own feelings than to do any such

violence to yours. Indeed I may say--"

"Yes, yes! I think I understand all about it, Signor Ludovico. Might it

not be possible to find means of pleasing all parties in this matter, if

only all parties understood each other, Signor Ludovico?"

She dropped her voice almost to a whisper as she said these last words,

with a rapid furtive glance at his face.

"And now," she added, speaking in a louder tone, "we had better give our

minds to the present scene of the farce, and perform the opening

quadrille, as is expected of us!"

"I am truly sorry, Signora, that you should be called upon to do this

sort of thing, when you are so unwell, as to make it even more

disagreeable than it might be to you otherwise. But believe me,"

continued he, speaking in a low voice, and with an emphasis that

indicated that his words had reference rather to what she had spoken to

him in a similar tone than to the words of his own which had immediately

preceded them,--"believe me that it is my wish to meet your wishes in

all respects."

There was a jesuitism in this speech, which did not recommend it or its

speaker to the Contessa Violante. She would have been far better pleased

by a more open reply to the confidence which she had half offered. She

only said in reply:

"I am disposed to think, that such is the case in the matter which more

nearly concerns us both, Signor Ludovico, than anything else.

But--although we knew just now that we had to dance together, it was you

who had to ask me, you know, and not I you. Very little active power of

influencing her own destiny is allowed to a girl; come, we had better

attend now to the business in hand!"

There was nothing more, except such ordinary words between each other or

the others dancing in the same set, as the dance itself led to, spoken

by the Contessa and Ludovico. The former declined all other invitations

to dance, and went home at the earliest moment she could induce her aunt

to do so.

There was much talk going on in all parts of the room as to the

announced coming of the great singer on the morrow. The young men

settled together the last details of their plans for the triumphal entry

of the "Diva;" and the ladies were by no means uninterested in hearing

all that their cavaliers had to tell them on this subject. Much was

said, too, about the qualities of La Lalli both as a singer and as a

woman. Everybody agreed that she was admirable in the first respect; and

there was not a man there, who had not some anecdote to tell, which he

had heard from the very best authority, tending to set forth the rare

perfection of her beauty, and the wonderful power of fascination she

exercised on all who came near her.

She was to arrive quite early on the morrow. It was understood that she

purposed passing the previous night,--that night in short, which those

who were discussing her were spending at the Castelmare ball, at the

little town of Bagnacavallo, a few miles only from Ravenna. Such a

scheme looked,--or would have looked in the eyes of any other people

than Italians,--rather ridiculously like the ways and fashions of royal

progresses, and state entries into cities. But the Ravenna admirers of

the coming "Diva" neither saw nor suspected the slightest absurdity; and

it is to be supposed that La Lalli knew all the importance of first

impressions, and that she did not choose to show herself to her new

worshippers for the first time under all the disadvantages of arriving

tired and dusty from a long journey.

CHAPTER XII

The Arrival of the "Diva"

On the morrow of the Marchese's ball was the great day of the arrival of

the divine songstress. And it was as lovely a day for the gala doings,

which had been arranged in honour of the occasion, as could be desired.

A brilliant sun in a cloudless sky made the afternoon quite warm and

genial, despite the general cold. An Italian sun can do this. Where he

shines not it may be freezing. As soon as he has made his somewhat

precipitous exit from the hard blue sky, the temperature will suddenly

fall some ten degrees or more. But as long as he is in glory overhead,

it is summer in the midst of winter.

Three o'clock had been named as the hour at which the coming "Diva"

would reach the city gates. But the plans which the young habitues of

the Circolo had arranged for receiving her, had been in some degree

modified. The scheme of harnessing their noble selves to her

chariot-wheels had been abandoned; and instead of that it had been

understood that the Marchese Lamberto would himself go in his carriage

to meet her a few miles out of the city and bring her in. The Marchese

Ludovico and the young Barone Manutoli were to accompany the Marchese

Lamberto, and to assist in receiving the lady; but were to return to the

city in the carriage which she would leave, on getting into that of the

Marchese, or in any other way that might seem good to them. The Marchese

Lamberto and the lady alone were to occupy his handsome family equipage.

There was to be a band of music in attendance, which would precede the

carriage as it entered the city; and some half-dozen young officers of a

regiment of Papal cavalry, which chanced to be then stationed at

Ravenna, intended to ride at each door of the carriage as it returned to

the city. Altogether it was to be a very brilliant affair. And all the

gay world of Ravenna was on the tiptoe of expectation and delight.

The Marchese Lamberto, indeed, looked upon his share in the pageant as a

great bore. He had had put off one or two more congenial occupations for

the purpose of doing on the occasion his part of that which he deemed

his duty to the city. Professor Tomosarchi the great anatomist, who was

at the head of the hospital, and curator of the museum, was to have come

to the Palazzo Castelmare that morning to show the Marchese an

interesting experiment connected with the action of a new anodyne; and

Signor Folchi, the pianist, was to have been with him at one, to try

over a little piece of the Marchese's own composition. And both these

appointments, either of which was far more interesting to the Marchese

Lamberto than driving out in the cold to meet the stage goddess, had to

be set aside.

Nevertheless, he had deemed it due to his own position, and to the

occasion, to grace this little triumphal entry with his presence. If he

had left it wholly in the hands of his nephew, and the other young men,

it might have been the means of starting the Signora Lalli amiss on her

Ravenna career in a manner he particularly wished to avoid. After that

little hint on the subject, which the impresario had given him, he was

specially desirous that anything like an occasion for scandal should be

avoided in all that concerned the sojourn of the Signora Lalli in

Ravenna. He, the Marchese Lamberto, the intimate friend of the Cardinal,

and the most pre-eminently respectable man in Ravenna, had had a very

large--certainly the largest--share in bringing this woman to the city;

and he was anxious that the engagement should lead to no unpleasant

results of any kind.

It might be very possibly that the little matters at which the

impresario had hinted, were not altogether calumnious;--that the lady

might be one of those members of her profession who seek other triumphs

besides those of her own scenic kingdom, and the story of whose lives in

the different cities they visit is not confined to the walls and to the

records of the theatre. It might very well be that a little caution and

looking after was needed in the matter, It would be as well, therefore,

to take the thing in hand at once in a manner that should put the lady

on a right course from the beginning;--all which could be excellently

well accomplished by at once taking her, as it were, into his own hands;

and would, on the other hand, be endangered by throwing her from the

first into those of the youngsters who purposed going out to meet her.

So the Marchese sacrificed himself; put off the anatomist and the

musician; spent the morning in arranging all the details of the proposed

cavalcade with the young men who were to compose it; and at two o'clock

got into his open carriage to drive out towards Bagnacavallo. The young

Barone Manutoli and Ludovico were in the carriage with him. But it was

understood, as has been said, that they were to leave it when they met

the heroine of the day, who was to enter Ravenna with the perfectly safe

and unattackable Marchese alone in the carriage with her.

"I wonder whether she is as lovely as she is said to be?" said Manutoli,

as they drove out beyond the crumbling and ivy-grown brick wall, which

had helped to repel the attack of Odoacer the Goth; but which had, some

thirteen hundred years ago, failed to keep out the mischief brought into

the city by the comedian Empress Theodora, whose beauty had promoted her

from the stage to the throne.

Absit omen! And what, indeed, can there be common between Goths and

Greeks of the Lower Empire, who lived thirteen hundred years ago, with

the good Catholic subjects, and the quiet Catholic city of our Holy

Father the Pope, in the nineteenth century!

At all events, it may be taken as very certain that no omen of the sort

and no such thoughts were present to the minds or fancies of any of

those who were about to form the escort of the modern actress.

"All who have ever seen her, speak in the most rapturous terms of her

great beauty," said Ludovico, in reply to his friend's remark.

"Don't be too sure about it, figliuoli mio, or it is likely enough you

may be disappointed," said the Marchese Lamberto. "People repeat such

things one after the other; there is a fashion in it. I have always

found that your stage beauty is as often as not no beauty, at all off

it; and then you know stage work and the foot-lights are terribly quick

users-up of beauty. And La Lalli is not at the beginning of her career.

But what have we to do with all that! che diavolo! She is a great

singer; she comes here to delight our ears, not our eyes!"

"But time and work make havoc with the voice as well as with the face

and figure, Signor Marchese!" said Manutoli.

"Not to the same degree, Signor Barone, and not quite so rapidly,"

replied the Marchese, with the manner of one laying down the law on a

subject of which he is an acknowledged master. "Of course a voice which

has done much work, is not the same thing as a perfectly fresh one? A

chi lo dite? though, observe, you very often gain more in knowledge, and

in perfection of art, than you lose in freshness of organ. But with

proper care, voice, though a perishable thing, is not so rapidly and

fatally so, as mere beauty of face; that is sure to go very soon. I have

not troubled myself to inquire, as you may imagine, much about the state

of La Lalli's good looks. But I have informed myself of the condition of

her voice, as it was my duty to do. And I think that in that respect,

which is the only one we need care about, the city will find that we

have not done badly."

"For my part, I confess a romanzo comes very specially recommended to my

ears from a lovely mouth!" said Ludovico; "and I fully expect to find La

Lalli quite up to the mark in this respect. I shall be disappointed if

she is not."

"From all I have heard, we shall none of us be disappointed!" said

Manutoli.

"We shall see in a few minutes!" returned Ludovico, looking at his

watch.

"There's something in the road now, I think, as far as I can see!" said

Manutoli, who had stood up in the carriage, holding the rail of the

driver's seat with one hand. The road stretched long and flat, in a

perfectly straight line before them for a great distance. "Yes,"

continued he, "there is certainly something coming along the road;--a

carriage by the quickness with which it nears us: now for it!"

"Tell him to draw up, Ludovico; and he might as well turn round so as to

be ready to drive back. We will wait here till she comes; and our

friends on horseback may as well remain here too," said the Marchese.

So the little party drew up, and all eyes were turned to the small cloud

of dust rapidly approaching them.

"Yes: it is a carriage, and no mistake; and coming along at a good pace

too!" said Manutoli.

"It is she, no doubt; she was to sleep at Bagnacavallo," returned

Ludovico.

"Signori!" said the Marchese, addressing the four, or five mounted

officers, "will you kindly put your horses across the road, so that the

lady's driver may see that he is to stop, and that there may be no

mistake."

And then an open carriage became clearly visible, and in the next

minute, it could be seen that it was occupied by two persons;--a lady

and another figure--an old man apparently--muffled in a huge blue

travelling-cloak.

Then in another instant the travelling-carriage, finding the road

blocked before it, had stopped, and in the next, the Marchese Lamberto,

hat in hand, was standing at the door of it, on the lady's side;--the

two young men standing immediately behind him, and the horsemen crowded

round, craning over the necks of their horses.

Oh! per Bacco! There is no mistake about it; she is startlingly

beautiful. Report had not said half enough. And, somehow or other, it

appeared as if a travelling-costume was specially becoming to her. At

least, it seemed so to the innocent youths who so first saw her. Had

there been any women present their minds would have at once gone back

from the splendid effect produced to all the details of the artfully

combined causes which had gone to the producing of it. But there were no

ladies present, save the "Diva" alone.

Such a Diva! She wore a little blue velvet hat, with a white feather in

it very coquettishly placed on a superb wealth of hair of the richest

auburn tint. She was very delicately fair, with just such an amount of

the loveliest carnation on her cheeks as might be produced by the

perfection of health and joyousness and youth; or might be, a lady

critic would have whispered, by some other equally effectual means. She

had large--very large--wide-opened, clear, and limpid light-blue eyes,

with that trick of an appealing look in them which always seems to say

to every manly heart, "You, alone of all the harsh, cold, indifferent

crowd around us, are he to whom I can look for sympathy, comprehension,

and fellow-feeling." And now these eyes looked round from one to another

of those around her with a look of smiling, innocent surprise and

inquiry that demanded an explanation of the unprecedented circumstances

with a childish freshness the most engaging.

She wore a bright blue velvet pelisse, trimmed with ermine, which

admirably showed to the greatest advantage her magnificently shaped

bust, and round slender waist; and bent forward towards the Marchese, as

he stood at the carriage-door, with inimitable grace of gesture, and a

smile on her sweet lips that would have utterly defeated and put to

shame any St. Antony exposed to such temptation.

"Signora," said the Marchese, who looked very handsome, as he stood with

his hat in his hand, and bowed with stately courtesy, "Ravenna welcomes

you, and places itself at your feet in our persons. Permit me to present

to you these gentlemen, who have had the good fortune to be selected

among many aspirants to that honour, to assist me in welcoming you to

our city: the Barone Adolfo Manutoli; my nephew, the Marchese Ludovico

di Castelmare."

"E Lei dunque e il Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare?" said the lady, in

the sweetest possible of silvery tones, and with an air of humble wonder

at the greatness of the honour done her, mingled with grateful

appreciation of it, that was inimitably well done; and held up two

exquisitely-gloved slender little hands, as she spoke, half joining them

together in thankful astonishment, and half extending them towards him

with an almost caressing movement of appeal.

"Si, Signora; I am the man you have named; I am fortunate that my name

should have reached your ears; more fortunate still in having had a part

in making the arrangements that have brought you here;--and most

fortunate of all if I shall be so happy as to make your sojourn among us

agreeable."

"Signor Marehese! Lei e troppo garbato,--troppo buono; ma troppo buono,

davvero!" said the pretty creature; and the appealing eyes looked into

his with the semblance of a tear of emotion in them.

"Will you allow me the pleasure, Signora, of conducting you to the city

in my carriage?" said the Marchese, with a graceful wave of his hand

towards his handsome equipage. "I have thought it might possibly be

agreeable to you to place it and myself at your disposition on this

occasion."

"Ma come? It is too great an honour, davvero. But to make my first

appearance in your city under such auspices will go far towards assuring

me such a success at Ravenna, as it is my most earnest wish to attain."

The Marchese put out his hand to assist her to alight, as he

added,--"Perhaps you will allow these gentlemen to return in your

carriage, Signora? They have no other here. I did not think it necessary

to bring a second carriage."

"Come loro commandano!--as their lordships please," said La Lalli with a

graceful bow; though the young men were of opinion, that her eyes very

plainly said, as she glanced towards them, that she would have preferred

that they should have returned in the same carriage together.

She rose, as she spoke, and giving her hand to the Marchese, put one

foot on the carriage-step in the act of descending, and then paused to

say, as if she had forgotten it till that moment:

"Will you permit me, Signor Marchese, to present my father to you,

Signor Quinto Lalli? I never travel without his protection!"

The old man in the corner moved slightly, and made a sort of bow with

his head. He had remained quite still and passive in his cloak and his

corner all through the rest of the scene, taking it all apparently as

something very much in the common order of things. Perhaps the piece

that was being played had been played too often in his presence to have

any further interest for him.

While thus presenting her father, as she called him, to the Marchese,

the beautiful actress had remained for the moments necessary for that

purpose, with her matchless figure poised on the one dainty foot, which

she had stretched down to the step of the carriage. The attitude

certainly showed the svelte perfection of her form to advantage; and

from the unavoidable circumstances of the position, it also showed one

of the most beautifully formed feet that ever was seen, together with

the whole of the exquisite little bottine that clothed it, a beautifully

turned ankle, and perhaps as much as two inches of the silk stocking

above the boot.

The mere chance that caused the lady to bethink herself of presenting

her father just at that moment, was thus quite a piece of good fortune

for the young men on foot and on horseback, who were standing around,

which no other combination of circumstances could have procured for

them.

Then the Marchese handed her with graceful gallantry to his carriage,

took the place in the back of it by the side of her; and the little

cavalcade began its return to the city. At a small distance from the

walls, they found the band stationed, and thus preceded by music, and

passing through all the elite of the population in the streets, the

Marchese conducted her to the Palazzo Castelmare, and handed her up the

grand staircase to the great saloon, where all the theatrical world of

Ravenna, and many of the more notable patrons of the theatre, were

assembled to receive her.

Signor Ercole Stadione, the little impresario, was there of course, and

in high enjoyment of the triumph of the occasion, and of the importance

which his share in it reflected on him. He buzzed about the large saloon

from one group to another, raising himself on tiptoe as he looked up

into the faces of his noble friends and patrons, and rubbing his hands

together cheerily in the exuberance of his satisfaction.

"You had the happiness of accompanying the illustrissimo Signor Marchese

to receive our honoured guest to-day, Signor Barone!" said he to

Manutoli, who was giving an account of his expedition, and of the first

appearance of the new "Diva," to a knot of young men grouped around him;

"mi rallegro! Mi rallegro! Ravenna could not have had a more worthy

representative than yourself, Signor Barone! But is she not divine! What

beauty! What a grace!"

"Why, Signor Ercole, one would think you had begotten her yourself. She

is a pretty creature certainly. What a smile she has!"

"Eh bene, Signori miei! Are you satisfied? Are you content? Have we done

well?" said the little man, buzzing off to another group. "Che vi pare?

Is she up to the mark, or is she not?"

"Bravo, Signor Ercole! We are all delighted with her!" said one.

"If she sings as she looks," cried another, "Ravenna has a prima donna

such as no other city in Italy has."

"Or in Europe, per Bacco!" added a third.

"What do you think of her, Signor Leandro? Did I say too much?" asked

the happy impresario, moving off to a console, against which the poet

was leaning in an abstracted attitude, while his eye, in a fine frenzy

rolling, managed nevertheless to look out for the manifestation on the

Diva's face of that impression which he doubted not his figure and pose

must make on her.

"What a bore she must find it having to talk to all those empty-brained

fellows that have got round her there, just like buzzing blue-bottle

flies round sugar-barrel! I wonder it does not occur to the Marchese

that it would be more to the purpose to present to her some of the

brighter intelligences of the city. She must think Ravenna is a city of

blockheads! And one can see, with half an eye, that is the sort of woman

who can appreciate intellect!"

"It will be for you, Signor Conte, to prove to her that our city is not

deficient in that respect. Sapristi? Would you desire a better subject?

What do you say to an ode, now, on the rising of a new constellation on

the shores of the Adriatic? Hein! Or an inpromptu on seeing the divine

Lalli enter Ravenna through the same arch under which the Empress

Theodora must have passed?"

"I had already thought of that," snapped the poet, sharply.

"Of course you had," said the obsequious little man. "An impromptu, by

all means! You could have it ready to present to her at the theatre

to-morrow."

"Unless the Marchese thinks fit to present me to the lady presently, I

shall decline to write anything at all," rejoined Signor Leandro, thus

unjustly determining, in his ill-humour, to punish all Ravenna for the

fault of one single individual.

The Diva was, in the meantime, winning golden opinions on all sides. She

had bright smiles, and pretty captivating looks, and courteous,

prettily-turned phrases for all. But amid all this she contrived

unfailingly all the time, by means of some exquisitely subtle nuance of

manner, to impress every person present with the unconsciously-conceived

feeling that there was something more between her and the Marchese and

his nephew than between her and anybody else in the room; that she in

some sort belonged to them, and was being presented to the society under

their auspices. She remained close by the side of the Marchese. She

would look with an appealing and inquiring glance into his face at each

fresh introduction that was made to her, as if to ask his sanction and

approval. She had some little word from time to time either for his ear,

or that of his nephew, spoken in such a manner as to reach those of

nobody else; while, gracious to all, she delicately but markedly

graduated the scale of her graciousness towards those who were

introduced to her, according to the degree of intimacy which seemed to

exist between them and the Marchese. The result was that the Marchese,

without having been in the least conscious by what means and steps it

had been brought about, felt, by the time the gathering was at an end, a

sort of sense of proprietorship in the brilliant and lovely artiste;--it

was so evidently he who was presenting her to the city! She herself so

evidently felt that it would become her to rule her conduct in all

respects at Ravenna according to the Marchese's wishes and ideas, and

there was so sweet and so subtle a flattery in the way in which she made

this felt, that when, after all the crowd had retired, and she was about

to take leave of the Marchese to go to the lodging that had been

prepared for her, she ventured to take his hand between both hers, while

looking up into his face to thank him, in a voice quivering with

emotion, for his kindness to her, there passed a something into the

system of the Marchese from that contact of the palms that he found it

very difficult to rid himself of.

BOOK III

"Sirenum Pocula"

CHAPTER I

"Diva Potens"

Quinto Lalli was the name by which the prima donna had presented the old

gentleman who had shared her travelling-carriage to the Marchese

Lamberto as her father. And Quinto Lalli was his real name; but he was

not really her father. Nor had she any legitimate claim to the name of

Lalli. She had never been known by any other, however, during the whole

of her theatrical career; and there were very few persons in any of the

many cities where the Lalli was famous, who had any idea that the old

man who always accompanied her was not her father. Indeed, Bianca had so

long been accustomed to call and to consider him as such, that she often

well nigh forgot herself that he held no such relationship to her.

The real facts of the case were very simple, and had nothing romantic

about them. Old Lalli was a man of great musical gifts and knowledge. He

had been a singing-master in his day; an impresario too for a short

time; and sometimes a kind of broker, or middle-man between singers in

want of an engagement and managers seeking for "available talent;" and a

hunter-up of talent not yet available, but which, it might be hoped,

would one day become such.

It was in the pursuit of his avocations of this latter sort, that he had

one day, about fifteen years before the date of the circumstances

narrated in the last chapter, chanced to meet with a little girl, then

some twelve years old, on the hopes of whose future success he had

resolved to build his own fortunes. It was time that he should find some

foundation for them, if they were ever to be built at all, which most of

those who knew Signor Quinto Lalli deemed not a little improbable; for

he was of the sort of men who never do make fortunes.

He was fifty years old when he had met with the little girl in question,

and had done nothing yet towards laying the foundations of any sort of

fortune. Unstable, improvident, unthrifty, fond of pleasure, and not

fond of work, nothing had succeeded with him. Nevertheless, a cleverer

man in his own line, or a shrewder judge of the article he dealt in,

than Quinto Lalli did not exist in all Italy. And his judgment did not

fail him when he fell in with little Bianca degli Innocenti.

Persons unacquainted with Italian things and ways might suppose that the

above modification of the "particle noble" in Bianca's family name was

indicative of a very aristocratic origin. Italians, however--and

specially Tuscans--would draw a different conclusion from the premises.

The family "Degli Innocenti" is very frequently met with in Tuscany; but

the bearers of the name do not, for the most part, take great heed of

their family ties. The "Innocenti," in a word, is the name of the

foundling-hospital in Florence; and those of whose origin nothing is

known save that they have been brought up by that charity, are often

called after it, and known by no other name. Little Bianca's father, or

possibly her grandfather, must have been some such Jem, Jack, or Bob "of

the Foundlings," and left no other patronymic to his race.

Quinto Lalli fell in with the child one day in the dirty and miserable

little town of Acquapendente, just on the Roman side of the frontier

line dividing the Papal territory from Tuscany, as he was travelling

from Florence to Rome. He was travelling by the diligence, which always

used to remain a good hour or more at Acquapendente, for the transaction

of passport and dogana work. There, strolling, for want of something

better to do, through the dilapidated streets of the poverty-stricken

little town,--which in those days told the traveller most unmistakably

how great was the difference between prosperous Tuscany, which he had

just left, and the wretched Pope's-land which he was entering--Quinto

Lalli heard a child's voice, and instantly stopped and pricked up his

ears.

Looking round, he saw a little creature, barely clad, happy amid the

surrounding squalor, sitting with its little bare feet and legs dabbling

in the sparkling water in the broken marble tank of a once magnificent

fountain. There she sate alone in the sunshine, and carolled, with

wide-opened throat, like any other nature-made songster.

Quinto Lalli, with startled ear, listened attentively; got round to

where he could see the child's face; marked well, with knowing eye, the

little brown feet and legs bare to the knee; and then determined to

abandon the fare paid for the remainder of his diligence journey to

Rome.

The business for the sake of which he made that sacrifice was easily and

quickly done. A bargain is not difficult when that which is coveted by

one party is deemed a burden and encumbrance by the other. And Quinto

Lalli became the fortunate purchaser of the article of which he had so

judiciously appreciated the value.

Quinto had his little purchase well and carefully educated--educated her

himself in a great measure, as far as her voice was concerned--and took

care that every attention was paid, not only to her musical culture, and

to the preservation and enhancement of her beauty--which, with great

comfort as regarded the ultimate issue of his speculation, he saw every

year that passed over her develop more and more--but also to her

intellectual cultivation. For Lalli was a clever man enough to know,

that if a stupid singer with a fine voice can charm so as to be worth a

hundred, an intelligent singer with an equally fine voice, can charm so

as to be worth two hundred.

And the old singing-master was good and kind to his pupil: firstly,

because he had no unkindness in his nature, and secondly, because it was

in every way his interest to conciliate the girl. She had been brought

out at eighteen, and had now been nine years on the stage--nine years of

success, which ought to have enriched both teacher and pupil.

They had very soon come to understand each other in matters of interest.

Lalli had begun by taking all her large earnings. But Bianca very

quickly let her protector understand that such an arrangement did not

meet her views at all. The ingratitude, when she owed everything to him

alone! No, Bianca had no intention to be ungrateful--anzi! she looked

upon Lalli as her father, and hoped she always should do so; but she had

no intention of being treated like a child. So long as she could earn

anything, her adopted father should want for nothing. She asked nothing

better than to continue to live with him, and work for both of them.

And, in truth, her grateful kindness and fondness for the old man whom

she had so long looked on as a father was Bianca's strongest point in

the way of moral excellence. In all their nine years of partnership she

had worked for him as much as for herself. But her nine years of success

ought to have made both the old man and his adopted daughter comfortably

well off. And it had done nothing of the kind.

They had laid by nothing. Old Quinto had all his life been recklessly

extravagant and thriftless; and his mode of education had not made

Bianca less so. If he was fond of dissipation and pleasure, she was not

less fond of them on her side. Careful as her education had been, it was

hardly to be expected that it should have been eminently successful in

forming a high standard of moral character. The demands made by society

upon its members in general in the clime and time in question were not

of a very exacting nature; and the expectations of society in this

respect from a person in Bianca's position were more moderate still. Nor

were the precepts, counsels, example, or wisdom of her protector at all

calculated to guide the beautiful singer scatheless through the dangers

and difficulties incidental to her position.

In short, for nine years Bianca had worked hard--had earned a great deal

of money, and had spent it all (except what Lalli had spent for her) in

dissipation, the sharers in which had been chosen by the beautiful

actress--as kissing goes--by favour, and not with any view to their

ability to pay the cost.

And now La Lalli had reached her twenty-seventh year; and was very

nearly as poor as when she began her career. And certain small warnings,

unimportant as yet, and wholly unsuspected, save by herself and old

Quinto, had begun to suggest to her the expediency of thinking a little

for the future. She and Quinto Lalli had had a very serious conversation

on the subject just before the commencement of that season at Milan,

which, as has been hinted, had ended somewhat disagreeably for the

charming singer.

The real truth of the matter was that the difficulty in question had

arisen not from any tendency in the lady to behave in the Lombard

capital with more reprehensible levity than, it must unfortunately be

admitted, she had been very well known to have behaved in other places

and on other occasions; but from a change in her manners in a

diametrically opposite direction. It was a change of tactics, which the

strictest moralist must have admitted to involve an improvement in moral

conduct, that got the hardly treated Diva into trouble.

The Austrian Government, as we all know, is, or was, a paternal

government-a very paternal government. And the governor who ruled in the

Lombard capital was quite as much intent on playing the "governor," in

the modern young gentleman's sense of the word, as good old paternal

Franz himself in his own Vienna. But this paternal government was not of

the sort which ignores the well-authenticated fact that "young men will

be young men." On the contrary, it proceeded always, especially as

regarded its more distinguished sons, on the largest recognition of this

truth. Wild-oats must be sown; the "governor" knew it, and the law

allowed it. But they should be so sown as to involve as little

prejudicial an after-crop, as may be--as little prejudicial especially

to those distinguished sons who cannot be expected to refrain from such

natural sowing.

And enchanting Divas may assist in such sowing, and be tolerated in so

doing by a not too rigidly exacting paternal government--may be held in

so assisting not to step beyond the sphere of social functions assigned

to them by the natural order of things in a manner too offensive to the

mild morality of a paternal government, as long as such joint wild-oat

cultivation shall in nowise threaten to interfere with the future

tillage of less wild and more profitable crops by those distinguished

young scions of noble races, to whose youthful aberrations a paternal

government is thus wisely indulgent.

So long, and no longer. Mark it well, enchanting Divas. Enchant if you

will; 'tis your function. But do not think to enchain? Enmesh a young

Marchese in the tangles of Neaera's hair. A paternal governor puts his

fingers before his eyes; and lets a smile be seen on his lips beneath

them. But do not seek to bind him by less easily broken ties. A vigilant

and moral governor frowns on the instant; and a paternal government well

knows how to protect its distinguished sons by very summary and

effectual process.

But when for a poor Diva there comes also the time when that pleasant

wild-oat sowing seems no longer a promising pursuit, what does the

paternal wisdom decree as to her future? Why, she must reap as she has

sown--or helped to sow. See ye to it, Divas. Such providence is beyond

our function.

And thus it had come to pass that the trouble had arisen which had

resulted in inducing the Diva Bianca to turn her back on ungrateful

Milan, and her face towards welcoming Ravenna. In that conference

between Bianca and her old friend and counsellor, which has been

mentioned, it had been fully brought home to the Diva's conviction that

for her the pleasant time of wild-oat sowing had come to an end. "Would

that the year were always May." But old Quinto Lalli knew that it

wasn't. And it had been concluded between him and his adopted daughter

that it was high time for Bianca to take life au serieux;--to understand

thoroughly that noctes coenaeque deum, with champagne suppers and love

among the roses, must be, if not necessarily abandoned, yet steadily

contemplated as a means and not an end.

What if--

Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,

Shakes his light wings, and in a moment flies?

The warning of the verse teaches that the skittish god must not be

scared by a premature exhibition of the noose hid beneath the sieve of

corn. Champagne suppers and love among the roses--yes. But there should

be, also, cunningly hidden, the noose among the roses.

And to this wisdom the Diva her well-trained mind did seriously incline,

during that last Milan campaign. Nor did her moral aim seem to be

without good promise of success. The sleek young colts with their shiny

coats, glossy, with the rich pastures of the Lombard plains, pranced up

and nibbled, all unconscious of the hidden noose. One fine young

unsuspecting animal, the noblest of the herd, came so close to the noose

that Bianca thought her work was done, and was on the point of casting

it over his lordly head--and he all but enchanted into such docility as

to submit to it, even seeing it.

When lo! with sudden swoop of hand, sharp vibrating police decrees, an

unsleeping paternal government darts down the fabric of our hopes, sends

off the nearly captured prey, loud neighing and with heels kicked high

in air, but safe, to his ancestral Lombard pastures, and whirls away the

too dangerous enchantress into outer space.

Sorrowfully the baffled fair goes forth (a graceful picture somewhere

seen of paradise-banished Peri with pretty stooping head, recalls itself

to my mind as I write the words); sorrowfully but not despairing,--and

wiser than before.

And yet before she goes seeking fresh fields and pastures new, and

meditating new emprise, wealthy Milan shall itself equip her for the

next campaign. For much of such expedient outfit Milan can supply,

which, in remote Ravenna, might in vain be sought. There, beneath the

shadow of those marble walls, where once the sainted Borromeo preached,

the cunningest Parisian artists may be found--so rich in corn and wine

and silk are Lombard plains-modists and mercers, corset-makers, lacemen,

skilled so to clothe the limbs of beauty, that every fold shall but

display the perfect handiwork of nature, yet add to it the further grace

of art. Makers of tiny slippers and such dainty bootlets as show forth

and enhance the separate beauty of each inch of outline of rounded

ankle, arched instep, and slender length of foot, shall lend their help.

And if envious Time have something done to blur the bloom upon the

cheek, or blot the clear transparent purity of skin,--sunt certa

piacula,--there are not wanting means for helping a mortal Diva to some

of the prerogatives of immortality in these respects.

And thus equipped, everything is ready, Quinto mio; we turn our backs on

haughty Milan, and nova regna petentes cras ingens iterabimus aequor,

that is to say, the wide plains of Lombardy.

So Bianca and her faithful Quinto journeyed forth on that interminably

long flat monotonous Emilian road, with no accompanying sound of music

on their departure, but with the much-improved prospects, which have

been described, on their arrival.

CHAPTER II

An Adopted Father and an Adopted Daughter

When Bianca, on the evening of her arrival at Ravenna, rejoined Quinto

Lalli at the handsome and convenient lodging which had been provided

her, after having passed an hour or two, as has been related, in being

presented to the notabilities of the city, and receiving a great deal of

homage at the Palazzo Castelmare, she had already learned many useful

things.

Imprimis, she had learned that the Marchese Lamberto was a bachelor;

that he was--though what young girls call an old man--still almost in

the prime of life, for a man so healthy and well preserved; that he was

a remarkably handsome and dignified gentleman; that he evidently

occupied the very foremost place in the esteem and respect of his

fellow-citizens; that he was rich; and that he appeared from all those

little signs and tokens of manner, which such a woman as La Diva Bianca

can interpret so readily, the last man in the world likely to fall in

love with such a travelling Diva as herself. She had learned, further,

that the Marchese Ludovico was his heir; that the said Ludovico might be

judged, by all those same signs and tokens, to be very much such a man

as might be likely to fall over head and ears in love with a beautiful

woman, who should make it her business to cause him to do so; and yet

further, that this Marchese Ludovico was just the sort of man, whom, if

she might permit herself to join pleasure with business, she would very

well like so to operate on. She had heard a poem read to her by the

Conte Leandro, and had decided that, if he were the wealthiest man in

all Ravenna, no sense of her duty to herself could prevail to make her

do anything but run away from him at the first warning of his approach.

Nevertheless, from him, even, she had learned something. She had become

acquainted with the fact, whispered in his own exquisitely felicitous

manner, and with the tact and judicious appreciation of opportunity

peculiar to him, that Ludovico di Castelmare was, to the great sorrow of

his friends and family, enslaved by a certain Venetian artist, then

resident in Ravenna,--a girl really of no attractions whatever.

Thus much of the carte du pays of that new country, in which her own

campaign was to be made, and of which it so much imported her to have

the social map, she had learned, when she found Quinto Lalli waiting for

her to take possession of their new home.

"Well, bambina mia,--my baby," for so the old man often called her,

"what sort of folk have we come among? How do you like the appearance of

the country?"

"Eh, papa mio, che volete? I have seen only a bit of it. It is rather

early to judge yet," said Bianca.

"Not too early for your quickness, bambina mia. Besides, you may be sure

you have seen most of what you are likely to see, and what it most

concerns you to see. The Cardinal Legate was not likely to come out to

meet you, I suppose; nor does it much matter to you to see his

Eminence."

"Well, what I have seen, I like. As for the theatre, that Marchese

Lamberto, whom you saw, knows what singing is as well as you do. I shall

please him on the stage; and, if so, as I see very well, I shall please

all the rest of Ravenna. But--"

"But what? There is always a 'but.' What is it this time?" said the old

man.

"As if you did not know as well as I!" said Bianca, with a little toss.

"Is what I can do on the theatre of Ravenna the thing that is most in my

thoughts?"

"'Twas you who mentioned it first," said Quinto. "I spoke of it merely

with reference to that man, the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. He is

one of the first, if not the very first, man in the city; and everybody

is cap in hand before him. Evidently a rich man."

"And he is a musician, you say?" rejoined Quinto.

"Fanatico! But what matters that; except, indeed, as a stepping-stone?

What has music done for me? The Marchese Lamberto is a bachelor,

Quinto."

"Ha! what, the old man?" said Quinto, looking sharply at her.

"Yes, the old man, as you call him. Not so old but he might be your son,

friend Quinto. But there is the young man, the Marchese Ludovico, whom

you also saw, when they met us on the road. He is the nephew and heir to

the other--a bachelor too--and as pretty a fellow as one would wish to

see into the bargain; a charming fellow."

"So was the Duca di Lodi at Milan," said the old man, quietly; "a very

charming fellow--charming and charmed into the bargain. But--"

"Yes! I don't need to ask the meaning of your 'but.' We know all about

that; but what is the good of going back upon it?" said Bianca, throwing

herself at full length upon a sofa, and tossing her hat on to the

ground, with some little display of ill-temper, as she spoke.

"Only for the sake of the light past mistakes may throw on future

hopes," replied Quinto, with philosophic calmness.

"Bah-mistakes--what mistake? There was no mistake, but for that infamous

old wretch of a governor," said Bianca, with an expression which the

individual referred to would hardly have recognized as beautiful, if he

could have seen it.

"Yes! I know. May the devil give him his due! But, bambina mia, there

are wretches of governors here too, it is to be feared, no less

infamous."

"What do you mean? What did we come here then for?" cried Bianca,

rearing herself on her elbow on the sofa, and looking at her old friend

with wide-opened eyes of angry surprise.

"In the first place, cara mia, because it was necessary to go somewhere;

and, in the second place, because I should be very much at a loss to

name any place where the governors are not infamous wretches, every whit

as bad as at Milan. 'Tis the way of them, my poor child. But you see,

Bianca dear, to return to what we were saying, there was a little

mistake at Milan. The Duca di Lodi did not go off into the country, and

leave you plantee la, to please himself."

"Who ever thought he did? No, poor fellow, he was right enough. But what

was the mistake, I want to know?"

"You could bring no influence to bear, except upon himself, you know."

"Of course not. How should I? E poi?"

"And he could not do as he pleased," said Quinto, with a slight shrug of

his shoulders. "That was the mistake, cara mia, to endeavour to bring

about an object, by influencing some one who had no power to act for

themselves in the matter."

"A very pleasant Job's comforter you are to-night, Quinto. I don't know

what you are driving at?" said Bianca, staring at him.

"Only this, my precious child. I was set thinking of the mistake at

Milan by what you said of these two men, the uncle and nephew. Has it

not come into your clever head, mia bella, that we might find here the

means of avoiding a repetition of that error?"

"Ah--h! Now I see what you are at. The uncle--hum--m--m," said Bianca,

meditatively; and then shaking her head with closely shut lips.

"And why not the uncle, bambina mia? I am sure the few words you have

said about him are sufficient to point out that an alliance with the

Marchese di Castelmare would be an advantageous one for any lady in the

land," said old Quinto, with a demure air, that concealed under it just

the least flavour in the world of quiet irony.

"I won't deny, papa mio, that, being humble as becomes my station,"

replied Bianca, in the same tone, "I should be perfectly contented with

the style and title of Marchesa di Castelmare. But what reason have we

for thinking that there would be any less difficulty in becoming such

than in becoming Duchessa di Lodi? That, between ourselves, is the

question."

"And what difficulty lay in the way of becoming Duchessa di Lodi?

Certainly none that arose from the Signor Duca. Governors and fathers,

and uncles and aunts, and police commissaries, and the devil knows what,

all interfered to keep two young hearts asunder, and spoil the game. And

why did they interfere?--the devil have them all in his keeping! Because

all the world agrees to believe that such springalds as the Duca di Lodi

can't take care of themselves. Because it is considered that the titles

and acres of such, if not their persons, should be protected

against--against the impulses of their warm hearts, shall we say? Now,

do you think that the world would consider any such protection necessary

in the case of the Marchese Lamberto? Would any governors, or fathers,

or uncles, or aunts, or commissaries, interfere to prevent him from

doing as he pleased in such a matter?"

"No, I suppose not!" replied Bianca, thoughtfully; "but if no father or

uncle did, a nephew might. It is always the way; people get out of the

leading-strings put on them by their elders, only to be entangled in

others wound round them by their sons and daughters and nephews and

nieces! The poor old man is beguiled. We must prevent him from making

such a fool of himself! And the interference is all the worse, and the

more fatal, because the poor old man would not only make a fool of

himself, but beggars of his protectors."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed old Quinto Lalli with a quiet, almost noiseless

laugh; "it is very well and shrewdly said, bambina mia. But between the

two times of interference, my Bianca, there is a happy medium; an

intervening space, a high table-land, we may say, after the dominion of

fathers and uncles has been escaped from, and before that of sons and

nephews begins--a short time, during which a man may and can please

himself. Now, it seems to me, that your Marchese--pardon me for the

anticipation, it is a mere figure of speech, your Marchese di

Castelmare, I say, seems to me to be just in that happy position!"

"I don't know that, I have not seen enough to be sure about that yet.

That young fellow, the Marchese Ludovico, does not look to me a likely

sort of man to stand by quietly and see himself cut out of houses and

lands! And besides,--it strikes me--"

"Speak out your thought, bambina mia; I am sure it is one worth hearing.

And between us, you know--"

"Well, between ourselves then," continued Bianca; while a smile, half of

mockery and half of pleasure, writhed her lips into changing outlines,

each more bewitchingly pretty than the other, and her eyes were turned

away from Quinto to a contemplation of the slender dainty foot peeping

out from beneath her dress, as she lay on the sofa; "between ourselves,

papa mio, from one or two small observations, which I chanced to make

to-day, it strikes me that the Marchese Ludovico might possibly feel

other additional objections to the establishment of any such relations,

as you are contemplating between me and his uncle, besides the

likelihood that they might be the means of cutting him out of his

heirship."

"Ha, I see, I see; nothing more likely! Per Dio, bambina mia, you lose

no time! Brava la Bianca! And perhaps I may conclude, from one or two

small observations that I have been able to make myself, you would

prefer to win on the nephew! Eh, cara mia" said the old man, looking at

her with a sly smile.

"Pshaw!" cried Bianca, with a toss of her auburn ringlets, and a shrug

of her beautiful shoulders; "I must do my duty in that state of life to

which it has pleased God to call me,--as the nuns at St. Agata taught

me. But between uncles and nephews, I suppose any girl would say,

nephews for choice!"

"But you see, my child, the devil of it is that it would be the Milan

story over again. You would have all the family to fight against. A

Cardinal Legate can be quite as despotic, and disagreeable, and

tyrannical as an Austrian governor. You may be very sure that these

people have some marriage in view for this young Marchese, the hope of

the family! We know that the Marchese Lamberto is hand and glove with

the Cardinal. And there would be an exit from Ravenna after the same

fashion as our last!"

"I know for certain already, that there is a marriage arranged between

the young Marchese and no less a personage than the niece of the

Cardinal Legate himself," said Bianca.

"Well then; that is not very promising ground to build on, is it,

bambina mia!" replied Quinto.

"It may be, that as far as the man himself is concerned, the match that

has been made for him would be rather the reverse of a difficulty in the

way," rejoined Bianca.

"But the difficulty will not come from the man himself, cara mia! It

would be doing you wrong to suppose that to be at all likely. I don't

suppose it; but--do you imagine that the Cardinal Legate will permit you

to snatch his niece's proposed husband from out of her mouth! It would

be a worse job than the other," said Quinto, shaking his head

emphatically.

"So that you are all for the uncle, papa mio?" rejoined Bianca; yawning,

as if she were tired of discussing the subject.

"Well, I confess it seems to my poor judgment the better scheme, and

indeed a very promising scheme. Depend upon it, my child, an old man,

who is his own master, is the better and safer game," replied Quinto.

"Very well! Have at the old man then, as you call him; though, as I have

told you, Quinto, he is not an old man--not over forty-five I should

say; at all events the right side of fifty, I'd wager anything! But I

tell you fairly, that a less promising subject I never saw. A man, who

has lived till that age a bachelor, though the head of his family,--and

a bachelor of the out-and-out moral and respectable sort, mind you,--the

great friend of the Cardinal; trustee to nunneries, and all that sort of

thing!--a man who looks at you and speaks to you as if he was a master

of ceremonies presenting a Duchess to a Queen,--a man, I should say, who

had never cared for a woman in his life, and was very unlikely to begin

to do so now," said Bianca, yawning again as she finished speaking.

"Bambina mia," replied Quinto, "you are a very clever child, and you

know a great many things. But you have not yet sufficiently studied the

elderly gentleman department of human nature. If the Marchese Lamberto

is as you describe him, it may be, it is true, that he is one of those

men for whom female beauty has no charm, and on whom any kind of attack

would be thrown away and mere lost labour. But it is far more likely

that the exact reverse may be found to be the case! A thousand

circumstances of his social position, or even of his temper and turn of

mind, may have kept him a bachelor,--may have kept him out of the way of

women altogether. He may be found cautious, haughty, backward to woo,

requiring to be wooed, in love with the respectabilities of his social

standing; but depend upon it, bambina mia, if you can once awaken the

dormant passion of such a man, you may produce effects wholly

irresistible,--you may do anything with him! His love would be like a

frozen torrent when the thaw comes! It would dash aside every opposition

that could be offered it. The calculated and calculating tentatives, and

coquettings and nibblings of your practised lovers, who have been in

love a dozen times, would be as a trickling rill to an ocean wave,

compared to what might be expected from the passion of a heart first

strongly moved at the time of life the Marchese has reached. Fascinate

such a man as that, and in such a position, bambina mia, and all the

governors, and all the Cardinals that ever mumbled a mass, won't avail

to prevent him from being your own!"

"Well, I suppose you are right, Quinto. And I suppose that that is what

it must be!--But--well! it is time to be going to bed, I suppose; I am

tired and sleepy!" said Bianca, rousing herself after a pause from a

reverie into which she seemed to have fallen, and yawning as she got up

from the sofa.

CHAPTER III

"Armed at All Points"

The quartiere which La Lalli found prepared at Ravenna for her and her

travelling companion was a very eligible one. It consisted of a very

nicely-furnished sitting-room, with a bed-room opening off on one side

for herself, and another similarly situated on the other side for her

father. There was also, behind, one little closet for a servant to sleep

in, and another, still smaller, intended to serve as a kitchen.

On the morning following the conversation related in the last chapter

Bianca, hearing Quinto coming out of his bed-room into the sitting-room

about nine o'clock, called out to him from her bed:

"Oh, papa! I forgot to tell you last night that the Marchese and Signor

Stadione are to be here at one o'clock to-day to hear me, and settle

about the night of the 6th, you know."

"All right, bambina mia! I will be back in time. I'm going to the cafe

to get some breakfast," called out Quinto through the door.

"Yes. But, papa, be here at one o'clock, and do not come back before

that. E inteso? And send me a cup of chocolate from the cafe."

"Inteso! I'll be here at one, and not before," said the old man through

the door, with special emphasis on the last words.

Then Bianca called her maid, told her to bring the chocolate to her as

soon as it came from the cafe, and then to come and dress her at ten.

Whether the intervening time was spent in sleep or meditation may be

doubted; but, at all events, when the hour for action came Bianca was

ready for it.

By means of the skilled and practised assistance of Gigia Daddi, the

maid who had been with her ever since the first beginning of her stage

career, the Diva had completed her toilette by half-past eleven. But she

had had, to a certain degree, a double toilette to perform. All the

component parts of a rich and very becoming morning-costume had been

selected and assorted with due care, and minute attention to the effect

each portion of it was calculated to produce in combination with the

rest; and then they had been not put on, but laid out in order on the

bed. The more immediate purpose of the Diva was to array herself

differently--differently, but by no means with a less careful and

well-considered attention to the result which was intended to be

produced.

The magnificent hair was brushed till it gleamed like burnished gold as

the sun-rays played upon it. But when ready to be coiled in the artistic

masses, which Gigia knew well how to arrange, variously, according to

the style and nature of the effect designed to be produced, it was left

uncoiled, streaming in great ripples over back and shoulders in its

profuse abundance. An exquisite little pair of boots, of black satin,

clasping ankle and instep like a glove, were chosen to match the black

satin dress laid out on the bed: but, like the dress, were not put on.

The place of the black satin dress was supplied by a wrapper of very

fine white muslin, edged with delicate lace, so shaped with consummate

skill that, though the snowy folds seemed to lie loosely within the

girdle that confined them at the waist, no part of the effect of the

round elastic slimness of the waist was lost; open at the neck, from a

point about a span beneath the collar-bone, it allowed the whole of the

noble white column of the grandly-formed throat to be visible from its

base above the bosom to the opening out of the exquisite lines about the

nape of the neck into the tapering swelling of the classically-shaped

head. The exact arrangement of the shape of this opening of the dress,

from the throat down to about a hand's-breadth above the girdle, was

very carefully attended to; the lace-edged folds of the muslin being

three or four times drawn a little more forward so as to conceal, or a

little back so as to show, a more liberal glimpse of the swelling bosom

on either side, by the doubting Diva, as she stood before the glass.

"E troppo, cosi." she said to her attendant at last. "Is that too much

so?"

Gigia looked critically before she answered, "To receive, yes,--a

little, perhaps. But to be caught unawares, no; and then with a

handkerchief, you know--"

"Oh, yes! One knows the exercise," said Bianca, with a laugh; "blush and

call attention to it by covering it with one's handkerchief, which falls

down as often as one chooses to repeat the manoeuvre. A chi lo dite?"

"Style?" said Gigia.

"Sentimental,--eyes soft and dreamy; therefore the very faintest blush

of rouge. Yes; not a shade more."

"You won't put your bottines on?"

"No; there'll be time afterwards. Give me a pair of bronze kid slippers.

After all, there is nothing that shows a foot so well: and look here,

Gigia, draw this stocking a little better; I'd almost as soon have a

wrinkle in my face as in the silk on my instep. That's better! The

narrow black velvet with the jet cross for my neck, nothing else. Now,

you understand? Anybody who comes after one o'clock may be admitted;

before that you will let in no soul save the Marchese Lamberto, in case

he should come. I don't at all know that he will. And, Gigia," continued

her mistress, as she passed into the sitting-room, "draw this sofa over

to the other side of the fireplace, so as to face the window; ten years

hence, when you have to place a sofa for me, you may put it just

contrariwise--so, with the head at the side of the fireplace, and push

the table a little further back so as to leave room for the easy-chair

there to stand near the foot of the sofa facing the fire. That will do.

Now, be sure of your man before you let him in. The Marchese Lamberto,

mind, an elderly gentleman--not the Marchese Ludovico, who is a young

man. If he or anybody else should come before one o'clock tell them that

I can see nobody till that time. Now, don't bring me the wrong man; and,

Gigia, if he comes, don't announce him, you know. Just open the door

quietly, and let him walk into the room without disturbing me--you

understand?"

"A chi lo dite, Signora mia! Lasciate fare a me! Is it the first time?"

said Gigia.

"If only one could hope that it would be the last," returned her

mistress with a half laugh, half sigh.

By the time all these arrangements were made it was nearly twelve

o'clock; and Bianca, dismissing her maid, placed herself, not without

some care in the arrangement of her delicate draperies, on the sofa.

The judicious Gigia had said that the extent of snowy bosom exposed was

not too liberal, due consideration being had to the circumstance that

the Diva was to be caught by an unexpected surprise in an undress. So,

as Bianca meant to be very much surprised, she carefully, and with

dainty fingers, drew back the muslin on either side just a thought, so

as to permit to an exploring eye merely such a suggestive peep of the

swelling curves on either side as might furnish an estimate of the

outline of the veiled heights beyond. She smiled, half with pleased

consciousness and half with self-mockery, as she did so: then carefully

arranged her drapery so as to allow two slim ankles to be visible just

at the point where they crossed each other in a position which exhibited

the curved instep of one slender foot in a full front view, and the side

of the other negligently thrown across it. The pose was artistically

perfect. Lastly, with one or two dexterous touches and shakes, she so

arranged her wealth of hair as to combine an appearance of the most

perfect negligee with a thoroughly artistic disposition of it, which,

while it displayed to the best advantage the tresses themselves, served

also to heighten the effect of the contours of neck and bust, which they

partly showed and partly concealed.

And then the Diva waited patiently.

She had, as she had said to Gigia, no certain knowledge that he would

come, nor even any very clear reason to believe that he would do

so--that he would come, that is to say, earlier than one o'clock, at

which hour it had been arranged that he should meet Stadione there.

Nevertheless, Bianca had a strong persuasion that he would come earlier.

Despite what she had said to Quinto Lalli of the circumstances and signs

which seemed to indicate that the Marchese was not a man likely to be

exposed to danger from such attacks as the Diva meditated making on

him,--despite the fact that she had said to herself also all that she

had said to her old friend, there had been something about the

Marchese's manner--something in that last pressure of palm to palm that

had set Bianca speculating as to the meaning of it. It was not a mere

manifestation of admiration; the Diva was used enough to that in all its

forms, and could read every tone of its language. It was more like

wonder and curiosity,--at all events, it was not indifference. She had

seen with half an eye, and without the slightest appearance of seeing

it, that the Marchese could not keep his eyes away from her. During the

drive to the city, and afterwards at the Palazzo Castelmare, while she

was making the acquaintance of the principal people of the city, it had

been the same thing. And nothing could be further than was the

Marchese's manner, from the bold, unabashed staring, which such

beautiful Divas as Bianca have often to endure. He evidently was

devouring her with his eyes on the sly. Evidently he did not wish to be

observed looking at her as he did look. Whenever her own eyes caught him

in the fact, his were on the instant withdrawn: to return, as Bianca

well marked, on the next instant.

Then, after those first words, which he had addressed to her at their

meeting in the road, she had noted that he did not speak to her, as she

sat by his side in the carriage, with the simple ease and freedom of

indifference. There was almost something approaching to a manifestation

of emotion in his manner of addressing her. It could not be that this

elderly gentleman,--this very mature Marchese, had fallen in love with

her already. Such an idea would have been too absurd! Yet his whole

bearing was odd and ill at ease.

It had seemed to himself as if some subtle material influence affected

him, as he sat by her side,--as if a magnetic emanation came forth from

her that mounted to his brain, and disordered his pulses, and the flow

of his blood. He had sat by the side of women as beautiful before now,

and never been conscious of being affected in any similar manner. What

it was that produced such an effect upon his nervous system,--what was

the matter with him, he could not for the life of him imagine. It was

unpleasant; he did not like it at all. And yet some irresistible

stimulus and curiosity drove him to prolong rather than to avoid the

sorcery.

Bianca was by no means fully aware of the power and of the strength of

the sorcery which she was exercising on the Marchese. But she understood

a great deal more about it than he did. And when, in making the

appointment for him and the impresario to call on her at one o'clock, he

had asked her if that was too early for her habits, and she had replied,

that she was always afoot much earlier than that, Bianca had felt

persuaded that he would be at the door at an earlier hour.

And her experience, or her instinct, with reference to such matters had

not deceived her.

The quarter-past twelve had not struck, when the Diva heard a knock at

the door of her apartment.

CHAPTER IV

Throwing the Line

In the next instant Bianca heard the door of the room in which she was

sitting opened very gently; it was Gigia who opened it, so gently as to

enable her mistress to keep her eyes on a book she held in her hand,

apparently unconscious that she was not alone. The Marchese Lamberto

advanced two paces within the room, and then stopped gazing at the

exquisite picture before his eyes. Bianca knew that all her preparatory

cares were doing the work they were intended to do. But no sound had yet

been made to compel her to recognize her visitor's presence; and she

remained as motionless as a recumbent statue.

"I fear, Signora--," said the Marchese, after a few instants given to

profiting by the rare opportunity a singular chance had given him,--"I

fear, Signora--"

"Santa Maria, who is there!" cried Bianca in a voice of alarm, starting

to her feet as she spoke with a bound, that none but so skilled an

artist and so perfect a figure could have executed with the faultless

elegance with which she accomplished it.

"A thousand pardons, Signora; your servant--"

"The Marchese Lamberto! It is unpardonable in the woman--to have so

failed in her duty-towards your Excellency! It is I who have to beg your

indulgence, Signor Marchese. Can it be one o'clock already? In truth I

had no idea it was so late; and I have still to dress! How can I

apologize to your Excellency sufficiently for appearing before you in

this dishabille?"

"Nay, Signora, it is in truth I who have to apologize; it is not yet one

o'clock, it is not much past twelve! And I feel that I am guilty of an

unwarrantable intrusion. But I hoped for the opportunity of having a few

words of conversation before the hour named for our little business with

our good Signor Ercole. Permit me to assure you, Signora, that if your

servant had given me the least hint that you were not yet--ready to see

any visitor--"

"If only your Excellency will excuse--the fact is, I have so rarely any

visitors that the poor woman does not understand her duty in such

matters. Really I am so covered with confusion,"--she continued, putting

up her delicate little hand with a feeble sort of little attempt to draw

her dress a little more together across her throat. "I cannot forgive

her! She has exposed me to seem wanting in respect towards your

Excellency; I will dismiss her from my service!"

"Let me intercede for her, poor woman!" said the Marchese, advancing

into the room; "indeed it was mainly my fault, I ought to have asked if

you were visible."

"One word from la sua Signoria is enough. If you can forgive me, I must

forgive her! But you will own, Signor Marchese, that it is--what shall I

say--?" She hesitated and cast her eyes down with a bewitching smile and

a little movement of her head to one side, "that it really

is--embarrassing! Such a thing never happened to me before!"

"But now it has happened, Signora," said the Marchese, emboldened by the

smile, and by a shy sidelong glance, which she shot from under her

eye-lashes with a laugh in her eyes, as she spoke; "now it has happened

that I have been permitted to see you in a toilet all the more

exquisitely charming in that it wants the formality of the costume in

which the world is wont to see you,--may I not say what I came for the

purpose of saying?"

"Will you be very discreet, Signor?" she said, putting a slender rosy

finger up to her smiling lips; "and never, never let it be known to any

human being, that I ever received you save in the fullest of full dress,

as would become me in receiving the honour of a visit from your

Excellency!"

"Not a syllable, not a whisper!" replied the Marchese, taking her tone,

and putting his own finger on his lips. "And then, I may say, Signora,

that in Ravenna a visit at any hour from old Lamberto di Castelmare

would do your fair name no harm!" he added, taking the arm-chair by the

side of the sofa to which she pointed, as she resumed her former place

and attitude on the couch.

"I dare say it might not, if I am to judge of his position in the

society from your own, Signor Marchese. But I did not know, that there

was any old Signor Lamberto di Castelmare. I supposed you were the head

of the family, your uncle, perhaps?" said Bianca, very innocently.

"I have no uncle, Signora! I am the oldest Castelmare extant," said the

Marchese.

"And you call yourself old Lamberto, Marchese! Why I would wager my

pearl necklace,--and that is the most valuable possession I

have--against a daisy chain, that you are not ten years older than I am.

I shall be called old Bianca Lalli next, at that rate!"

"And how many years, since you are ready to wager on it,--have gone to

the bringing the face and form I see before me to their matchless

perfection?" said the Marchese.

"Who was ever before so prettily asked how old she was?" said Bianca,

suffering her large blue eyes to rest fully on the Marchese's face for

an instant, and then dropping them with an air of conscious

embarrassment. "Well, a frank question deserves--or at least shall

have--a frank answer! I shall never see my twenty-fourth birthday

again?"

"And you judge me then to be thirty-four!" said the Marchese, looking at

her laughingly.

"Certainly I don't think any room full of strangers would judge you to

be more than that," replied Bianca, looking at him seriously.

"Ta!--ta!--ta! Add fifteen years to that; and you will be nearer the

mark. So you see, bella Signora, that you may safely trust yourself to a

tete-a-tete with me under any circumstances."

"Ta!--ta!--ta!" said Bianca, repeating his own phrase, with a merry

laugh in her eyes, and shaking her rich auburn curls at him. "It seems

impossible, utterly incredible! But I am very glad if it is so,--very

glad. There is nothing so intolerable to me as the young lads who come

buzzing about one circumstanced as I am, and whom it is as difficult to

drive away as it is to drive away flies in summer. There is no trusting

to them; they would compromise a poor girl as soon as look at her, if

she was fool enough to let them. And I have had lessons in the necessity

of caution, Signor Marchese. I have been cruelly treated,--very cruelly

calumniated!" And Bianca, knowing, it is to be supposed, that, if it is

not always the case that "Beauty's tear is lovelier than her smile," as

the poet says, yet that it is a phase of beauty often more potent over a

male heart than the sunniest smile, raised a corner of her

daintily-embroidered handkerchief to her eyes.

The Marchese was an old man of the world,--as the cynical phrase

goes,--and of what a world?--an old Italian Marchese of the beginning of

the nineteenth century,--a period when, if crime was less rife than in

former and stronger ages, morality was never at a lower ebb. He was a

man whose musical tastes had made him conversant with the Divas of the

stage, and familiar with the interior aspects of Italian theatrical

life;--one, too, whom circumstances had caused to become specially well

acquainted with the antecedent history of this particular Diva now

stretched on the sofa before him. Yet none the less for all this did

"beauty's tear," enhanced by beauty's laced pocket-handkerchief,

exercise on him its usual glamour.

Calumniated!--that lovely creature of matchless purity before

him,--matchless purity! so white was her throat; so round and slender

her waist; so daintily snowy her muslin drapery. Calumny! Of course it

was calumny. And how he could have poignarded the calumniators, and

taken the poor, fluttering, persecuted Diva to his bosom. The desire to

execute that latter portion of retributive and poetical justice was

making itself felt stronger and stronger within him every minute, as he

sat beside the sofa exposed to the full force of the magnetic

poison-current which was intoxicating him.

"Signora--" he said, putting his hand out to take hers, which she

readily gave him. His own hand shook, and he paused in his speech,

overcome for a moment by a sort of dizziness and a sudden rush of the

blood to his brow and eyes,--a veritable electric shock caused by the

contact of her hand with his.

"Signora," he continued, recovering himself, "no such slander--no such

insults will follow you here; none such shall follow you here. Lamberto

di Castelmare can, at least in Ravenna, promise you that much. Nor if

they did follow you, would such stories here be believed."

"Generous! Just!" murmured Bianca behind the laced pocket-handkerchief

in a broken voice, just loud enough to reach the neighbouring ear of the

Marchese, while she suffered her slender fingers to press the hand which

held hers just perceptibly before withdrawing it from him;--"just," she

continued in a louder tone, taking her handkerchief from her face, and

raising her shoulders a little from the sofa, so as to turn more fully

towards him, while her eyes fired point blank into his a broadside of

uncontrollable gratitude and admiration;--"just, because generous and

noble. Oh, Signor Marchese, those who have never known what it is to

suffer from a slanderous tongue can never know the delight--the sweet

consolation of meeting with such generous appreciation."

The poor Diva was quite overcome by her own emotion; and, sinking back

on the cushions of the sofa, again lifted her handkerchief to her face,

while one or two half-stifled sobs showed how deeply she had been

moved;--and how perfect was the form and hue of the beautiful

half-covered bosom which this emotion caused to heave beneath its gauzy

veil.

Just at that minute there came, to the infinite disgust of the Marchese,

a discreet tap at the door.

Bianca rapidly passed her fingers over the tresses above her forehead,

resettled her pose on the sofa, and gave the Marchese a meaning look of

common intelligence and mutual confidence, which set forth, as well as a

volume could have done, and established the fact that there existed

thenceforward a bond of union and a fellowship between her and him, such

as shut them in together, and shut out in the cold all the rest of

Ravenna, and then said "Passi," and admitted, as she knew very well, no

more startling an interrupter than Gigia.

The well-trained servant said nothing and looked at nothing; but

silently handed to her mistress two cards.

"Of course you told these gentlemen that I was not visible, Gigia?"

"Diamine! Signora; of course I should not have let any gentleman pass

this morning more than any other morning of the year if you had not

specially told me to admit the Marchese Lamberto at any hour he might

come," said Gigia with a niaise simplicity, as she left the room.

Bianca covered her face with her pretty hands and shook a gale of

perfume from her sunny locks, as she exclaimed, sotto voce,--"Oh, the

stupidity of these servants! Signor Marchese," she continued, looking up

shyly, but with a gay laugh in her eyes, "what must you not

imagine?--not, at all events, I hope, that I contemplated the

possibility of receiving you in this dishabille? But I will do as other

criminals do;--confess when they are found out. I did think," she

continued, casting down her eyes, and hesitating with the most

charmingly becoming and naive confusion; "I had some little hope--no; I

don't mean that;--I did not mean to put that into my confession;--it did

occur to me as possible," she went on, hanging her pretty head, and

playing nervously with the folds of her dress in a manner which had the

accidental effect of causing it to leave uncovered an additional inch of

silk stocking--"it did occur to me as possible that the Marchese

Lamberto might come to me sooner than the time named for the meeting

with the impresario;--for the sake of giving me any hints that his

perfect knowledge of the subject might suggest; and I fully intended to

be dressed and ready to receive him if he should show me any such

condescending kindness--and so told my maid to make an exception in his

case to my invariable rule! And then the minutes slipped away; and I

fell into a reverie, thinking--thinking--thinking; and then, all of a

sudden, before I knew that there was any one in the room--if you think

of the devil--and I suppose it is equally true if you think of an

angel;--but there, again, that was not intended to be any part of my

confession. I think I shall give up confession, at all events to you,

Signor Marchese, for the future. But now I have confessed myself this

time, and told the whole, whole truth--may I hope for absolution?"

There was an adorable mixture of candour, and gaiety of heart, and

child-like simplicity in the beautiful features as she looked up into

his face when she finished speaking, together with an expression of

appealing confidence and almost tenderness in the eyes that achieved the

final and complete subjugation of the Marchese.

Again he took her hand, and again his head swam round with the violence

of the emotion caused by the contact of palm with palm, as he said,

"Ah, Signora, if I were equally candid perhaps it would turn out that it

was for me to confess, and for you to grant absolution--if you could. Do

you think you could?" he said, raising her hand to his lips as he said

the words.

"Ha! Signor Marchese, that would quite depend upon the nature of the

confession. When I have heard it I will do my best to be an indulgent

confessor. But, however curious I may be to hear you in the

confessional, it must not be now; or I shall really not be ready to

receive Signor Stadione. Heavens! It wants only ten minutes to one now.

I must run and dress as quickly as I possibly can. To think that almost

an hour should have run away since you came here; and it seems like ten

minutes. May I beg your indulgence, Signor Marchese, if I ask you to

wait for me while I dress? I will be as quick as I possibly can."

"On no account hurry yourself, Signora. It is my fault for having

detained you. And if I had to wait ten hours instead of one, would not

the one I have passed be cheaply purchased? Never mind Stadione; I will

explain to him that you are dressing--"

"And that you have been made to wait some time already by my abominable

unpunctuality," said Bianca, holding up one fore-finger and giving him a

look of mutual intelligence.

"Of course--of course. A chi lo dite!" returned the Marchese, giving her

once more his hand to help her to rise from the sofa.

As she did so she put into his hand, without any word of comment, but

with a slight smile and a little momentary raising of her eyebrows, the

two cards that Gigia had, a little while before, handed to her. They

bore the names of the Barone Manutoli and the Marchese Ludovico

Castelmare; and Bianca handed them to the Marchese with a

matter-of-course air that seemed to say that, in the position which the

Marchese Lamberto and she had assumed towards each other, it was natural

and proper that he should see who had called on her.

He merely nodded as he looked at them; and then, for the second time,

kissing the tips of the fingers he still held, as she got up from her

couch, he bowed low as she passed him to go towards the bedroom; and

she, before quitting the room, made a sweeping curtsey, half playfully,

and then kissed the tops of her fingers to him as she vanished into the

inner room.

CHAPTER V

After-thoughts

The Marchese Lamberto and Signor Ercole Stadione quitted the house in

which the prima donna had her lodging, together, when the business

matters, which they had come thither to arrange, had been settled.

"A wonderful woman, Signor Marchese," said the little impresario,

trotting along with short steps by the side of the Marchese, and rising

on his toes in a springy manner, that made his walk resemble that of a

cock-sparrow. "Truly a wonderful woman. I have seen and known a many in

my day, Signor Marchese, as you are well aware, sir; but such an one as

that, such an out-and-outer, I never saw before."

"She is evidently a lady, whose education and manners entitle her to be

treated with all respect," replied the Marchese, more drily, the little

man thought, than his great patron was usually in the habit of

addressing him, and somewhat quickening his stride at the same time, as

if he wanted to walk away from the impresario.

"Most undoubtedly, Signor Marchese, and every sort of respectful

treatment she shall have. There shall be a stove and a new looking-glass

put into her dressing-room this very day. If she don't draw, say Ercole

Stadione knows nothing about it. A very singular thing it is, Signor

Marchese,--and you must have observed it, Signor, as well as I,--there's

some women whose singing, let 'em sing as well as they will, is the

smallest part of their value in filling a theatre. There's no saying

what it is, but they draw--Lord bless you, as a bit of salt will draw

the cattle after it! And this Lalli is one of that sort. I know 'em,

when I see 'em. Won't she draw, that's all!" said the little man again,

rubbing his hands together, and chuckling with infinite glee.

The Marchese Lamberto would have been at a loss probably if he had been

required to state clearly why he felt angry and annoyed with the

impresario that morning, and thought him a bore, and wished to be quit

of him. But such was the case. And presently, when the well-skilled and

business-like little man began to canvass the capabilities of certain

parts in his repertorio, for the most advantageous showing off of the

personal advantages of the new acquisition, the Marchese could stand it

no longer, but replied hastily:

"Well, well. All these matters had better be submitted to the lady

herself. I think, Signor Ercole, that I will say good-morning now. You

are going to the theatre, and I am waited for at the palazzo."

And the Marchese did return to the palazzo, though nobody was specially

waiting for him there. On the contrary, he told the servant in the hall

to admit nobody, and when he reached his library, he shut the door and

bolted it. And then he threw himself into an easy chair to think.

The first thing that his thinking made clear and certain to him was that

something had happened, or was happening to him, which had never

happened to him before,--something respecting the exact nature of which

all his previous experience afforded him no light.

In love! He had never been in love; but he knew, with some tolerable

accuracy, what was generally understood by the phrase. He had read the

poets, who describe the passion under sufficiently various phases; and

he had heard plenty of lovers' talk among a people who are not wont to

suffer, or to exult, or to be happy in silence. Was he in love with this

woman? Did he, in his heart, love her--in his heart, as he was there in

the solitude of his own room, at liberty and at leisure to examine his

heart upon the subject. A heavy frown settled on the Marchese Lamberto's

brow, and an unpleasant change came over his face, as he proceeded with

the task of asking his heart this question. There rose up feelings and

promptings within him, which almost drove him to the fierce assertion to

himself that he hated this woman, who was thus occupying his thoughts

against his will.

What had become of all that warm chivalry of feeling that had urged him,

with all perfect earnestness of sincerity, to declare that no breath of

calumny or insult should come near her, beneath the aegis that he could

and would throw over her? Where was it gone? All clean gone. He knew,

with tolerable accuracy, the story of the former life of this woman.

They were facts which he knew,--certainly knew. But they had all

vanished from his mind,--had been as though they were not,--while he had

sat there by her sofa, looking at her and listening to her,--had all

vanished, even as the ardent chivalry, which had then been caused by

some sorcery to spring up in his mind, had vanished now.

It was passing strange.

That he was very sorely tempted--as he had never before in his life

been, tempted--to make love to this actress,--as it is called,--to make

love to her after the fashion, not so much of those poetical

descriptions which have been referred to, as after the fashion of those

prosaic settings-forth of the passion, which were familiar enough to his

ears, was clearly recognizable by him. He knew very certainly that he

desired that.

And was what he desired so much out of his reach? Surely all that had

happened, all that he had seen, all that he had heard at the interview

with Bianca that morning, was not calculated to lead him to think so.

And why should it be? It would be all very much according to the

ordinary current of events in such matters. He was a bachelor. He was

wealthy. He was the most prominent noble of the city. He was brought

specially into contact with the lady by his theatrical connection and

habitudes. His patronage and protection were by far the most valuable

that could be offered to her in Ravenna. The Diva herself was--such as

Divas of her sort and time were wont to be. It would seem to be all very

easy and straight-forward. What was the worst penalty wont to follow

from such peccadilloes to persons in his position? The loss of a little

money,--of a good deal of money perhaps. But he had plenty and to spare.

But none of these considerations availed to smooth the frown from the

Marchese's brow, or to make the future at all seem clear before him.

In the first place to make this singer his mistress, simple and little

objectionable as such a step might seem to most men of his country, and

rank, and period, and freedom from ties, was not an easy matter, or an

agreeable prospect to the Marchese, on purely social considerations. He

had placed himself on a special pedestal, from which such a liaison

would involve a fall. And such a fall, or the danger of such a fall, was

very dreadful to the Marchese. There was the Cardinal; there were the

good nuns, whose affairs he managed, and who looked on him as a saint on

earth. Worst of all there was his nephew. How preach to him (terribly

necessary as such preaching might be) under such circumstances?

To be sure, there was no need of doing whatever he might do in such sort

that the whole town should be his confidant. He had as good

opportunities for secrecy as could be desired. Theatrical business and

his recognized connection with it was an abundant and unsuspected excuse

for as much conversation with the lady,--as many interviews as he might

wish. It seemed safe enough upon the whole.

And yet these considerations did not avail to take the frown from the

Marchese's brow, or bring his perplexed self-examination to an end. The

very evident disposition of the lady to be kind did not avail to please

him. Instead of being pleased and triumphant at the probable prospect of

so enviable a bonne fortune, he was displeased, unhappy, irritated,

angry--angry with himself and with the sorceress who had thrown this

spell on him. How was it? By what charm had she bewitched him so?

Already he was impatient, longing to be back again in her presence. And

yet he was angry with her,--doubted whether he did not rather hate her

than love her.

At last he started from his chair and swore that he would retain the

mastery over his own self; that he would think no more of the abominable

woman,--see her no more!

Taking his hat he rushed out of the house, with an instinctive desire

for bodily movement as a means of stilling the tossing fever that was

raging within him; walked through the streets at such an unusual pace,

that the people turned round to look after him as he passed; walked by

the door of the house in the Via di Santa Eufemia in which Paolina

lived,--saw Ludovico coming from it, who was surprised indeed at thus

seeing his uncle; and more surprised still to find, that the Marchese

passed him without seeming to notice him,--walked out into the country,

and returned only at supper-time, tired and worn out; and then, when the

supper was over, and Ludovico had gone out to the Circolo as usual,

after pacing his room, and swearing to himself at every turn, that he

would see the creature no more,--slunk out of his own palazzo, feeling

afraid of being seen by his own servants, and wandered to her lodging!

And what were Bianca's meditations, when the business visit of the

impresario was over, and he and the Marchese left her room together?

First and foremost, the Marchese Lamberto was in love with her; and that

not as dozens of youngsters in many a city had been; but madly,

desperately, in love with her. That fact admitted of no doubt whatever!

It was strange, curious enough, that she should have succeeded so

brilliantly, so entirely, and so immediately in spite of all the signs

and tokens which had led her not small experience to expect so entirely

different a result. Clearly the still larger experience of old Quinto

Lalli had been more far-sighted. His view of the matter had been the

true one!

But still, how far was his view of the question a correct one? What was

the success, which had been very unmistakably so far achieved, in

reality worth? It was very plain that this Marchese Lamberto had been

caught, captivated, fascinated! But what then? There was no doubt at all

that he would very willingly suffer her to add him to the list of her

previous admirers and lovers. It never entered into the Diva's head to

conceive, after the very unmistakable testimony she had received of the

evident admiration of the Marchese, that very grave difficulties,

objections, and hesitations would, on his side, stand in the way of his

accepting any such position. She doubted not that this conquest was

perfectly within her reach; and that there would be no difficulty at all

in drawing large supplies from the Castelmare wealth towards recruiting

the needs of the Lalli exchequer.

But this, as has been explained, was not what Bianca wanted. "Major

rerum sibi nascitur ordo!" She was intent on playing a higher and

greater game. Was it likely she would be able so to fix the harpoon she

had successfully thrown in the very vitals of the prey, so to make this

man feel that she was absolutely essential to his happiness, as to

induce him to marry her? That was the question! And Bianca did not

delude herself into imagining that anything that had passed between

herself and the Marchese that morning entitled her to consider the

battle which should lead to that victory as even begun.

The Diva did not conceal from herself the greatness and arduous nature

of the task before her. She knew what a Marchese of mature age, of noble

lineage, and of unblemished reputation, was; and she knew what she was.

But she did not appreciate those extra difficulties in the case, which

arose from the special social position, and still more from the special

character and temperament of the man,--and these were the greatest

difficulties of all!

On the whole, she was sanguine; and what was perhaps more to the

purpose, old Quinto, when they talked the matter over together, and the

general result of the morning interview had been reported to him, was

sanguine too.

"Depend upon it, bambina mia," he said, "it is the best game--the real

game. Young fry will rise to the bait more readily; but they also

wriggle off the hook much more easily. It is the old fish who, when he

has it once fixed in his gills, cannot get rid of it, struggle as he

may. You play your game well,--neither relaxing, nor yet too much in a

hurry, and I prophesy that I shall live to see you Marchesa di

Castelmare."

"And many a year afterwards, I hope, papa mio. And you may depend on my

teaching my husband to behave like a good son-in-law," said Bianca, with

a bright laugh.

"As for the nephew," continued Quinto, "I can understand that it would

be more agreeable to make your attack on him--"

"I don't know that at all, papa mio," interrupted Bianca. "You may

laugh, if you will, and think that I am making a virtue of

necessity--and small blame to me if I were--but the truth is, I do like

the Marchese. I like him better, as far as I can yet tell, than any man

I ever knew. Yes! you may make grimaces, and look as wicked as you

please! But it is true. And, if you ever do see me Marchesa di

Castelmare, you will see that I shall make him a very good, ay, and a

very fond, wife."

"Who could doubt it, Signora, that has the advantage of knowing you as

well as I do?" said the old man, with a mocking bow.

"You may sneer as much as you like, Quinto; but you understand nothing

about it. The Marchese is a man any woman might love. You call him an

old man? I tell you he is younger for a man than I am for a woman, God

help me! It isn't only years that make people old."

"That's true, bambina mia, poveretta. And I am sure I have nothing to

say against it if you can fancy this Marchese a gay and handsome young

cavalier."

"Handsome he is, as far as that goes. I swear he is the handsomest man I

have seen here! His nephew is good-looking enough, but he is not to be

compared to his uncle either in face or person."

"Well, whether you have succeeded or not in making the Marchese in love

with you, cara mia, I begin to think that you have succeeded already in

falling in love with him," said Quinto, looking at her with raised

eyebrows.

Bianca remained silent awhile, nodding her head up and down in a sort of

reverie, and then said, rousing herself with a shake of her flowing

curls as she looked up, "No; not quite that. But I won't say that it is

impossible that if I am to make him love me, I may come to love him in

the doing of it. You see, amico mio, it is something new. It is not the

old weary mill-round. He did not come to me with the set purpose of

making love to me, as all those young fellows have done, and do, just

because they have nothing else to amuse them; because it's the fashion;

because it's a feather in their caps; because it's the thing to have a

prima donna for their mistress! If the Marchese has fallen, or falls, in

love with me, he does so because he cannot help himself, he does it in

despite of himself; and that flatters a woman, Quinto. Well, we shall

see," she added, after another pause: "one thing, at all events. I swear

that there shall be nothing between me and the Marchese--of--the old

sort."

"It is wisely said, bambina mia. That is the road which must lead, if

any can, to the winning of your game."

CHAPTER VI

At the Circolo

There was, at all events, one man at Ravenna who was entirely pleased

and satisfied with the famous prima donna in all respects: and this was

Signor Ercole Stadione.

The Carnival campaign of La Lalli had been thus far brilliantly

successful, and the Carnival was now about half over. She "drew," as the

little impresario had prophesied she would, to his heart's content. It

was many a year since there had been so successful a season at the

theatre. Each part she sang in was a more brilliant success than the

last; and the public enthusiasm was such as enthusiasm on such subjects

never is save in Italy.

In every respect, too, her ways and behaviour had been unexceptional.

Her attention was never distracted from her business by the visits of

young men behind the scenes--a torment which, during the reigns of other

Divas, had often driven the poor little impresario, who dared not get

rid of such intruders as he would have liked to do, almost wild. Bianca

would permit no visits of the kind. She had never behaved herself to any

of the young men in such sort as to cause any of those rivalries and

jealousies which are sometimes apt to manifest themselves in hostile

partisanship, when the Diva is on the boards--another fruitful source of

trouble to much-tried impresarios.

She had walked circumspectly and prudently in all respects--a most moral

and highly satisfactory Diva.

She was understood to receive no visitors at home--at least, none of a

compromising kind. The Marchese Lamberto was often with her: of course,

naturally! He was well known to be always a sort of second amateur

manager: neither the theatre nor little Ercole Stadione could go on

without him. And then the Marchese Lamberto was--the Marchese Lamberto!

If he had chosen to sit by the bedside of any prima donna in Italy night

after night, it would only have been supposed that he was giving her

possets for the improvement of her voice.

Occasionally, also, she would receive the visits of the Marchese

Ludovico; evidently by reason of the unavoidable intimacy of his uncle

in the house. And Ludovico reported to them all at the Circolo that she

was a most charming woman indeed--full of talent, merry as a young girl,

companionable, and fond of society, but wholly devoted to her art, and

quite inaccessible in the way of love-making. He assured the jeunesse

doree of Ravenna that they lost nothing in any such point of view by

their exclusion from her intimacy, for that all their enterprises in

that line would be quite thrown away.

The Conte Leandro Lombardoni, indeed, always carried about with him in

his breast-pocket, a carefully preserved little letter on pink

notepaper, which he gave the world to understand was part of a

correspondence carried on between him (reconciled as he was to the bel

sesso) and the Diva; and had more than once contrived to be seen hanging

about the door of her house at hours when honest Divas, as well as

mortals, ought to be in bed and asleep. But nobody believed him, or

imagined that anything save a bad cold was at all likely to result from

his vigils beneath the cold stars. He showed, indeed, with many

mysterious precautions against the remainder of the letter being seen,

that the little pink sheet of notepaper did indeed bear the signature of

"Bianca Lalli." But when one of the ingenuous youth picked his pocket of

it, it was found to be a very coldly courteous acknowledgment of a copy

of verses, which the Diva promised to read as soon as her avocations

would permit her to do so!

"Any way," said the discomfited poet, "that is more than any of you

others have got. And it's not so small a matter, when you come to think

of it!"

"Per Bacco, no! Leandro is in the right of it!" said the young Conte

Beppo Farini; "a small matter to find somebody who promises even to read

his verses! I should think not, indeed! Where will you find another to

do as much?"

"Riconciliato col bel sesso! I should think you were, indeed!" cried

another; "she absolutely thanks you for sending her your rhymes! Nobody

ever did as much as that before, Leandro mio! No wonder you haunt the

street before her door!"

"I don't haunt the street before her door. Envy, Jealousy, ye green-eyed

and loathsome monsters, how miserably small and mean can ye make the

hearts of men!" said Leandro, lifting up hands and eyes.

"Bravo, Leandro, bravo! get upon the table, man!" cried Farini.

"Get home to bed, rather. It is too bad, because no human being will

read his poetry, he takes to spouting it!" said the other.

"Let us look what she says," cried Ludovico di Castelmare; putting out

his hand to take the little note. "Upon my word she writes a pretty

hand. It is a very neatly expressed note."

"Oh, you can see that much, can you?" returned Leandro. "I should think

it was too! Is there any one of you here can show such a note from any

woman, let her be who she may? She says she will read the poem I have

been good enough to send her--good enough to send her, mark that!--as

soon as she can find time to do so! What could she say more, I should

like to know? Of course she is occupied. It stands to reason. But she

will read my poem; and then you will see!"

"Ay, then we shall see our little Leandro duly appreciated at last!"

said the Barone Manutoli. "As soon as the Diva has found time to read

the poem there will come another little pink note, adorably perfumed: he

will be summoned to her august presence, and installed as her poet in

ordinary, and who knows what else besides,--her Magnus Apollo? It is a

pity there are not eight other prime donne to make up the sacred number.

Then we should see our Leandro in his true position and vocation. Give

me a sheet of paper, and I will show you a new presentation of Apollo

and the Muses. They are all presenting him with pasticcerie and bonbons.

He has one hand on the lyre, and the other on his stomach, for the

homage of the goddesses has made him somewhat sick; his eyes, you

observe, are cast heavenwards, partly by reason of poetic inspiration,

and partly by reason of nausea!"

"Bravo! bravo, Manutoli!" cried a chorus of voices.

"Envy and jealousy, envy and jealousy, all envy and jealousy. It is

pitiable to see what they can reduce men to," cried the poet, foaming at

the mouth.

"Never mind them, Leandro mio--never mind them. It is the universal

penalty of true merit, you know; the same thing all the world over,"

said Ludovico.

"But, I say, Ludovico," rejoined Manutoli, "in the meantime, till our

Leandro's poem shall have been read and duly appreciated, you are the

only one who has been admitted to the privacy of La Lalli. What is your

report to us Gentiles of the outer court? Is she really so

unapproachable? And is she as adorable behind the scenes as before

them?"

"Well, you ought to be able to answer that question yourself, Manutoli,"

replied Ludovico; "you were with lo zio and me that day when we went out

to meet her; I am sure you had a fair look at her then."

"A look? Yes; and I looked all I could look. I saw a charming face,

younger and fresher looking than might have been expected from the

length of time she has been on the boards,--a very pretty figure, as far

as her travelling-dress would show it one; and the loveliest foot and

ankle I ever saw in my life. I could swear to that again at any time.

Don't you remember how she stood with her foot down on the step, when

she was getting out of the carriage. I thought at the time that she knew

what she was about very well."

"Of course she did. Do you think they don't always know very well, every

one of them, off the stage or on the stage?" said Farini.

"But I want to know what sort of body, she is?" returned Manutoli; "I

don't need to be told that she is a very lovely woman; but of what sort

is she? Why does she keep us all at a distance? What is her game?"

"Upon my life I don't know," answered Ludovico, "unless it's a devouring

passion for Leandro. I protest I have no reason to think she cares a

button for anything but her own art. I never tried; but it's my

impression that if I had ever whispered a word in her ear I should have

got a flea in my own for my pains."

"You don't want to make us believe that you have been seeing her

frequently all this time,--passing hours with her a quattro occhi, and

have never made love to her, Ludovico?" said Farini.

"No; I don't want to make you believe don't care a straw whether you

have it or not; but it is the the fact, for all that," returned

Ludovico.

"Ludovico has enough on his hands in quarter. What would they say about

it in the Via Santa Eufemia if he were to bow down to new and strange

goddesses?" said Manutoli.

"That, if you please, Manutoli, we will not discuss either now or at any

other time," said Ludovico, with a look that showed he was in earnest.

"But, as for La Diva Bianca, I have no objection to tell all I know to

anybody. My belief is that she is as correct and proper, and all that

sort of thing, as a Vestal."

"Che!"

"Che!"

"Che!"

A chorus of protestations of incredulity in every tone of the gamut met

the monstrous assertion.

"What, after all we heard of her doings at Milan--after all the

histories of her goddess-ship in every city of Italy?" said Manutoli.

"Well, what did we hear of her doings at Milan? The fact is, we know

nothing about the matter; and as to her previous history--of course I

don't suppose that she is, and always has been, a Diana; but it may be

that she has come to the time when she has thought it well to turn over

a new leaf. Such times do come to such women; but all I know is, that I

firmly believe that since she has been here she has lived the life of a

nun," said Ludovico, in the simple tone of a man who is stating a truth

which he has no interest in causing his hearers to credit or discredit.

"Per Bacco, it's queer!" said Farini, slapping his hand against his

thigh. "I have heard," he continued in the tone of one speaking of some

strange and almost incredible monstrosity,--"I have heard of such women

taking a turn to devozione. It's not that with La Lalli, is it?"

"Che! Nothing of the sort; she is as full of frolic as a kitten--up to

any fun. And she is a very clever woman, too, let me tell you--a good

deal of education. If you will put making love to her out of your head,

I never knew a woman who was pleasanter company," said Ludovico.

"And you really mean that you have never tried to make love to her in

any way?" reiterated Manutoli.

"I do mean it, upon my soul; but I don't care a rap whether you believe

it or not," rejoined Ludovico.

"And you are with her very frequently?" persisted Manutoli.

"Yes, I have seen a good deal of her altogether. I like her; and I fancy

she likes me to go there; she seems to wish me to come. Perhaps it is a

novelty to her to have a man about her who doesn't try to make love to

her."

"The Marchese Lamberto sees her a good deal?"

"Yes; naturally. If it had not been for that I should probably never

have made acquaintance with her at all. Lo zio is continually there. He

ought to have been an impresario. In fact, he is the real impresario.

Little Ercole only does what my uncle tells him. I don't believe she

ever sings a note on the stage that he has not heard and approved

beforehand."

"Suppose he is the dark horse; suppose she is his mistress all this

time; and he takes care to keep her all to himself," said Manutoli.

"What, lo zio. Bah! I should have thought that you knew him better than

that, Manutoli. To him a woman is a voice, and nothing else. If the same

sounds could be got out of a flute or a fiddle he would like it much

better, and think it far more convenient. I don't think my uncle

Lamberto ever knew whether a woman was pretty or plain. I wish to heaven

he would get caught for once in his life; it would suit my book very

well. He would have less leisure to think of other things."

The fact was that the Marchese had, in truth, had less leisure to think

of those other things from which Ludovico desired that his attention

should be drawn away. His visits to the Via Santa Eufemia had been more

frequent than ever; his visits to the Marchesa Anna Lanfredi and her

niece rarer than ever. And he had received neither lectures nor

remonstrances for a long time past. In truth, the Marchese had his mind

too full of other matters to think much of his nephew's affairs or

doings. And, besides that, there was a quite new and hitherto unknown

feeling in the heart of the Marchese Lamberto which made him shrink from

any such encounter with his nephew, as remonstrances respecting his

conduct with regard to Paolina would have occasioned;--a feeling which

made it seem to him that he was the watched instead of the watcher; that

suggested to him the fear that the first word he might utter upon the

subject would be met by references to doings of his own.

An utterly unfounded fear. But so it is that conscience doth make

cowards of us all.

CHAPTER VII

Extremes Meet

The Marchese was uneasy in the presence of his nephew. But the fact was

that he was uneasy and unhappy altogether, and at all times. From being

one of the most placidly cheerful and contented of men, he was becoming

nervous, anxious, and restless. People began to remark that the Marchese

was beginning to look older. They had said for years past that he had

not grown a day older in the last ten years. But this winter there was a

change in him!

It did not occur to anybody to connect any change that was observable

either in the Marchese's manner or in his appearance, with the frequency

of his visits to the quartiere inhabited by the prima donna and Signor

Quinto Lalli, in the Strada di Porta Sisi. The ordinary habits of the

Marchese, and his functions as a patron of the theatre and amateur

impresario were so well known and understood, that it seemed perfectly

natural to all Ravenna that he should be very frequently with the prima

donna. And on the other hand, the almost monastic regularity of his

life, and his character of long standing in such respects, would have

made the notion that he had any idea of flirting with the singer appear

utterly absurd and inadmissible to every man, woman, or child in the

city, if it had ever come into anybody's head.

The fact was, however, that the Marchese was much oftener in the Strada

di Porta Sisi than anybody guessed. Besides the morning visits, which

were patent to all the world, who chose to take heed of them, the

Marchese very frequently spent those evenings there, when the "Diva" did

not sing; slinking out of the Palazzo Castelmare, and taking all sorts

of precautions to prevent any human being--nephew, servants, friends, or

strangers--from guessing the secret of these nocturnal walks.

Such precautions were very needless; if anybody had noticed the Marchese

Lamberto passing under the shadow of the eaves in any part of the city

after nightfall, it would only have been supposed that he was bound on

some mission of beneficence, or good work of some sort! And if even it

had become known to a few persons given to prying into what did not

concern them, that the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare was not more

immaculate in his conduct than his neighbours, the only result would

have been a few jests which he would have never heard, and a few sly

smiles which he would have never seen.

But the Marchese could not look at the matter in this light. He felt as

if his fall from the social eminence on which he stood would have been

as a moral earthquake in Ravenna. The idea that such jests and such

smiles could exist, however unseen and unheard, would have been

intolerable to him. And the Marchese was, accordingly, a miserable man.

A miserable man, and he could not help himself! Each time that he

quitted the siren, the chain that bound him was drawn more tightly

around him. At each visit he drank deep draughts of the philtre, that

was poisoning the fountains of his life. Again and again he had made a

violent struggle to throw off the enchantment and be free. And again and

again the effort had been too great for his strength, and he had

returned like the scorched moth, which comes back again and again to the

fatal brightness, till it perishes in it.

In his hours of solitary self-examination he loathed and mocked himself

to scorn! He, Lamberto di Castelmare, to risk and to feel humiliation,

and to suffer for the love of a woman, whose light affections had been

given to so many! He, who had been smiled on by many a high-born beauty

in vain! Love! did he love her? Again and again he told himself that

what he felt for her was far more akin to hate. He marvelled; he could

not comprehend himself! He was often inclined to believe that the old

tales of philtres and of witchery were not all false, and that he was in

truth bewitched; and he struggled angrily against the spell, and at such

times hated the beauty that had tangled him in it!

And in all this time Bianca had not yet ventured to show clearly her

real game. Nor had it yet occurred to the Marchese that such a

preposterous thought as that he could marry her could have entered into

her mind. Yet it was clear to him that he made no progress towards

making her his own upon any other terms. The alternations between

beckoning him on and warding him off had been managed with such skill,

that they appeared to be the result of the Diva's internal struggle with

her own inclinations. What was he to understand by it? If she had

been,--had always been--of unblemished character! But it was not so; he

knew better!

That her conduct at Ravenna had been correct was undeniable. Still, even

with regard to that, the Marchese was not spared the pangs of jealousy,

in addition to all the rest. Ludovico continued to frequent the house in

the Strada di Porta Sisi. It seemed, as he had said at the Circolo, as

if Bianca wished him to come there. In fact he had spoken to the young

men at the Circolo with perfect truth in all respects as to his

relations with the Diva. There had never been any word of love-making or

even flirting between them. Yet, in a sort of way, she seemed to wish to

be agreeable to him and to attract him. But she never made any secret of

his visits from the Marchese, although it was unmistakable enough that

it was disagreeable to him to hear of them.

Had he been free from the spell himself he would have rather rejoiced

that his nephew had met with an attraction, which would be likely to

have the effect of making him faithless to Paolina. As it was, it was an

additional source of irritation to the Marchese,--another drop of gall

in his cup, to hear it constantly mentioned by Bianca in the most

innocent way in the world, that Ludovico had been here with her, or

there with her, or passing the morning with her!

It was drawing towards the end of the Carnival, which the late fall of

Easter had made rather a long one that year, when, on one Saturday

night, Bianca sat by her own fireside, expecting a visit from the

Marchese. She doubted not that he would come, though no special

appointment on the subject had been made between them. There were few

"off evenings" now, that he did not spend with her. Saturday in most of

the cities of Italy is, or was, an off night at the theatre, being the

vigil of the Sunday feast-day. The ecclesiastical proprieties are less

attended to now in matters theatrical, as in other matters in Italy. But

Saturday used, in ante-revolutionary times, to be an evening on which

actors and actresses and their friends could always reckon for a

holiday.

Bianca was sitting, exquisitely dressed, it need hardly be said, in a

style which combined with inimitable skill all the requirements of the

most strict propriety with perfect adaptation to the objects of showing

off every beauty of face, hair, hand, figure, foot to the utmost, and

attracting her expected visitor as irresistibly as possible.

Quinto Lalli had been sent to enjoy himself at the Cafe, with stringent

directions not to return before he should have ascertained that the

Marchese had left the house, let the hour be as late as it might.

Bianca meditated deeply, while she waited her lover's coming.

Her lover! yes, there was no doubt about that. Bianca had felt perfectly

assured that she was justified in considering the Marchese as such on

that first morning, when he had come to her an hour in advance of the

time appointed for his visit in company with the impresario. But it was

high time that some better understanding of the footing on which they

stood as regarded each other should be arrived at.

Hitherto no direct proposals of any kind had been made to her by the

Marchese. He was not good at any such work. Any one of those

distinguished sons of paternal governments, who had constituted the

material of Bianca's experiences of that division of mankind, would have

long since said what he wanted, and have very clearly indicated the

terms on which he was willing to become the fortunate possessor of the

coveted article. And Bianca would have perfectly well known how, under

the present circumstances, to answer any such proposals, as she had

known under the other circumstances of past days. But the Marchese made

no proposals. What he wished, indeed, was abundantly clear to her. But

his mode of making it clear rendered the task of dealing with him a

somewhat difficult one.

Partially, Bianca understood the nature of the case. She was partly

aware why the Marchese was slow to say that which so many, whom she had

known, had made so little difficulty of saying. She understood that,

whatever his years might be, he was a novice at that business. She

comprehended that he was, in many respects, a younger man than many a

coulisse-frequenting youth whom she had known. But she was far from

conceiving any true notion of the Marchese's state of mind on the

subject. She was very far from imagining that he looked with disgust and

with terror at the position which she conceived him to be but too ready

to accept to-morrow, if only he knew how to ask for it, or if it could

be offered to him without his asking. She little guessed that his

feeling towards her oscillated between the maddest desire and the

fiercest hatred; that reveries, filled with pictured imaginings and

fevered recollections of her beauty, alternated with the most violent

efforts to cleanse his mind and imagination of the thought of her.

She understood nothing of all this, and it was impossible that she

should understand it. In truth, she was innocent of any conduct which

could have justified such sentiments. Why should he hate her? It was

true that she sought to attract him,--true that she was scheming to lead

him to a point at which he might find it so impossible to give her up,

that, being well convinced that he could have her on no other terms, he

might offer her marriage. But was there anything worse in that than men

had been treated "since summer first was leafy?" How many men had

married women in her position--women less capable of doing credit to the

position to which they were raised than she was? How many men had been

treated in such matters very much worse than she had any thought of

treating him? She fully proposed to make him a good and true wife, and

fully thought that she should do so. She was not deceiving him in any

way. She made the best of her past life--naturally; but was it to be for

a moment supposed that such a man as the Marchese could, or did, imagine

that she, Bianca Lalli, whose career, for the last eight years, was

known to all Italy, was in the position of a young contessa just taken

from her convent?

It is abundantly clear that there were difficulties in the way of the

desirable understanding being arrived at, greater than either the lady

was aware of, or than might usually be expected to attend similar

negotiations.

Bianca waited without impatience the coming of the Marchese. She was a

study for an artist as she lay perfectly still on her sofa, turning the

minutes of expectation to profit by arranging in her mind her plan of

attack in the coming battle; for she was thoroughly determined that that

evening should not pass without some progress towards the understanding

having been accomplished.

One lamp on the table alone lighted the small but comfortable-looking

room; but the flame was leaping cheerfully among the logs on the hearth,

and the sofa was so placed that the fitful light from the fire glanced

in a thousand capricious reflections on the Diva's auburn hair and rich

satin dress. It was black of the most lustrous quality, and fitted her

person with a perfection that showed the shape of the bust, and the

lithe suppleness of the slender waist to the utmost advantage. The dress

was made low on the superb shoulders--the dazzling whiteness of which,

as seen contrasted with the black satin, was now covered with a slight

silk scarlet shawl,--a most artistic completion of the harmonious

colouring of the picture, which yet was not so fixed in its position as

to be prevented from falling from the snowy slopes, it veiled at the

smallest movement of them.

Presently the now well-known step and well-known tap at the door were

heard, and the Diva, without stirring a hair's-breadth from her

charmingly-chosen attitude, spoke, in a silver voice, the "Passi" which

admitted her visitor.

CHAPTER VIII

The Diva shows her Cards

"Ah, Signor Marchese," she said, with a sweet, but somewhat sad, smile,

extending to him a long, white, slender, nervous-looking, ungloved hand,

but not otherwise moving from her position. "Ah, Signor Marchese, then I

am not to be disappointed this evening? I was beginning almost to fear

that the fates were against me."

He advanced to the head of the sofa and took her hand, and held it

awhile, while he continued to stand there looking down from behind her

shoulder on the beautiful form as it lay there beneath his gaze--on the

parting of the rich golden hair; on the snowy forehead; on the still

whiter neck; on the gentle heaving of the bosom beneath its light veil

of scarlet silk; on the tapering waist; on the exquisitely-formed feet

peeping in their black satin bottines from beneath the extremity of her

dress! It was all perfect: and the Marchese held the soft warm hand that

served as a conductor to the stream of magnetic poison that seemed to

flood his whole being as he gazed.

For an instant all the room seemed to swim round with him. The blood

rushed to his brow. He shut his eyes, and a nervous crispation caused

the fingers of his hands to close themselves with such force, that the

grasp of that which held her little palm hurt her.

"Ah, my hand! you hurt my hand!" she said. "You don't know how you

squeezed it, you are so strong. You don't know the quantity of force you

put out!"

"Pardon--a thousand pardons, Signora! I am such a clumsy clown! Have I

really hurt you, Bianca?"

"Not to the death, Signor," she said, with a charming smile, and holding

up to him the injured member, shaking it as she let it dangle from the

slender wrist. "But see! it is really all blushing red from the ardour

of your hand's embrace!"

"Poor little hand!--indeed, it is!" said the Marchese, taking it gently

and tenderly between both of his; then, suddenly throwing himself on his

knees by the side of the sofa, while he still held it, he said, "And how

can the great cruel hand that did the harm make fit amends?"

"Ah, Signor Marchese, it might find the way to do that, if it were so

disposed. It would not be so far to seek. But you are seeking in the

wrong direction," she continued, drawing herself back from him on the

sofa, as he, leaning forward against it, had brought himself so near to

her, that the back of the hand in which he held hers touched her waist.

"You are seeking amiss. It is not so that any remedy can be found;

and--pray rise, Signor, and take your usual chair. This must not be,--I

am sure you would not willingly give me pain, Marchese, and you are

paining me. Pray leave the sofa."

She had drawn herself back away from him as far as the breadth of the

sofa would allow, yet without withdrawing her hand from him; and she

looked at him certainly more in sorrow than in anger,--looked into his

face earnestly with grave, sad eyes, and heaved a long sigh as he, after

pressing the hurt hand to his lips, rose from his knees and took the

chair she had pointed to.

"Pain you, Bianca?" he said, as he sat down; "why should I pain you? You

do me no more than justice when you say that I would not do so

willingly; but have you thought how much pain you inflict on me by thus

keeping me at a distance from you? I think you must know that. Is there

aught to offend you in anything that I have done, or said, or hoped, or

wished?"

"I think, Signor Marchese," she said, dropping her large eyes beneath

their long fringes, and looking adorably lovely as she did so, "I am

afraid that what you have wished is--what some might deem offensive to a

lady."

And as she spoke she looked out furtively from behind her eyelashes.

"Bianca, is that reasonable?" he said, in a tone of remonstrance.

"Diamine, let us talk common sense; we are not children. Have you always

found such wishes as mine offensive in others?"

"Yes, always--always offensive, always cruel," she said, with extreme

energy; "but--can you not understand, Signor Marchese,--can you not

conceive that what from one man passes and makes no mark, and leaves no

sting, may from another--What cared I what all the empty-headed young

fops who came in my way could say or do; they were nothing to me. But--I

did not expect pain from the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. I--I

thought--I hoped--I--I flattered myself--fool, idiot fool that I have

been!" she exclaimed, bursting into violent sobs, and hiding her face

with her hands.

The Marchese was startled and utterly taken aback for a minute or two.

He was genuinely at a loss to interpret the cause or the meaning of the

lady's emotion. His puzzled embarrassment did not, however, prevent him

from seeing that she looked, if possible, more fascinatingly beautiful

in her grief and her tears than he had ever before seen her. And, again,

despite what she had said, he knelt down by the side of the sofa, and

gently removing her hands from before her face, murmured in her

ear,--"Bianca, what is it--what is moving you so? Don't you know that

you are dear to me;--that I would--Don't you know that I would do

anything to be agreeable to you rather than give you any sorrow or pain?

What is there within my power that I would not do? Bianca,--let me tell

you--let me speak the truth--I cannot keep it in my own heart any

longer--I love you! You have come to be all that I care for in the

world. Bianca, do you hear me? For your love I would sacrifice

all,--everything in the world; I die without it; I must have it--I must!

You have been loved before; but never as I love you--never, never! And,

Bianca, I--I--Bianca, you are my first love--my only love. Never, till I

saw you, did I care to look on a woman for a second time; I never felt

love. But, when I saw you--the first time--the first hour--Bianca, I

must have your love or die; I thirst--I hunger for it. Since I have

known you all my nature is changed; all my old life is flat and

unmeaning, and without interest to me. I care for none of the things I

used to care for; all--all has melted and slipped away from me, and

nothing remains but one great devouring rage and passion--my love for

you!"

He had spoken like a torrent, which, for a long time dammed up, at last

becomes too powerful for restraint, and bursts forth, overthrowing all

obstacles with its headlong flood.

Bianca turned her face away from him towards the back of the sofa; but

she slowly, and with an uncertain intermittent movement, drew his hand

over to her lips, and pressed it against them.

A light came into the Marchese Lamberto's eyes;--a gleam almost, one

would have said, rather fierce than fond, as he felt the pressure of her

lips; and a shock as from an electric spark ran through all his body,

making him quiver from head to heel.

"Bianca, Bianca! You are mine--you are mine!" he cried, pantingly, with

his mouth close to her ear, and encircling her waist, as he spoke, with

the hand which she had relinquished after she had kissed it in the

manner that had been described.

But she sprang away from him, pushing him from her, by putting her flat

hand against his forehead, with her face still turned towards the back

of the sofa, away from him.

"No, no, no!" she cried, violently; "it cannot be, not so--not so! I

cannot--I cannot!"

"Bianca," he cried, starting to his feet as if he had been stung; "what

does this mean? What am I to understand? What is it you wish? You know

my position. I tell you that there is no sacrifice that I am not willing

to make. I am rich; name what you would wish."

"Spare me--spare me, I deserve all; but spare me! I deserve to suffer,

but not at your band," she cried, in words interrupted by her sobs.

"Spare you what, Bianca? In truth, I do not understand you," said the

Marchese, genuinely mystified.

"Do you not understand?" she said, turning round on the sofa, so as to

face him, and looking into his face with those great appealing eyes

suffused with tears; "do you not understand? Can you not comprehend? A

woman would understand, I think; but I suppose men feel these things

differently."

"Upon my honour, Bianca, I do not know what you mean. Every word I have

spoken to you has been spoken from the very depth of my heart. I am

ready to--"

"Hush, hush, Marchese! No more of that; I could not bear it," she said,

with a great sigh that seemed as if it would burst her bosom; "it is

very--very painful to me; but I must endeavour to bring your heart to

understand me,--it must be your heart, Lamber--your heart, Signor

Marchese; for one does not arrive at the understanding of such things

with the head. See, now, I will put myself in the place I deserve to

occupy--in the dust at your feet! You may trample on me, if you will. I

say I have deserved the shame and the misery I am now suffering. I

deserve them because I have no right to resent the--the--the proposals

which you--wish to make to me. I have suffered much from calumny and

evil tongues--much from unhappy circumstances and evil surroundings. Yet

it may be that I-have--more right to--resent--what--I have heard from

you than you imagine. But let that pass. You know--or think you

know--that I have accepted from others that which I have said I cannot

accept from you; and you cannot imagine why this should be so. Oh,

Marchese, does your heart lend you no aid to the understanding of it?

What were those men,--those empty creatures whose gold could not repay

the disgust occasioned by their presence, what were they to me? Did they

love--pretend even to love--me? Did I love them? Love! Alas, alas, alas!

Ah, Marchese, a poor girl exposed to the world, as I have been from my

cradle upwards, has to suffer much that might well move the pity of a

generous heart; but it is nothing--nothing--nothing to the tragedy of

the misery, the shame, the remorse that comes upon her when at last the

day shall come that her heart speaks and shows to her the awful

chasm--the immeasurable gulf that separates such--I cannot,

Lamber--pardon, I don't know what I am saying; I cannot go on--I cannot

put it into words! Do not you--cannot you understand the difference?"

"I do understand, Bianca mia; povera anima sofferente--I do understand.

Do you imagine that I would judge you harshly--severely? I know too well

all that you would say; I know the difficulties, the impossibilities of

your position. Do you think that I cannot make allowances for all the

fatalities attending on such a combination of circumstances? And, trust

me, the difference between what has been, and what I so earnestly hope

may be now, is greater,--I feel it to be greater, not less than you can

feel it to be. Truly there is nothing in common between the

all-devouring passion which consumes me, and--such love-vows as you have

spoken of. Do I not understand the difference. And remember, Bianca,

dearest, that the protection I offer you would be the means of placing

you out of the reach,--far out of the reach of any such disgusts,--such

suffering for the future."

Bianca let her head fall on her bosom, and covered her face with her

hands, and remained silent for some moments. Then, lifting her face

slowly, and shaking her head, she sighed deeply as she looked with a

wistful earnest glance into his eyes; she said,--"You are good,--you

are,--very good and kind to me; perhaps it might have been better for my

happiness if you had been less so. But bear with me yet a little, Signor

Marchese. Sit down there,--there where I can see your face,"--pointing,

as she spoke, to a spot exactly in face of the sofa,--"and let me see if

I can explain myself to you. It is difficult; it is very difficult. A

woman, as I said, would understand it at once; but men--are so

different. You have told me, Signor Marchese, that you love me; that you

never loved before; that I am the first woman who has ever moved your

heart. Eh, bene, Signor Marchese! If I, having heard those

protestations, were to confess that--that it was with me even as with

you,"--she dropped her eyes and sighed as she made the

confession;--"that I, too--that you have taught me now for the first

time what it is to love,--though I might speak it less eloquently than

you have done, the words would be equally true,--equally true, Signor,"

she repeated, slowly nodding her head. "And when I have confessed that

it is so," she continued, speaking more rapidly, "can you wonder--can

you not understand that it is impossible to me--that it would be a

horror unspeakable to--to renew with the object of a true love--the

first--the first, as God sees my heart--the degradation that has left

nothing but bitterness and humiliation behind it? Shall the name of

Lamberto di Castelmare be written in my memory in the hateful list of

those who have been to me the occasion of remorse, of self-condemnation,

of bitterness immeasurable? Never, never, never! Come what may there

shall be one pure place in my heart; one unsoiled spot in my life; one

ever-dear remembrance unlinked with sorrow and with shame; one memory

which, however sad, shall not be humiliating."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she ceased speaking, and

appeared to be entirely overcome by her emotion.

The Marchese rose from his chair in a state of hardly less agitation. He

walked across the room;--returned to the sofa, and seemed for a moment

as if he were going to take her hand; then turned away, and stood on the

hearth-rug with his back to the fire. He was much moved, puzzled,

pained, disappointed,--goaded and lashed more violently than ever by the

furies of passion; more than ever wishing that he had never seen the

beautiful creature lying there before him, and more than ever writhing

in mind under the consciousness that to give her up was beyond his

power.

At length he again stepped up to the side of the sofa and took her hand.

She started; and plucked it from him.

"Go, Signor Marchese--go, and leave me. It would perhaps be better so

for both of us. I am not used to show to anybody the very inmost secrets

of my heart, as I have been doing to you,--I know not why. Forget what I

have said. Go, and forget me;--forget the poor comedian to whom your

goodness, your nobleness, and--your love--seemed for a passing minute to

open a blessed glimpse of a heaven upon earth; but never--never again

propose to me to associate the name of Lamberto di Castelmare with names

that I would--oh, so fain--forget!"

Still the Marchese had not realized the nature of the position or seen

the only outlet from the cul-de-sac into which he had been driven. It

involved too monstrous an impossibility to seem to him to be an outlet

at all. What was the real meaning of all this? Then suddenly an

in-rushing suspicion flashed across his mind like a blasting lightning

brand, bringing with it a sharp pang, as of a dagger stab in the heart.

What was the meaning of all these protestations of admiration and

affection, coupled with a denial of all that his passion drove him there

in search of? Did it perchance mean that this woman, so terrible in the

power of her beauty, so dangerously irresistible, would fain have the

protection which his position could give her, the supplies which might

be drawn from his purse, while her love--such love as he wanted from

her--would be given to a younger rival?

Suddenly he asked her, "When was the Marchese Ludovico here last?"

"The Marchese Ludovico?" said Bianca, carelessly; "oh, he is often here.

When last? Let me see: he was here this morning. As good and noble a

gentleman as any in Italy he is, too. He is worthy to bear your name,

Marchese, though it is only a poor girl like me that says it."

"He seems to have won your good will, anyhow," said the Marchese,

frowning heavily. "What answer, I wonder, would he get if he were to

speak to you as I spoke just now?"

"He would never speak so, Signor Marchese; he would know that, whatever

might have been the case in past years, alas! it would be useless or

worse to speak so now. I do not say, indeed, that--I have a sincere

regard for the Marchese Ludovico. This much you may be very sure of,

Marchese, that the feelings which you have surprised me into confessing

would make it quite impossible for me to listen to any such words from

the Marchese Ludovico. But, if ever the Marchese Ludovico were to say

any word in my ear,--it would not be," continued Bianca, dropping her

voice and speaking as if more to herself than to him--"it would not be

to offer me what his uncle was offering me just now."

And now it flashed upon the Marchese for the first time what the real

drift of Bianca's words and conduct had been. She wanted to be Marchesa

di Castelmare. And the meaning of her last words, with their reticences

and their half-uttered expressions spoken out at length might, he

thought, be read thus: If you, Marchese Lamberto, do not make me

Marchesa di Castelmare, your nephew will be ready enough to do so. The

scandal, the wrong done to the family name, the chatter of all the

tongues in Ravenna will be none the less. The matter would be, indeed,

worse instead of better. For it would involve the grave injury that

would be done to the Lady Violante, and the destruction of all the hopes

built upon that alliance. All this seemed to be revealed to him as by a

lightning flash. But the pang of jealousy, which had stung his heart,

still remained the foremost and most prominent occupation of his mind.

"If you imagine, Bianca," he said after a while, "that my nephew would,

or could, however much he might wish to do so, make any other kind of

proposal to you, you are labouring under a delusion. I speak in all

sincerity of heart."

"And I have spoken to you, God knows, with all sincerity, Signor

Marchese. I have spoken as I have never before spoken to any human

being. I have opened my heart to you to the very bottom of it. But the

effort of doing so has been a painful one. It has terribly overset me; I

feel like a wrung-out rag; and would fain rest. You will not be offended

if I ask you to leave me now. It is getting late, too; and I expect my

father home every instant. Good-night, Signor Marchese. Forgive me if I

have said aught that I should not have said; if I have in any way

offended you. I think you know how far the wish to do so is from my

heart. Good-night."

"Good-night, Bianca," said the Marchese, taking the hand she held out to

him, and retaining it in his own for some instants, despite his

intention of specially abstaining from any demonstration of the

kind--"Good-night, Bianca. We shall meet to-morrow morning."

"Yes, on business," said Bianca, looking up into his face with a sad

smile. "Signor Ercole said he should be here at midday."

And then the Marchese left her, and, carefully shunning the more

frequented parts of the city, returned to his own home.

CHAPTER IX

One Struggle more

The Marchese reached the Palazzo Castelmare unobserved by any one, save

old Quinto Lalli, who had been for some time past watching the door of

his adopted daughter from a neighbouring corner, in order to ascertain

when he might go home to his bed without infringing the order that had

been given him.

"And what do you think of it now, papa mio?" said the Diva, when she had

very faithfully, though summarily, recounted the scene which had just

passed, to her old friend and counsellor.

"Well, I see no reason to despair of the result," said Quinto. "You did

not expect him to jump at the idea of making you Marchesa di Castelmare,

I suppose? Of course he was a little staggered; and, probably, his own

notion at this moment is, that he would rather never see your face

again, than dream of such a thing. Ma, ci vuol pazienza! My notion is,

that you will have him nibbling at the hook again before long. That

little hint about the nephew was masterly. Depend upon it that will do

its work."

"But, Quinto, I did not say a word to him that was not true--hardly a

word. I do like him better, by an hundred times, than any other man I

ever knew; and if I succeed, you see if I do not make him a good wife; I

swear I will! As for Signor Ludovico, that is all trash and nonsense. He

belongs to his Venetian, body and soul: and he has enough to think of,

poor boy, in scheming to get out of the marriage they have planned for

him."

"What! he wants to marry the Venetian, does he?" asked Quinto.

"Yes; they have engaged themselves to each other; she would not hear of

anything else."

"Lord bless me! how moral and respectable the world is growing. I

suppose Cupid himself will be attended by a gentleman in cassock and

bands before long, and Mars will make Venus an honest woman, as the

phrase goes. Well, I am not sorry I had my day in the old time. It would

be rare fun, though, if these grand Signori, the uncle and the nephew,

were both to be hooked in the same fashion at the same time."

"There is nothing against the character of the Venetian of any sort,"

said Bianca, with a sigh.

"Ta, ta, ta! I'd back your chance of the uncle against her chance of the

nephew, any day of the week."

"Ludovico is solemnly engaged to her."

"I'd hold to my bet, all the same for that; and now let's get to bed,

you have to sing to-morrow night."

"Yes, and I'm regularly tired out; good-night."

The Marchese Lamberto was probably hardly less in need of rest, when he

reached the Palazzo Castelmare. But he did not equally feel that it was

within his reach. He shut himself into his room; and throwing himself

into an easy chair, with one hand pressed to his fevered brow, strove to

think; set himself to think out the possibilities of the present, and

the prospects of the future, as far as the blinding volcano bursts of

passion, which ever and anon threatened to sweep all power of thought

away, would permit him to do so.

So this was the meaning of all the difficulties, which Bianca had made.

She had absolutely conceived the idea of his marrying her. Heavens and

earth! Was she mad? But, at all events, if this notion had been the

cause of all her fighting off of his advances for the last month past,

it was not necessary to attribute her conduct to any preference for some

more favoured lover; she had assured him that she loved him--loved him

as she had never loved another. And, gracious heaven, how lovely she

looked as she said it!

He pressed his hands before his eyes, and saw again in fancy the

beautiful vision; gloated on the eloquent movement of her person in the

earnestness of her confession; looked again into those large appealing

honest eyes, which seemed to be so incapable of lending their voucher to

a lie. Surely it could not be that all those protestations and

assurances were false,--mere comedy got up for the purpose of deluding

him. That she was worldlily anxious to secure so great a prize as that

which she was trying for was natural enough--was matter of course. But

surely, surely there was genuine affection in that glance. Was it not

likely to be genuine,--that feeling that she could not be to him what

she had been to others? It must have been abundantly clear to her that

had she chosen to accept from him what he had offered her, she might

have amply satisfied any mercenary views, the most exorbitant. Therefore

her views and her feelings were of a different order.

And then the thought of being so loved by such a creature--of being

really loved for himself--loved as she had never loved before, made for

the moment all other thought impossible to him: he started from his

chair, and paced the room with rapid disordered strides. What was all

the world to the ecstasy of such a love? All--all that he had hitherto

lived for, was it not flat, stale, poor, puerile, in comparison to it?

Why not leave all, and seize a happiness so infinitely greater than any

he had ever known or imagined? Why not marry her, and be hers for ever,

as she was anxious to be his? Nobles of higher rank than his had done as

much before. Why not?

What would they all say and think? All his world, that he had lived

among, and lived for, from his cradle upwards: the Cardinal, his sister,

his nephew, Violante? The whole society which had looked up to him as

some one altogether above the sphere of human frailties and follies: how

could he face them? What say to them? Why face them at all? Why not

leave all, and make a new world for himself and the one dear companion

of it? Marry her, and take her safe away from all her past, and from all

his. Why not?

But would she consent to that? Would that be her idea of a marriage with

the Marchese di Castelmare? Was it not likely that she would prefer to

be Marchesa di Castelmare in the Palazzo Castelmare,--in Ravenna,

where--ha!--where Ludovico was, for whom she had so much regard? who was

so frequently with her. That poor Violante! Of course he knew that there

could be no love between her and his nephew. Ludovico had promised that

that marriage should be made. Ay, marry the uncle, to be the nephew's

mistress with all convenience! Such things had often been; there was

nothing new in the arrangement--nothing original in the idea--why, the

very stage was full of such examples: he to be the old duped husband of

the farce; he saw it all.

And as these thoughts also suggested themselves to his mind, his heart

seemed as though it were clutched by a hand of ice, while his brow

throbbed and his head burned with the pulsing blood.

He threw himself on to his chair again, and tore his hair with rage and

anguish; and all those vivid and palpitating love-representations which

passion had but now painted on the retina of his eye, were reproduced by

jealousy with the difference that Ludovico instead of himself was the

actor in them.

It was maddening; his brain seemed to reel; a cold sweat broke out all

over him. The fear dashed across his mind that he should really lose his

reason.

Was there, he thought to himself, as the terror of this made him

shudder--was there that night in all Ravenna so miserable a being as

himself? And that miserable man, cowering there in the restlessness of

his agony, was the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare; he whose whole life

had been one placid scene of happiness, prosperity, and content. Never

had he known a passion strong enough and forbidden enough to cause him a

pang or a sleepless hour till now. Had not his life been happy? What did

he want with more? Ah, if he could but blot out for ever all that the

last month had brought with it. If he could but be again as he had been

before this woman had cast her sorcery on him. Ah, would to God that his

eyes had never seen her!

Was it yet too late? Could he not even now tear her from his mind, shut

his eyes to the recollection of her, so command his imagination that it

should never again present the image of her to his fancy?

And thereupon forthwith uncommanded fancy was busy with every detail of

the beauties that had so made him their slave. The line of the neck and

shoulder which he had looked down on as he stood at the sofa head; all

the white ivory from the fresh innocent rosy little ear to the swell of

the curves about the bosom; the intoxicating perfume from the heavy

tresses of the hair; the lithe slender waist, round and yielding; the

slight nervous hands, the touch of whose fingers fired the blood, as a

match fires gunpowder; the exquisite feet; and, oh God! that face, whose

every feature, as he last looked on it, was harmonized in an expression

of love.

Quite still he sate for some minutes, conscious of nothing save the

pictures which memory was passing before his eye. Then suddenly, with a

bound, he sprang from his chair, and away from it, and beat his head

against the opposite wall of the large room.

"Fool, fool; enslaved, besotted idiot! I am lost, spelled; the victim of

sorcery I cannot fight against. What am I to do, what am I to do? Surely

I can keep my steps from going near her. If I were to swear now that I

will never set eyes on her more?"

And then he recollected that it was impossible for him even to seek that

means of safety without giving rise to all kinds of observations, and

wonder, and speculation in the city. He was to see the prima donna on

the following day. His habits in such matters, well known to all the

town, brought him into frequent contact with Bianca, as with other

ladies who had been similarly engaged in Ravenna. What would be thought,

or guessed, or said, if he were suddenly to refuse to hold any further

communication with her?

And would he not thus be simply leaving the coast all free to his

nephew? To be sure. There, there, he could see it all. And that was the

worst hell of all. Anything, anything was preferable to that. Come what

would that should never, never, never be. Rather--rather anything. He

gnashed his teeth, and clenched his hand; and a sudden agony of hatred

for both Bianca and his nephew seemed to steal like a snake into his

heart, and maddened him.

And thus the miserable man passed the greater part of the night in

useless strugglings with the bonds that bound him.

It was near morning before he crept, still sleepless, but utterly worn

out, to his bed.

He did sleep, exhausted as he was, after awhile; but it was only to see

again in dreams all that he had so bitterly wished that he had never

seen at all. Sometimes he was himself by Bianca's side, licensed to

revel to the full in her every charm. And then the dream would change.

It was Ludovico he saw in her white arms; and he started from his

fevered sleep bathed in perspiration and quivering in every limb.

The next morning he was, in truth, quite ill enough to have furnished a

very sufficient and unsuspected excuse for not going to meet the

impresario at Bianca's house according to appointment. He thought at

first that he would do so. But as the time drew near, he dragged himself

from his bed, haggard, fevered, and looking very ill, and crawled to the

appointed meeting.

BOOK IV

The last Days of the Carnival

CHAPTER I

In the Cardinal's Chapel

Paolina was industriously pursuing her task in the chapel of the

Cardinal's palace. Ludovico was not so frequently with her there as he

had been while she was at work in San Vitale. But there were evident

reasons why this was necessarily the case. The chapel in question is a

private one, and is accessible only by passing through a portion of the

Cardinal's residence. At San Vitale Ludovico needed to take nobody into

his confidence, when he climbed to Paolina's scaffolding to be by her

side while she worked, save the old sacristan. But to have joined her at

her work in the Cardinal's palace, he must have knocked at the door of

the residence, and told the servants what he wanted.

And that would have been obviously inconvenient, even without mentioning

the fact that the Lady Violante, to whom the gentleman ought to have

been addressing himself, passed much of her time at the palace, and

might very possibly have been met by him there.

It was true that, ever since the ball at the Castelmare palazzo, on the

second day of the year, Ludovico had felt pretty nearly sure that

Violante was as desirous of escaping from the marriage which had been

arranged as he was himself. But it did not at all follow that it would

be an easy matter to break it off. Of course it was not to be expected

that Violante herself could take any active step towards refusing to

fulfil the promise that her family had made for her. That would be for

him to do. And except as regarded his intercourse with the lady, and her

personal feelings, the task of doing so was hardly rendered any the

easier by the knowledge that he would be consulting her wishes as well

as his own.

It would hardly, therefore, have done in any way for him to have been

visiting the young artist in the Cardinal Legate's chapel.

The intercourse, however, between Ludovico and Paolina was much

pleasanter and more unrestrained than it had been before that

explanation, which had ensued between them. He was a frequent visitor at

the house in the Via di Sta. Eufemia in the evening; and the happy hours

were passed by them on the perfectly understood footing of mutual

betrothal.

And Ludovico was perfectly honest and sincere in all that he said to

Paolina. He said nothing to her that he did not equally say to himself.

And if his conduct under the circumstances was not exactly what a father

or brother of Paolina might have desired it to be, the fault arose from

the indecision of character, which belonged to a weak man accustomed to

self-indulgence. There was difficulty and annoyance before him; and

instead of meeting it, as a strong man would have done, he turned from

it, and was content to put off the evil day, contenting himself with the

enjoyment of that which was passing. He marvelled somewhat at the ease,

with which he was permitted to pass evening after evening with his

mistress,--at the absence of surveillance, of which he was

conscious,--and at the silence of his uncle as to both his visits to Via

di Sta. Eufemia, and his no visits to the Lady Violante. But he troubled

himself little to account for this, or to question the reason of the

goods the gods provided him. It was not in his character to do so.

Paolina, on her side, was, upon the whole, trustful and contented. Yet

there had been moments at which she had suffered a passing pang from

little gossipings which had been, perhaps injudiciously, repeated to her

by Orsola Steno. Of course the great prima donna, the celebrated Lalli,

who was blessing Ravenna by her presence, was often talked of in the Via

di Sta. Eufemia, as she was in every other house in the city. That was

quite a matter of course. And then Orsola would speak of the strict

conduct of the lady; of the fact that no one of the young nobles of the

place was permitted to visit her--except, indeed, the young Marchese

Ludovico; and how people did say that half-a-dozen would be safer

company than one; and that the young Marchese was finishing the sowing

of his wild oats before becoming a married man by a flirtation with one

of the most celebrated beauties of Italy.

There was very little cause for this gossip beyond what the reader is

aware of. Still, upon the whole, it might have been better if Ludovico

had seen less of the fascinating singer. He had given cause enough for

spiteful tongues to make mischief if they could do so; and it may

probably be supposed that he was not insensible to the fascinations of

Bianca--perhaps not to the glory of the fact that he was the only young

man admitted to her society, and that he had occasionally done that

which, being repeated, might not unnaturally give umbrage to Paolina.

It was now within ten days or so of the end of Carnival; and, while

almost everybody else was amusing themselves in some way or other,

Paolina stuck close to her work in the chapel, intent on her silent and

solitary task, while, from time to time, the voices of revellers in the

streets would reach her in her seclusion.

But all her hours of work there had not passed in utter solitude.

The Contessa Violante was in the habit of spending much of her time in

the palace of her great-uncle the Cardinal Legate. It presented, among

other advantages, that of being pretty well the only place in which she

could escape for awhile from the companionship of the Signora Assunta

Fagiani, her duenna. Certainly, it would not have been consistent with

that lady's conception of her duty to allow her charge to visit any

other house whatever in the city, without the protection of her

companionship, but the palace of a Cardinal Legate--and that Legate her

great-uncle. Besides that, her great-aunt, the Cardinal's sister, was

also often at her brother's residence; and, having this facility close

at hand, Violante was wont very frequently to avail herself of the

privacy, comfort, and warmth of her uncle's chapel for the morning's

devotions, which she never missed.

One morning she found a small portable scaffold or estrade of deals

standing in one corner of the chapel; and, on inquiring for what purpose

it had been placed there, she was told that it was to enable an artist

to make a copy of some of the mosaics on the vault of the little

apartment. She learned further that the artist in question was a young

Venetian lady: that she was a protegee of the Marchese Lamberto; and

that the permission to execute the copies in question, and to have that

scaffolding placed there, had been obtained by him.

Then Violante knew right well who the Venetian artist was. The worthy

Assunta Fagiani had taken care that all the gossip of Ravenna which

connected this girl's name with that of Ludovico di Castelmare should

reach her ears. And she was glad of the easy opportunity which thus

offered itself to her of gratifying her natural curiosity respecting the

stranger--the girl who could win that love which had been promised to

her; but which she had been unable to inspire.

This Paolina Foscarelli--she well knew her name--was, in some sense, her

rival. Ludovico di Castelmare was bidden to love her, the Contessa

Violante, and instead of doing so, had given his love, as she had been

assured, to this Venetian. She knew, indeed, quite well that had the

stranger never come near Ravenna, Ludovico would not have loved her the

more. She did not love Ludovico. She was anxious to be quit of the

engagement it had been proposed to make between them; and it might be

very likely that this girl might be serviceable to her, rather than

otherwise, in helping to bring about such a consummation.

Nevertheless, there was a certain amount of bitterness--such bitterness,

more akin to self-depreciation, as could find place in the gentle heart

of Violante--in the thought of what might have been; in the thought that

she was irrevocably excluded from that which it had been so easy for

this poor stranger artist to attain; and, above all, there was a strong

curiosity to see the beauty which had accomplished this; to hear the

voice which had been able to charm; and, further, in her own interest,

to ascertain, if that should be possible, whether the tie which she had

been told existed between this girl and the man who had been assigned to

her for a husband, was, or was not, of a nature likely to lead to a

marriage between them.

At first sight this would have seemed impossible to the aristocratic

notions of the Cardinal Legate's niece. But Assunta Fagiani, whose

object had been simply to convince Violante that no union between

herself and Ludovico would ever take place, despite all appearances to

the contrary, had given her to understand that it was whispered as a

thing not impossible--such was Ludovico's infatuation--that he might

even go the length of making such an alliance.

One morning, soon after the commencement of her work in the chapel,

whither she had been escorted on her first going thither by the Marchese

Lamberto himself in person, in accordance with his promise, Violante, on

entering the chapel, saw that the little scaffold had been pulled out

from its corner and placed immediately under one of the medallion

portraits of the Apostles, on the vault of the building. She looked up,

and perceiving the artist above her at her work, paused, hesitating

before kneeling at the footstool in front of the altar.

In an instant a light step tripped down the steps of the wooden

erection, and a little figure, clad in a brown holland frock, which

wrapped it from head to foot, stood by her side.

Paolina knew very well who the lady that had entered the chapel was:

and, as may be easily imagined, she too was not without her share of

curiosity.

"Do I disturb you, Signorina?" said Paolina, in a sweet, gentle voice.

"If you would prefer it, I will wait till you have finished your prayer.

I can kneel here too the while."

Violante looked at the girlish face, bright not only with the elements

of material beauty, but with the animation of intelligence and the

informing expression of talent. One would have said that nothing could

well be less becoming than such a long shapeless wrapper as that which

the artist wore. There was the band at the waist, which showed that the

figure was slight and slender; but, for the rest, a less ornamental

costume could not well be imagined. Nevertheless, Violante perfectly

well perceived and understood at a glance that this girl had what she

had not--a something by virtue of which it was possible for her to win a

man's love, while for herself it was, or seemed to her appreciation of

herself, impossible.

"Oh, no, Signorina," answered Violante, gently, "the knowledge that you

were painting up there would not suffice to distract my thoughts. But

will you not let me look at your work? It must be very difficult to copy

these strange old wall-paintings. May I climb up? I know your friend the

Marchese Lamberto well. Do you know who I am?"

"Pray, come up, Signorina, if you have any curiosity. Oh, yes, I know

your ladyship. I saw you once in the Cardinal's carriage. You are his

niece, the Contessa Violante," replied Paolina, blushing a little at the

name of the Marchese Lamberto, only because, though assuredly not the

rose, he lived close to it.

So the two girls climbed the steps of the estrade together.

"How came you to know the Marchese Lamberto?" asked Violante, after they

had matured their acquaintanceship by a little talk about the subject of

Paolina's work.

"Only because the Englishman, who employed me to copy these mosaics,

gave me a letter to him. He seems to be very highly esteemed."

"More so than any other man in all Ravenna,--except my uncle the

Cardinal, I suppose I ought to say; he is a most excellent man in all

ways. But you know his nephew also, the Marchese Ludovico? non e vero?"

said Violante, looking down on the ground, while a pale blush came over

her white cheeks.

"Yes," replied Paolina, flushing crimson, and similarly looking down,

but stealing a side-glance under her eyelashes at her companion,--"yes;

I became acquainted with him also in the same manner--at least, on the

same occasion; and, in truth, I have seen more of him than of his uncle,

for the Marchese Lamberto is always so busy, and he commissioned his

nephew to do all that he could to assist us, when we were first settling

ourselves here."

"And you found him kind, too; as kind as his uncle?" said Violante,

stealing a sidelong glance at Paolina.

"Yes, indeed, Signorina," said she, feeling not a little embarrassment.

"Paolina--you see I know your name, and I think it such a pretty

one--Paolina," said the Contessa Violante, yielding to a sudden impulse,

and taking the hand of the blushing girl, who kept her eyes fixed on the

ground, "shall we be friends, and speak openly to each other? I should

like to."

"Oh, Signorina! so should I, so much. There is nothing I should like so

much--almost nothing," replied Paolina, looking up into her face, with

her own still crimson.

"Tell me, then, if you ever heard my name mentioned in connection with

that of the Marchese Ludovico?" said Violante, looking with a rather sad

and subdued, but yet arch, smile into Paolina's eyes.

"Yes, Signorina, I have so heard," said Paolina, raising her head with a

proud movement, and looking, with well-opened eyes and clear brow, into

Violante's face as she spoke. "I have heard that it was intended by both

your families that you and the Marchese Ludovico should be married."

"Yes; everybody in Ravenna, I believe, expects to see such a marriage

before long; do you? We are to be friends, you know, and speak frankly

to each other; do you expect it, Paolina?" asked Violante, still holding

her hand, and looking with a smile, half shrewd, half sad, into her

face.

Paolina remained silent a minute or two, again dropping her clear honest

eyes to the ground. Then raising them again, she said in an almost

whispered voice, but looking straight at her companion,

"No, Signorina, I do not expect that; for he has promised to marry me."

"Ah--h! it is a relief to hear you say so. My dear Paolina, I am so

glad," said the elder girl, putting a hand on each of Paolina's

shoulders, and kissing her on the forehead--"I am so glad; much for your

own sake, somewhat, too, for his, and much for my own sake. For,

Paolina, I could not marry Ludovico. If he asked me to do so, it would

be only done in obedience to the will of his uncle. He does not--no,

'tis no fault of yours, my child--never has loved me."

"Signora, when first I--allowed him to teach me to love him, I knew

nothing of any duty that he owed elsewhere. And when I did know it I

determined, even if it should break my heart, to refuse any such love as

should have been stolen from a wife," said Paolina.

"That was the part of a good and honest girl. And for me, I have to

thank you for it. Paolina, I hope you may be happy. We shall often meet

here, shall we not?"

"Not often here, Signora. My task here is not a long one; and I hope by

the end of Carnival to have finished it, so that I may go to St.

Apollinare, outside the town, where I have to make several copies. It is

very desirable not to go there later; because when the warm weather

comes it becomes so unhealthy there."

"Yes; but we have some days yet before the end of the Carnival; and till

then you will be at work every day here?"

"Si, Signora; I hope so."

"Then I hope we shall have several more opportunities of seeing each

other. And now I must not keep you from your work any longer. Shall we

be friends?"

"Oh, Signorina; it is too good of you to ask me, a poor artist. And

when--it would be my greatest pride to have such a friend."

And then the girls kissed and parted: Violante to kneel for her daily

devotions, at the footstool before the altar; and Paolina to continue

her copying. And after that they had frequent meetings in the little

chapel, and learned to become fast friends.

The Carnival was now drawing near its end; and the city had been

promised that before the time of cakes and ale should be over, and that

of sackcloth and ashes should begin, the divine prima donna should

appear in one more new part. And, after much deliberation and debate, it

had been decided that this should be Bellini's masterpiece, La

Sonnambula. She was to sing it on one night only--the last Sunday of the

Carnival; and the attraction on that night was proportionably great. The

Sonnambula, then in the first blush of its immense popularity, had never

yet been heard in Ravenna. It was one of the favourite parts of the

Diva; and all the city was on the tiptoe of expectation.

It was a matter of course that all the "society" would be there. The

entire first row of the boxes,--the "piano nobile," as it is called in

Italian theatres,--was the private property of the various noble

families of the city, which each had its box, with its coat of arms duly

emblazoned on the door thereof, in that tier. Nobody who did not belong

to "the society" of the town could in any way show his intruding face in

the "piano nobile." But above this sacred hemicycle there was another

range of boxes; equally private boxes; as all the boxes of an Italian

theatre are;--and the key of one of these upper "loggie" had been

secured by Ludovico, and presented to Signora Orsola and Paolina for the

great evening.

Of course he himself would be obliged to be in his proper place in the

Castelmare box, which was the stage box on the left hand of the stage.

"Whether I may be able to run up and pay you a little visit in the

course of the evening, I don't know. You may be very sure I shall if I

can; but there will be all the world there, of course, and lo zio in the

box--unless, indeed, he should choose to go behind the scenes. Talking

of that," he added, as he was on the point of leaving the room, "I don't

know what to make of lo zio of late."

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a word; but I don't like the look of him. He never was more amiable

as far as I am concerned; but he is not well; I never saw him as he is

now. He is haggard, feverish, restless; an older man in appearance by a

dozen years than he was at the beginning of Carnival."

"I suppose he has been raking too much, and wants a little rest. Lent

will be good for him."

"What, he! The Marchese Lamberto raking! You don't know him. But he

seems quite broken down; I should say, that he had got something on his

mind, if it was not impossible. He never had any trouble in his life;

and never did anything he ought not to do, I believe. But I confess he

puzzles me now. Good-night. God bless you, Paolina mia!"

That was on the Friday; and the Diva's last appearance was to take place

on the following Sunday.

CHAPTER II

The Corso

The institution of Carnival and Lent in Italy seems very much as if it

arose from a practical conviction in the minds of the Italians that they

cannot serve two masters,--at least at the same time,--Mammon in all his

forms is to be the acknowledged and exclusive lord of the hour during

the first period, on condition that higher and holier claims to service

shall be as unreservedly recognized when the second shall have set in.

"Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,

Sermons and soda water the day after."

Byron has given us the rule with the most orthodox accuracy. Whether the

second portion of the prescription is observed as heartily, punctually,

and universally as the first, may be doubted. But in all outward form

and ceremony the violence of the contrast between the two seasons is

acted out to the letter; is, or was, as may be perhaps more correctly

said now-a-days; for both Carnival jollity and licence, and Lent

strictness, are from year to year less observed than used to be the

case. At Rome, Mother Church exhorts her subjects to feast and laugh in

Carnival, in nowise less earnestly or imperatively than she enjoins on

them fasting and penances for having laughed in Lent. But her subjects

will do neither the one nor the other. And when one hears reiterated

complaints in Roman pulpits of pipings to which no dancers have

responded, and the vain exhortations of the ecclesiastical authorities

to the people to Carnival frolic and festivity, one is reminded of our

own Archbishop's "Book of Sports," and led to make comparisons, by which

hangs a very long tale.

Great Pan died once upon a time. And Carnival, as it used to be, is with

much else dying now in Italy. But in the days to which the incidents

here narrated belong, the difference between Carnival and Lent was as

marked as that between day and night.

More marked indeed. For between day and night there is twilight, but the

transition from Carnival to Lent is as sudden as a plunge from sunshine

into cold water. Carnival ends at twelve o'clock on the night of Shrove

Tuesday. And the theory of its observance is, or was, that the fun and

revelry should grow ever more fast and furious up to the last permitted

moment. Then, the clock strikes; the lights are put out, Carnival dies

amid one last hurrah. And maskers and revellers go home to rise the next

morning with grave and perhaps yellow faces.

In Ravenna, as has been said, a great reception of all the society at

the Palazzo Castelmare on the Sunday evening was as much an institution

as the High Mass on a Sunday morning. And this was the course of things

during all the year, except in Carnival time. Then, in order to leave

Sunday evening--the great time for balls and theatres, and pleasure of

all sorts free, the reception at the Palazzo Castelmare was changed to

the Monday. The programme, therefore, for the three last grand days of

the Carnival in Ravenna, on that occasion, stood thus:--On the Sunday, a

grand gala Corso from four to six in the afternoon. (That is to say,

that every available carriage of every sort in Ravenna would be put in

requisition, and would be driven in procession, at a slow foot pace, up

and down the long street called the Corso; and those who had servants

and liveries and fine horses would display them and rejoice; and those

who had none of these things would mingle with the grand carriages in

broken-down shandridans, and rejoice also at the sight of the finery,

without the smallest feeling of shame at their own poverty. This is a

Corso.) On the Sunday evening, the grand representation of the

Sonnambula, with the theatre lighted (according to advertisement) "with

wax-candles, till it was as light as day!"

Secondly, on the Monday, another Corso, with throwing of flowers and

"coriandoli" (i. e. what was supposed to be comfits, but in reality

little pills of flour made and sold by the hundredweight for the

purpose) from the carriages to each other, and from the windows and the

balconies of the houses. Then in the evening, a grand gala reception at

the Palazzo Castelmare, at which it was understood masks would be gladly

welcomed by the host.

On the night of the Tuesday, thirdly, the last great day of all, there

was to be a grand masked ball at the Circolo dei Nobili; that ball of

which and of its consequences on the Ash Wednesday morning, the reader

already wots. And this was to be the wind-up of the Carnival.

The Corso on the Sunday was a most successful one. The weather was all

that was most desirable; bright, not too cold, and free from wind and

dust. The Marchese Lamberto turned out with two handsomely appointed

equipages. He and his sister-in-law occupied one carriage, and the

Marchese Ludovico and the Conte Leandro Lombardone, who was not a rich

man, and had no carriage of his own, sat in the second.

It could not be said that the Marchese Lamberto "looked like the time!"

And, in truth, he would have given much to escape the ordeal he was

called upon to go through. But that was out of the question; unless he

had been confined to his bed--in which case the whole town would have

been at the palazzo door with inquiries, and all the doctors at his

bedside in consultation--it could not be that he should not show himself

at the Corso.

Both the Castelmare carriages had the front seats laden with huge

baskets of bouquets prepared for throwing at friends and acquaintances

in other carriages, and at windows and balconies. The occupants of the

carriages seemed to be embedded in a bank of flowers. And there sat the

Marchese amid this wealth of rainbow-colours, looking positively

ghastly,--so changed, so drawn, so aged was he. And his painful attempts

to enter into the spirit of the scene, and act the part which he was

expected to act, would have been pitiable to any eye which had observed

them closely.

He had left Bianca only just before it had been necessary to return to

the palazzo to get into his carriage for the Corso: and the interview

between them had been an important one. He had gone thither fully

purposed to explain to her, finally, the utter impossibility of his

doing as she would have him do. He meant to point out to her how

exceptionally difficult it would be for him, in the peculiar position he

occupied, to make her his wife. He intended to show her that such a step

would have the effect of pulling him down rather than that of pulling

her up. He had purposed endeavouring to induce her to accede to such

proposals as he could make to her by the exhibition of the most

unstinting generosity. And he had determined,--fully, finally, and

irrevocably determined, that if all that he could say to her on these

points should fail to persuade her to accede to such an arrangement, as

he had it in his power to propose to her, he would that day, and from

that hour, give her up, and swear to himself never to let the image of

her cross his memory again.

The visit had been long, and occasionally even somewhat tempestuous. The

Marchese had been eloquent; and now driven to bay, had been unequivocal

enough in his declarations, his determinations, and his promises. The

Diva had shown herself a Diva at every point. She had wept, she had

smiled, she had been scornful, she had been suppliant, she had been

repellent, she had been loving! And in every mood she had seemed to the

fascinated eyes of the Marchese more lovely than in that which preceded

it. Finally, she had conquered. Instead of coming away from her, never

to see her again, he came away leaving her with the offer of his hand.

And there had been a moment of supreme triumph and ecstasy when

permitted, for the first time, to take her in his arms, and press that

lovely bosom to his own, and glue his own to those heavenly lips; it had

seemed to him as if the prize that was his was worth a thousand times

all that he was paying for it. It was all for love, and the world well

lost. For not for an instant did the Marchese blind himself to the fact

that his world must be lost by such a marriage as he was contemplating.

But what did he care for all that had been hitherto to him as the breath

of his nostrils? He now felt, for the first time, what of joy and real

happiness life had in truth to offer. He would go away,--far away with

his Bianca and live only for her, and for the delights of her love! Fool

that he had been to hesitate. And blessed a thousand times was her

sweet, her dear insistence, that had led him to better things!

Such was the state of the mind of the Marchese, while he held his Diva

in his arms; and it lasted in full force, almost till he had left the

door of her house behind him as he hastened to the palazzo to discharge

the Corso duty, which was one of the most prominent functions of his

present social position.

And then it seemed as if suddenly,--with a suddenness equal to that of a

tropical sunset,--the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he was

another man.

Great God! What had he done? Had he been smitten with sudden madness?

What--what was the fatal power this fearful woman had over him? Were

then the old witchcraft and philtre tales really true? Surely he must be

the victim of some spell, some horrible enchantment. Marry her! Heavens

and earth! He hated her. He felt as if he could with pleasure take her

by that beautiful throat and squeeze the noxious life out of her.

He pressed his burning hand to his yet hotter forehead, as soon as he

found himself in the quiet and solitude of his own room, swallowed a

large glass of water, and strove to obtain such little command over

himself, for the moment at least, as might suffice to enable him to go

through the task before him.

A servant knocked at the door and put his head in to announce that the

carriages were at the door. The miserable man started from his chair as

if he had been caught in some crime, and answered that he would be down

directly. A second time he swallowed, hastily, a large glass of water,

for his throat felt parched with thirst; and then, with a vigorous

effort to appear gay and at his ease, which produced only the semblance

of a fixed unnatural grin on his face, he went down to the carriage.

It was painful to him to pass between the servants who stood in the

hall, painful to have to take his seat by the side of his

sister-in-law,--and most painful of all to meet the gaze of all the town

assembled for the Corso. He could not help thinking that all eyes were

turned on him, with glances of surprise and suspicion. He felt ashamed

to meet and be seen by his acquaintances. He, the Marchese Lamberto di

Castelmare, who had never, till that hour, known what it was to shun the

eye of any man,--who had been accustomed to be the cynosure of all eyes,

and to feel that they were all turned on him with respect and regard.

The occasion, and the part he was expected to fulfil in it, made it

necessary for him to recognize and return every minute the salutations

and greetings of his friends and those who knew him. And who in Ravenna

did not know the Marchese Lamberto? There was a good-natured word wanted

here, a gallant little phrase there, a salutation with the speaking

fingers to this carriage, a more formal bow to the occupants of another,

a gracious nod to one person, and a smile to a second.

And all this the unhappy man essayed to perform, as he had so often

performed it happily, easily, and successfully in other days.

It was impossible for anybody, whose eye rested on the Marchese for an

instant, as he sat amid the flowers in his carriage, to avoid seeing

that there was something wrong with him--that he was very unlike his

usual self. And every eye, as the carriages passed each other in the

long procession, forming two lines as one passed down the street while

the other moved in the contrary direction, did rest on him. But it never

for an instant entered into the head of a single human being there, to

guess at anything like the real cause of the change in the Marchese.

"Time begins to tell on the Marchese; he takes too much out of himself;

always busy--no rest--a bad thing!" said one.

"The Marchese Lamberto looks knocked up with this carnival. Quite time

for him that Lent was come," said another.

"The fact is that the Marchese is growing old, and he wants more rest.

He has not a minute to himself,--too many irons in the fire at once,

said a third.

"I dare say he has been worried out of his life in getting this new

Opera put upon the stage. You'll see he'll be all right enough at the

ball to-morrow night."

"Is she in the Corso--La Lalli?"

"Altro. I should think so--and looking so lovely. What a woman she is!"

"Whereabouts is she?"

"About twenty carriages further ahead. You'll see her presently, when we

are near the turn, sitting buried up to her waist nearly in flowers--a

regular Flora, and such a representative as the Goddess never had

before."

"Who has she got with her in her carriage?" asked the first speaker. "I

expected to have seen the Marchesino Ludovico there, but he is with the

Conte Leandro, in one of the Castelmare carriages."

"Che! catch her compromising herself in any such manner. I wonder how

much some of our friends would have given to have the place beside her

to-day? But not a bit of it: she has got the old man she calls her

father with her."

"Funny, isn't it? I wonder what her game is?"

"Simply to work hard at her vocation, and make as much money as she can,

I take it. Probably you would find, if you got at the truth, some animal

of a baritono robuato, who owns the Diva's heart, and for whom she works

and slaves."

"Poverina! there are the Castelmare carriages coming round again."

The manner of an Italian "Corso" is this: A certain street, or

streets--the most adapted to the exigencies of the case that the city

can supply--is selected for the purpose; and when the line of carriages

reaches the end of this, it turns and proceeds back again to the other

end; turns again, and so on. Thus, at each turn, every carriage in the

line meets every other once in each circuit.

The second Castelmare carriage, in which the Marchese Ludovico and

Leandro Lombardoni were sitting, was following next after that occupied

by the Marchese Lamberto and his sister-in-law; and thus each carriage

in the line proceeding in a contrary direction to them, passed first the

Marchese Lamberto and then his nephew. The carriage occupied by the

latter was a wholly open one with a low back. But that in which the

Marchese Lamberto sat, though also an open carriage, and entirely so in

front, had a half roof at the back, so that it was not so conveniently

adapted as the other for seeing those following it as well as those

preceding it.

The Marchese and his sister-in-law threw bouquets into almost every

carriage that passed them; and the stock with which they had started was

soon very much diminished. But one specially magnificent and large

bouquet, which conspicuously occupied the centre of the front seat of

the carriage, was evidently reserved. Everybody who saw it knew very

well for whom that was intended. Of course it was for none other than

the Diva of the theatre. And the known interest which the Marchese took

in such matters, his musical fanaticism, and the large share he had had

in bringing La Lalli to Ravenna, made it quite natural, and a matter of

course, that he should pay her such a compliment.

Presently he descried her in the opposite string of carriages, coming

towards him. Her carriage was an entirely open one, and she sate in it,

with old Quinto Lalli by her side, literally, as one observer had said,

half buried in flowers. And most assuredly neither the labours nor the

dissipations of the carnival, nor time, nor care, nor any other

circumstance, had dimmed the lustre of her beauty, or lessened the verve

and spirit of enjoyment with which she took her part in the pageant. She

was brilliant with vivacity, beauty, and happiness.

The Marchese might have been seen, had anybody been observing him

closely at the moment, to turn visibly paler as her carriage approached

his. As far as any clear thought had been in his mind, or any power of

thinking possible to him, his latest idea in reference to her had been a

desperate resolve that he would never speak to her again. And now,

again, as he saw her, in a new avatar of loveliness, he once again knew

that to keep such a resolution was above his power.

What he had to do at the moment was to be done, in any case, with the

best grace he might. Taking the huge mass of skilfully-arranged flowers

in both hands, as her carriage came opposite to his, he leaned out as

far as he could, and Quinto Lalli, who sat on the side nearest to him,

stretched out to meet him, and then handed the offering to the Goddess.

She smiled brilliantly and bowed low, sending a coquettish, sidelong

glance of private thanks under eyelashes as she bent her graceful neck.

The carriages rolled on, and passed each other; and there rushed into

the Marchese's head a sudden pulse of blood, which turned his previous

pallor into a dusky crimson, and seemed to make all the scene swim

before his eyes. Partly to hide the evidences of the emotion of which he

was conscious, and partly because he felt as if he needed the support,

he threw himself back into the corner of the carriage, turning himself

away from the scene in front of it as though to shelter his face from

the sun that was then so low in the sky as to begin to throw its

slanting rays under the hoods of the carriages. This position, as it

chanced, brought the Marchese's eye to bear on the little glass window

made in the back of the hood of the carriage, after the old-fashioned

manner of coach-building.

And what he saw through the little window was this.

A something--a white paper packet, it looked like--was in the act of

being thrown to the Diva's carriage from that immediately behind his

own, in which, it will be remembered, were his nephew and the Conte

Leandro; and the Goddess herself was leaning far out of her carriage in

the act of throwing a bouquet to the Marchese Ludovico: The Marchese

Lamberto also saw the magnificent flowers he had himself just given to

Bianca roll from her carriage on to the pavement,--an accident caused by

the movement of her person as she leaned forward to throw her flowers to

the other carriage.

With what an added torment to the hell that raged within him the

unfortunate Marchese returned from that miserable Corso to his palazzo,

may be well imagined.

Nevertheless, there had been as little meaning in what he had seen as

there often is in many things that make the madness of a jealous man's

jealousy.

With the white paper packet--for such it in truth was--the Marchese

Ludovico had nothing whatever to do. It had been thrown by the poet

Leandro, and contained an attempt to improve the occasion after a

fashion, such as he hoped must draw some reply from the Diva. Bianca had

taken the opportunity--somewhat coquettishly, but according to the laws

and customs of such occasions, quite permissibly--to pay Ludovico the

compliment in the eye of all Ravenna of throwing some flowers because

she liked him, and because she chose to mark the fact that she threw

none during all the Corso to anybody else. She would have done the same

if it had so happened that it had been in front of the Marchese

Lamberto's carriage instead of behind it; but, of course, to the

passion-blinded brain of the latter, this circumstance made all the

difference.

As to the rolling of his own superb bouquet on the pavement, it had been

quite accidental, and much regretted by Bianca. To recover anything of

the kind on such an occasion is, it must be understood, quite out of the

question. Any such fallen treasure--and half the things thrown do fall

short of the hands for which they are meant--becomes the instant prey of

the small boys who throng the streets, and are constantly on the

look-out for such windfalls around the carriages.

CHAPTER III

"La Sonnambula"

It may be easily imagined that the Marchese returned from the Corso very

little disposed to take any pleasure in the treat to which all Ravenna

was looking forward, and which he would have enjoyed more than any one

else under other circumstances--the performance at the theatre on that

Sunday evening. Nevertheless, the duty of attending it had to be done.

All Ravenna would have been astonished, and have wanted to "know the

reason why," if the Marchese had been absent from his box on such an

evening. "Society" expected it of him that he should be there, and he

had been all his life doing everything that "society" expected of him;

besides, his presence there really was needed, and poor little Ercole

Stadione would have despaired inconsolably if he had been deprived, on

such an occasion, of the support of his great friend and patron.

But if none of these reasons had existed--if the Marchese, when he

reached the shelter of his own roof after that horrible Corso, had been

entirely free to go to bed and escape the necessity of facing the eyes

of all the world of Ravenna, which seemed to him to be from hour to hour

growing into a more terrible ordeal, would he have gone to bed and

abstained from attending the theatre?

It might have been very confidently predicted that he would not have

done so. He began, in an unreasoning animal-like sort of way, to

recognize the fact that every hour that he spent away from this woman

was bare, barren, and of no value to him at all. He was conscious that

he could be said to live only in her presence. He was beginning to give

himself up as a lost man, and to acquiesce, half-stunned and stupid, in

a fatality which he could not struggle against.

And now he was longing--burning not only to have his eyes on her again,

but to speak to her. He would have plenty, of opportunities of doing so

at the theatre in the green-room, or in her dressing-room, and every

minute seemed to him an age till he could find such an opportunity.

If he had been asked at that minute--if he had himself asked of his own

mind--what he meant to do--to what future he was looking, whether he

meant to marry La Lalli or to give her up, he would probably have

repudiated either alternative with equal violence. His mind was in a

state of chaos; and what was to come in any future, except the most

immediate one, he had become incapable of considering. Now he was going

to see, to hear, to breathe the same atmosphere with her again, and to

go through the wretched task of striving to behave as usual, and look as

usual in the eyes of all Ravenna.

The performance was to commence at half-past eight o'clock, and the

Marchese, reaching the theatre nearly half-an-boar before that time,

found Bianca sufficiently nearly dressed for him to be admitted to her

dressing-room. She was putting the finishing touches to the platting of

her magnificent hair, after the fashion of a Swiss village-girl, for the

completion of her toilette as Amina. He thought that, in this new

costume, she looked more irresistibly attractive than he had yet seen

her.

"Bianca," he said, as soon as her dresser had left her, and shut the

door, "you have made me so miserable to-day. I must tell you openly at

once what is in my heart. I saw, to-day, at the Corso--by no means

intending to look at all at your carriage after it had passed mine--I

saw my poor flowers thrown away by you, while you were throwing a

bouquet to my nephew and receiving from him something thrown in return.

Bianca, is that the conduct of a woman who has the very same morning

accepted the hand of another man? Bianca, I warn you to beware; you do

not know what such a love as mine, if it should discover itself to be

betrayed, might be capable of."

"Marchese, do not look at me in that way; you frighten me, and what have

I done? It is all a mistake, entirely a mistake!" said the poor Diva,

really frightened at the manner of the Marchese.

"Did I not see you throw the flowers I had given you from your carriage;

evidently for the purpose of gratifying another person?"

"Oh, Marchese! how is it possible that such a thought should enter into

your head? Ah, how little you know. If you knew how I had grieved over

the loss of the beautiful bouquet that had come from your hand! It fell

from the carriage by accident; and it was snatched up, and a boy ran off

with it, all in a moment; I would have given anything to get it back

again."

"But how came the accident? It was caused by your leaning out of your

carriage to throw a bouquet yourself."

"Yes, exactly so; to the Marchese Ludovico. He was the only person to

whom I threw a bouquet in all the Corso."

"And why should you throw one to him?"

"To him,--to your nephew? Why not, I should not have thought of doing so

to another. But to him--"

"And what was it, pray, that he threw to you? I wonder whether he

thought, too, that he should not dream of throwing anything to anybody

except you."

"The Marchese Ludovico threw nothing to me. Just at the same moment that

troublesome idiot, the Conte Leandro, threw a packet into the carriage.

I have not even opened it; you may have it unopened the next time you

are in the Strada di Porta Sisi, if you like. No doubt it contains some

of his charming verses. It is not kind of you, Signor Marchese, to say

such things, or to have such thoughts in your head!" said Bianca,

turning away her face and putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "And

now," she added, "you have made my eyes all red just before I have to go

on the stage!"

Of course once again the unhappy Marchese was entirely routed, and the

Diva was victorious. "Forgive me, Bianca,", he whispered; "I think only

of you from the morning to the evening, and from the evening to the

morning again. And it would be impossible for any man to love, as I love

you, without a liability to jealousy. I am jealous of your love,

Bianca!"

"But it is wonderful that you should not perceive how little cause you

have for any such feeling. Oh, Marchese, how can you doubt me? Surely

you must have seen and known how entirely my love is yours. You must not

wring your poor Bianca's heart by such cruel suspicions."

And then the three knocks, which announced the raising of the curtain,

were heard; and the Marchese again murmuring a request to be forgiven,

as he kissed her hand, hurried away to take his place in his box.

The house was already nearly full, for the occasion was a notable one;

and the opera was new to Ravenna; and everybody wished to hear every

note of it. The Marchese Ludovico was not, however, in the Castelmare

box, when his uncle reached it, but he came in a minute afterwards. He

had been up to the upper tier of boxes to say a word to Paolina and her

old friend, who were in the box he had provided for them, which was on

the opposite side of the house to the Castelmare box; and exactly over

that in the "piano nobile" in which were the Marchesa Anna Lanfredi, and

her niece the Contessa Violante.

There was a little noise in the house of people not yet seated during

the opening chorus of villagers; but when the prima donna came on the

stage as Amina, after the prolonged and repeated rounds of applause,

which greeted her appearance, had subsided, a pin's fall might have been

heard in the theatre.

The Marchese Ludovico had joined cordially and boisterously, and the

Marchese Lamberto more moderately, in the applause which had saluted the

entrance of the Diva; and after that the latter had placed himself in

the corner of the box, with his back to the audience, and his face

towards the stage, and with an opera-glass at his eyes, he sat perfectly

still, feeding his passion with every glance, every change of feature,

and every movement of the woman who had enthralled him.

Then came the famous song of Amina, the happy village-bride about to be

married on the morrow to her lover--the tenor of course. The Diva sang

it admirably, and acted it equally well. The purest girlish innocence

was expressed in every trait of her features and manifested itself in

every gesture and every movement. The perfect, trusting, happy love of a

fresh and innocent heart could have had no better representative.

The recitative, "Care compagne," etc, addressed to the assembled

villagers, fell from her lips with a purity of enunciation that made

each syllable seem like a note from a silver bell. And then the air,

"Come per me sereno," held the house entranced till the final note of

it. And then burst forth such a frantic shout of applause and delight as

can be heard only in an Italian theatre.

Ludovico leant far out of the stage-box in which he sat, and joined

vociferously in the plaudits with both hand and voice. But the Marchese

remained quiet in his corner, with his face half-shaded by his hand,

conscious as he was that the expression of it might need hiding from the

others in the box. He need not have heeded them; for their attention was

too exclusively occupied with the stage for them to expend any of it on

him. Had it been otherwise his hand, covering the lower half of his

face, would not have sufficed to conceal his emotion.

Now again the hot fit of his love was in the ascendant. Never had Bianca

more thoroughly captivated him. Never had it seemed to him less possible

to live without her. What to him were all these dull and empty

blockheads for whom he had hitherto lived, and who were now--the foul

fiend seize them!--sharing with him the delight of seeing and hearing

her for the last time. Yes, it should be for the last time. He would

make her his, all his own; and carry her far away from all that could

remind either her or himself of their past lives. And then a scowl of

displeasure came over his face as his glance lighted on his nephew's

noisy and unrestrained manifestations of enthusiastic admiration.

Presently, towards the end of the first act, came the duet between Amina

and her lover, who has been made causelessly jealous, and Bianca sang

the pretty lines--

"Son, mio bene, del zeffiro amante,

Perche ad esso il tuo nome confido.

Amo il sol, perche teco il divido,

Amo il rio, perche l'onda ti da,"

with a sweetness of expression perfectly irresistible. The Marchese in

his corner, half-shrouded from the observation of the house by the

curtain, which, though undrawn, hung down by the side of the box, but

fully facing the stage, was perfectly aware that the singer had

specially addressed herself to him; and he felt the full force of the

loving rebuke for the unreasonable displeasure he had so recently

manifested in her dressing-room. His heart went out towards her; and he

felt that if it were to be done that moment, he could have led her to

the altar in the face of all Christendom.

At the end of the act the plaudits were again vociferous, and four times

was the smiling and triumphant Diva compelled by the calls and clamour

of her worshippers to return before the curtain to receive their

applause and salute them in return for it. The Marchese Ludovico again

loudly and enthusiastically joined in these manifestations; and then,

when they were over, and the noise in the house had subsided, he quietly

slipped out of the box, and springing up the stairs which communicated

with the upper tier of boxes, entered that occupied by Paolina and the

Signora Orsola Steno.

"What did you think of that, Paolina mia?" he said, sitting down by her

side, and making the action of applauding with his hands, as he spoke.

"Did you ever hear a thing more charmingly sung? Is she not divine?"

"There is no mistaking your opinion on the point, at all events, amico

mio. I never saw anybody manifest such unbounded admiration as you did

just now. But the Diva was not thinking of you, I can tell you," said

Paolina, with just the slightest possible flavour of pique in her tone.

"Thinking of me; I should imagine not indeed. But what upon earth have

you got into that dear little head of yours, my Paolina? Did not you

think both singing and acting very fine?"

"Certainly I think her voice is perhaps the finest I ever heard in my

life; and she is no doubt a great actress--a very great actress;

but--she is not simpatica to me. I don't know why, but--somehow or

other--I don't like her."

"What can you have got into your head, tesoro mio? You know nothing of

her; you have nothing to do with her except to see and hear her on the

stage."

"No; thank heaven! I should not like that she should come any nearer to

my life than that," replied Paolina, with a little shudder.

"Come, Paolina, you must admit that that is being prejudiced and

unreasonable," said Ludovico smiling at her.

"Yes; I suppose it is. But--Ludovico mio, just ask any other woman--any

other good woman--in the house; and see if they have not the same

feeling. The Contessa Violante, for example--ask her," said Paolina.

"Just because she is splendidly handsome: women cannot be just to each

other when that comes in the way. But you might afford to be charitable

even to so beautiful a creature as the Lalli, my Paolina."

"No, Signor, I won't be bribed by compliments, even from you," she

whispered, with a look that showed that the value of the bribe was not

unappreciated; "and I think that what you say is unjust to women in

general."

"But I wonder what it is then that has prejudiced you against the

Lalli?"

"I don't know. Really nothing that I can tell. One feels sometimes what

one cannot explain. She is not simpatica to me, that is all."

"But what on earth put it into your head, Paolina mia, to say that she

was not thinking of me when she was singing her part? Why should she

think of me--or of anybody else, except the primo tenore, who was

singing with her? What is it you mean?" said Ludovico, much puzzled.

"You said she was a very good actress as well as a fine singer,"

returned Paolina; "and I think she is. This is a capital box for seeing

all that goes on the opposite side of the theatre. And I can tell you

who the Lalli was thinking of, and who she was singing at during her

duet at the end of the act--your uncle, the Marchese Lamberto; and he

knew it very well, too."

"What parcel of nonsense have you got into your little brains, Paolina?

Sing at the Marchese? Of course they all do; of course they all know

that his suffrage is of more importance to them than all the rest of the

theatre put together. But as for my idea of--lo zio--of all men in the

world. Ha, ha, ha! If you had lived in Ravenna instead of Venice all

your life, carina mia, you would know how infinitely absurd the idea

seems of there being anything between the Marchese Lamberto and a stage

singer, or of its being possible for him to regard her in any other

light than that of a singing machine."

"I dare say you are right, caro mio. Still I can't quite think that the

Marchese would look at any one of the fiddles quite as I saw him look at

her," said Paolina.

And then the immense interval, which occurs between one act and another

in Italian theatres, and which is tolerated with perfect contentment by

Italian audiences, came to an end; and Ludovico hurried down to take his

place again in the Castelmare box.

The next point in the opera which excited the special enthusiasm of the

house was the impassioned finale to the second act, in which Amina on

her knees strives to convince her lover of her innocence of having ever

harboured a thought inconsistent with entire devotion to him. She sang

as if her whole soul were in her words; and the entire theatre was

electrified by the power of her acting; the entire theatre, with the

exception of one intelligent and observant little face in a box on the

upper tier, exactly opposite to that of the Marchese Lamberto.

From that vantage-ground of observation Paolina saw perfectly well both

the singer on the stage and the Marchese in the box; and again felt sure

that the actress was specially addressing herself with an implied

meaning to the latter; and that he was aware that she was doing so. She

felt no doubt that the motive for this was exactly that to which

Ludovico had attributed it. It was important to the Diva to flatter and

make a friend of so powerful a theatrical patron as the Marchese; and

she took this very objectionable method, Paolina thought, of attaining

that end. Paolina thought nothing more than this; but, nevertheless, it

made her conceive a dislike for the Diva greater, perhaps, than the

cause would seem to justify.

The interval between the second and the third act Ludovico thought

himself obliged to pass in the box of the Marchese Anna Lanfredi, in

which Violante was sitting with her aunt. There, too, he found the

ladies not quite disposed to be as frantically enthusiastic in their

praises of the singer as the whole male part of the audience. The

Marchesa Lanfredi thought that La Lalli was nothing at all in comparison

with some singer who had charmed all Bologna some forty years before.

And Violante, admitting that she had an exquisite voice and perfect

method, confessed much as Paolina had done, that she did not quite like

her, she hardly knew why.

In the third act, the song sung by the sleep-walker in her state of

unconsciousness--"Ah non credea mirarti,"--was a great success. And most

fascinatingly lovely the Diva looked in her white night-dress, with her

wreath of rich auburn tresses hanging in luxuriant curls around her

shoulders.

Shortly after this had been sung a liveried servant entered the

Castelmare box, bearing a most superb bouquet of choice flowers, tied

with a long streamer of broad rose-coloured ribbon, and deposited it on

the front of the box.

And then came the joyful finale "Ah non giunge." And in that the Diva

seemed to surpass herself. It was a passionate carol of love, and joy,

and triumph in which she seemed to pour the whole force and energy of

her soul into the words and sounds that told the truth, the entirety,

the perfection of her love, and the overwhelming happiness the

recognition of it by its object gave her.

For many minutes the vociferous applause continued. The stage was

covered with flowers flung from all sides of the house. The Marchese

Lamberto whispered a word or two to Ludovico; and then the latter,

leaning far out of the box, presented the magnificent bouquet to Bianca,

who was smiling and thanking the public for their plaudits by repeated

curtsies, and who came for it to the side of the stage. She made a very

low and graceful curtsey to Ludovico, as she took it from his hand; but

her eyes thanked the Marchese Lamberto, who still remained close in his

corner, for the gift.

The fact was that he was too much moved by violent and contending

emotions to dare to trust himself to hand the flowers himself. He knew

that he was shaking in every limb; and, therefore, had told his nephew

to give the bouquet; which, indeed, it was quite a matter of course that

a successful prima donna should receive from that box on such an

occasion.

Again and again the curtain had to be raised after it had descended in

obedience to the cries of the spectators, who were determined to make

the Diva's triumph complete. Again and again she had to step back on the

stage and make yet one more bow and smile--yet one more gracious smile.

During this delay the Marchese Lamberto slipped from his box and made

his way behind the scenes. "Can you feel as Bianca what you can so

divinely express as Amina?" he whispered in her ear as he gave her his

arm to lead her to her carriage at the stage-door.

"Try me as Amina was tried; and reward me as Amina was rewarded, and

then see," she replied in the same tone.

And so ended Bianca Lalli's Carnival engagement at Ravenna.

CHAPTER IV

The Marchese Lamberto's Correspondence

The next morning--the morning of the Monday after the gala performance

at the theatre--the post brought to the Palazzo Castelmare a letter from

Rome, before the Marchese had left his chamber. The servant took it to

his master's room, found him still in bed, though awake, and left it on

the table by his bedside.

The Marchese Lamberto was, and had been all his life, far too busy a man

to be a late riser. Italians, indeed, who do nothing all day long, are

often very early risers. Their, climate leads them to be so. They sleep

during hours which are less available for being out of doors--for your

Italian idler passes very little of his day in his own home--and they

are up and out during the delicious hours of the early morning. But the

Marchese Lamberto, whose days were filled with the multiplicity of

occupations and affairs that have been described in a previous chapter,

was wont, at all times of the year, to rise early.

On the present occasion, a sleepless night--and such nights, also, were

a new phenomenon in the Marchese's life--might have been a reason for

his being late. But he was not sleeping when his servant took the letter

in to him. The frame of mind in which he returned from the theatre has

been described. It lasted till he fell into a feverish sleep, soon after

going to his bed.

The dreams that made such sleep anything but rest may be easily guessed.

He was startled from them by the fancy that the kisses of Bianca burned

his lips; that it was a scorching flame, that he was pressing in his

arms, the contact of which turned all his blood to liquid fire.

He slept no more during the night. And the good that had seemed to him,

as he sate in his box at the opera, more desirable than all the other

goods the world could give, seemed good no longer; seemed, in the dark

stillness of his night-thoughts, like a painted bait, with which the

arch-tempter was luring him to his ruin and destruction.

Restlessly turning on his bed with a deep sigh, and pressing his hot

hand to his yet hotter brow, he took the letter that had been brought

him, and saw that it was from his Roman friend and correspondent,

Monsignore Paterini:

"Illusmo Signor Marchese E Mio Buono E Colendmo Amico," the letter

ran--"Seeing that the subject of my letter is matter adapted rather to

Carnival than to Lenten tide, I hasten to write so that it may reach

your lordship before the festive season is over. That your friends in

Rome are never forgetful of one, who so eminently deserves all their

best thoughts and good wishes, I trust I need not tell you. But in this

our Rome, where so many interests are the unceasing care of so many

powerful friends and backers, it needs such merit as that of your

lordship to make the efforts of friends successful."

"Understand, then, that his Holiness has been kept constantly aware of

all that Ravenna--the welfare of which ancient and noble city is

especially dear to him--owes to your constant and intelligent efforts

for the advancement of true civilization and improvement, as

distinguished from all that innovators, uninfluenced by the spirit of

religion, vainly, boast as such. Specially, our Holy Father has been

pleased by the energy, tact, and truly well-directed zeal, with which

you have succeeded in bringing to a satisfactory conclusion the thorny

and difficult business of the Spighi property, on which all the welfare

of our well-beloved Sisters in Christ the Augustines of St. Barnaba so

greatly depends. The lady superior of that well-deserving house is, as

you are aware, the sister of his Eminence the Cardinal Lattoli; and so

signal a service rendered in that direction is, as I need hardly tell

your lordship, not likely to be forgotten."

"It is under these circumstances that I have the great satisfaction of

having it in my power to inform your lordship, that it is the gracious

purpose of our Holy Father to mark his approbation and satisfaction at

the conduct of your illustrious lordship in this matter, in a manner

that, while it manifests to the whole world the care of his Holiness for

every portion of the dominions of the Holy Church, will, I doubt not, be

highly gratifying to yourself at the present time, and will redound to

the future glory and distinction of your noble family. It is, in a word,

the intention of the Holy Father to confer on your lordship the Grand

Cross of the Most Noble Order of the Santo Spirito. And it is further

the benignant purpose and wish of his Holiness to present you with this

most honourable mark of his approbation with his own sovereign hand."

"We may therefore hope--myself and your numerous other friends in this

city--to see you here before long. Doubtless the tidings, which I have

been anxious to be the first to give you, will be very shortly

communicated to you in a more official manner. I fancy, indeed, that I

shall not have been able to be much beforehand with the official

announcement. Make your arrangements, then, I beseech you, to give us as

long a visit as you can steal from the grave cares of watching over the

interests of your beloved Ravenna. There are many here who are anxious

to renew their acquaintance, and, if he will permit them to say so,

their friendship with the Marchese di Castelmare. And, if I may venture

to do so, my dear friend, I would, before closing my letter, whisper

that, with due care and a little activity, the present favour of our

Holy Father may be but the earnest of other things."

"The future, however, is in God's hands, and man is but as grass.

Nevertheless, as far as it is permissible to judge of the human agencies

by which the Heavenly Providence brings about its ends, I should say

that your Legate, his Eminence the Cardinal Marliani, was, of all the

present Fathers of the Church, one of the most deserving of our regards

and respect. Should you have a fitting opportunity of allowing his

Eminence to become aware how strongly such have always been my

sentiments, and how unceasingly I endeavour to impress them on others, I

should esteem it as a favour. It is well that merit even so exalted as

his should know that it is appreciated."

"Omit not, my friend, to offer to the Marchese Ludovico, your nephew,

the expression of my most distinguished regard and respect; and believe

me, Illusmo Signor Marchese, of your Excellency the devoted friend and

most obedient servant,"

"Giuseppe Paterini"

Before the Marchese had read the wordy epistle of his correspondent half

through, he raised himself briskly to an upright sitting posture in his

bed, his head was lifted with a proud movement from its drooping

attitude, and an expression of gratified pride and pleasure came into

his eyes. The much-coveted distinction which was now, he was told, to be

his, had long been the object of his eager ambition. And the manner in

which it was to be conferred on him--the attitude he should stand in

with reference to his friend the Cardinal Legate--all contributed to

make the occasion gratifying to him.

He rang his bell sharply for his servant, and said he would get up at

once.

The valet said that there was a servant from the Legate's palace below,

with a letter for the Marchese from the Cardinal--that, fearing his

master was not well, and might be getting a little sleep, he, the valet,

had been unwilling to bring the letter up; but that the man was waiting

his Excellency's pleasure, as he had been ordered to ask for an answer.

Doubtless this was the official communication of which Paterini spoke,

or the forerunner of it. The Marchese desired his man to bring him the

Cardinal's letter directly.

Yes; the pleasant duty having fallen to the lot of the Cardinal of

making a communication to the Marchese, which would doubtless be highly

gratifying to him, his Eminence was anxious to seize the earliest

opportunity of performing so agreeable a task; and would be happy to see

the Marchese at one o'clock that day, if that hour suited his lordship's

convenience.

"Delighted to have the honour of waiting on his Eminence at the hour

named."

The Marchese put the two letters on his toilet-table, and proceeded to

dress. They were large letters. That from Monsieur Paterini was written

on a sheet of foolscap paper, and addressed in a large strong hand, with

the word RAVENNA in letters half an inch high. That from the Cardinal

was contained in a large square envelope, sealed with a huge seal

bearing his Eminence's arms under a Cardinal's hat, with its long

many-tailed tassels hanging down on either side.

What a triumph would be this journey to Rome. What a yet greater triumph

the return from it. The Legate would certainly hold a special state

reception to welcome him back, and give him an opportunity of showing

the new order to all his fellow-citizens. What a proud hour it would be.

The Marchese was indulging in these thoughts; dressing himself the

while, and looking every now and then at the two letters lying on his

table, when a footman tapped at the door and handed to the valet, who

was attending on his master, yet a third epistle. Unlike the Cardinal's

servant, the man who had brought it had simply left it, and gone away

without saying anything about an answer.

This third letter did not resemble its two predecessors--at least on the

outside--at all. It was a very little letter; not a quarter of the size

of either of the others; and the seal wherewith it was sealed was not a

tenth of the size of that of his Eminence; also, instead of being white

like the Cardinal's, or whity-yellow like the Prelate's, it was

rose-coloured, and delicately perfumed. And the superscription, "All'

Illmmo Sigr il Sigr Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare," was written in

very daintily pretty and delicate small characters; as unmistakably

feminine a letter as ever a gentleman received.

The Marchese's face changed visibly as the little missive was put into

his hands. Yet he opened it eagerly, and opened his nostrils to the

perfume, which exhaled from it, with a greedily sensuous seeming of

pleasure.