Chapter IX (2)

"And you will not have occasion to use the spur," said the man with the lantern, "for he is wild, from having been three weeks in his stable." As the two speakers thus communed, they entered the second courtyard of the villa. Maulear had followed them thither, hidden in the deep shadow. A horse, ready saddled, was waiting there. One of the two men sprang lightly into the saddle, and the other, as he opened a gate into the fields, through which the horseman rode, said, in a voice full of fear, "May God protect you in this terrible midnight storm, Signor Taddeo. Beware of the road down the ravine, and be careful whom you meet."

III.--THE AVOWAL.

Maulear, uneasy and disturbed by what he had seen, returned to his room. What could induce Taddeo thus to leave his mother's house, alone, at midnight, and in a storm? Could it be that, so recently liberated, he was about to begin again that life of plot and sedition which already had cost him his liberty? A deep interest united Maulear to Taddeo. The love he felt toward the sister, made him devoted to the brother, and the new dangers which might befall the young man seriously affected Maulear. The night passed away without his being able to sleep. In addition to fear on account of Taddeo, his heart was yet agitated by the emotions of the previous day; but above all, he thought of the woman who had stood at his window, and whose appearance he could not forget. A terrible idea then occurred to him. The room he occupied had been that of Gaetano Brignoli. Had this young girl, apparently so pure and modest, had the White Rose of Sorrento, any secret amour or intrigue? The young man who had seen the companion of her infancy might know of it. Could this charming flower be already scorched by the hot breath of passion? Maulear reproached himself as with a crime, for the mental profanation of his divinity.

The morning meal assembled together all the family and guests. Taddeo participated in it as naturally as if he had passed the whole night in the villa, and not a word was said of his nocturnal expedition. He was not so melancholy and moody as he had been on the previous night, and a careful observer might have marked on his features the satisfaction following the performance of a painful duty. The Brignoli bade adieu to Signora Rovero immediately after breakfast, and returned to their villa. Maulear was delighted at their departure.

"Marquis," said Taddeo, "permit me to treat you as a friend, and ask a favor of you--a favor that will require you to renounce the brilliant saloons of Naples, whose chief ornaments are the _attaches_ of the French embassy, to lead for a time a retired country-life with my mother and sister?"

"If that be the favor you ask of me," said Maulear with joy, "you confer one on me. I accept your proposition with gratitude."

"What are you thinking of, brother? How can you propose such an exile to the Marquis? Our life in the country is so sad and melancholy; what can we offer him as a compensation for the amusements he would sacrifice?"

"Where would be the merit of the service, unless its performance cost some sacrifice?" said Taddeo. "In one word, this is the state of affairs. An obligation, my honor imposes on me, requires me for at least a week to be absent from Sorrento. The trial of Count Monte-Leone will begin in a few days, and I must be present at it. It is said," added he, with hesitation and a significant glance at the Marquis, "that the Count's partisans will on that occasion be active. His enemies too are numerous, and as he is known to have come to this house, I cannot feel satisfied unless some courageous and energetic man replaces me, and deigns to watch over the two dear beings I am forced to leave. This, Marquis, is what I expect from you."

"My heart, my arm, my life, are all at the ladies' disposal. You may rely on me."

Aminta looked down, for the first consecration made by Maulear was evidently intended for her. Taddeo did not remark it, and clasped with gratitude the hand of his new friend. Signora Rovero, terrified at the idea of losing her son again, looked sadly at him.

"I do not know what is going on," said she with emotion, and with that instinct which reveals to a mother the danger of a beloved son. "I shudder, however, Taddeo, when I see you surrounded by danger. You do not like the government, I know, for by the fall of Murat a brilliant career was closed before you, for your father was one of his greatest favorites. But in your father's name I, your mother, his widow, whose hope and support you are, beseech you not to expose the life which does not belong to you alone. Remember, my child, your sister and myself have no other support in life than yourself, and that my weak and failing existence could not withstand your loss."

Taddeo grew pale, for the association with which he was affiliated might expose him to all the dangers of which his mother was apprehensive. He concealed his agitation by caresses and iterations of love, mentally resolving to turn aside in time from his sad career, as if those who involve themselves in perdition can pause in the rapid descent down the declivity to sorrow and death, whither the sturdiest champions are hurried to be entombed in the grave they have dug for themselves.

"You will go then to Naples?" said Signora Rovero to her son. "God grant that Monte-Leone recover his liberty, since he is your friend! But, Taddeo, do not trust to his adventurous mind; he is a hurricane, enveloping all in his path. Heaven grant he may not bear you away with him."

This conversation on this subject, so painful to the mother and annoying to the son, ended here.

"Will you deign, Signorina," said the Marquis to Aminta, "to accept me as a guest for a few days?"

"Certainly, if you are not afraid of our retreat. Besides," added she, with a smile, "_one must have suffered as much as Leonora's lover, not to be happy in the paradise of Sorrento_."

Maulear remembered the words he had written on the wall of Tasso's house. But before he could express his astonishment and joy, Aminta was gone. Just then it was announced to Maulear, that his horse waited him at the gate of the park.

"We will accompany you thither (my sister and I)," said Taddeo.

Signora Rovero called Aminta to her, and added: "The air is keen, my child: cover your head with your lace veil. It becomes you."

Maulear turned quickly toward Aminta with his mind full of fear and surprise--

"I am afraid I have lost my veil. I looked for it this morning, but could not find it." Aminta seemed annoyed. Her emotion was perceived at once by Maulear, who said to himself: "What mystery is this? why conceal it from me?" The coincidence of a veil being found by him, and of Aminta having lost one, made him keenly anxious: he was terrified, confounded, and so excited, that he could scarcely speak to Taddeo and Aminta as he crossed the park with them.

"Remember," said Rovero to him, "that my mother and sister will expect you here in a few days."

"In a few days," said Aminta, giving the Marquis her sweetest smile.

"In a few days," replied Maulear, as he mounted his horse, and cast on the young girl a look of doubting love. He then galloped off, and soon disappeared in the long road to Sorrento.

When he returned to Naples, the whole city was busy with the approaching trial of Monte-Leone, who was so beloved by one portion of the community and so unpopular with the other. The nobility of the two Sicilies deplored the errors of the Count, and regretted that one of the most illustrious of the great names of Naples should embrace and defend so plebeian a cause; one in their eyes so utterly without interest as that of popular rights. But it was wounded at the idea that a peer should die by the hand of the executioner. The old leaven of independence, innate in all the aristocracies of Europe; the feudal aspirations which Louis XI. and Richelieu had so completely annihilated and subdued in France, yet germinated in the minds of the nobles of Naples. They loved the king because he maintained their privileges, and had re-established the rights of their birth. They would have revolted had he touched them. From pride of birth they would have applauded the execution of a plebeian conspirator, but were prepared to cry out _en masse_ against that of Monte-Leone, because he was one of themselves.

The people looked on the illustrious prisoner as a defender of their rights, and sympathized with him. To sharpen this sympathy, the adepts of the Italian _vente_ everywhere represented their chief as a martyr to his love of the people, and a victim of monarchy. Most injurious charges were everywhere circulated against Fernando IV. It was said that he had inherited the hatred of Carlos III. to the Monte-Leoni, and sought to follow out on the son the vengeance to which the father had fallen a victim. Nothing was omitted that could stimulate the favor of the superstitious and impressionable people of Naples. The same executioner, block and axe, which had been used at the father's death, by a strange fatality, would come in play again at the murder of the son. The imprisonment of the son at the Castle _Del Uovo_, where the father had died, gave something of plausibility to this story. But what most excited public curiosity was the strange incident which had taken place at _Torre-del-Greco_. All were impatient for its explanation. The double and impossible presence of the Count at the house of Stenio Salvatori, and within the fifty locks of the Castle _Del Uovo_, his contest with his enemy, the wound he was accused of having given him, his ubiquity at the same hour in different places, produced a thousand incredible versions, a thousand bets on this wonderful fact, unrivalled in the judicial annals of Naples.

The name of Monte-Leone was so closely and intimately linked with the destiny of the Marquis de Maulear, with his friendship to Taddeo, and his love of Aminta, that he partook of the general interest inspired by the Count, and as a man of honor hoped for acquittal, notwithstanding the influence it might exert on his happiness.

To lose confidence in one we love, is the greatest agony possible. The four days, therefore, which separated him from Aminta, were four centuries to Maulear. Like the majority of rich young men of our times, yielding at an early age to _liaisons_, he had formed an erroneous and unjust opinion of women in general. The withered myrtles he had often gathered, the passing amours in which almost all the men of his rank, fortune and appearance indulge, had distorted his mind in relation to a sex, the least respectable portion of which alone he was acquainted with. But the young Marquis had exalted sentiments, and his high spirit turned aside from vulgar, common pleasures. His first loves, or not to profane that word, his first indulgences, had for their object those women who lead astray an ardent mind or passionate natures; those women who, betrayed into marriage, seek elsewhere a recompense for their misfortunes or the deceptions practised upon them, and fancy they can find it in the inexperience and youth of young men, whom chance throws in their way. The latter proudly, and at first eagerly, accepting their conquests, soon discover, that often they are not heroes. They become themselves the accomplices of the criminal devices, the studied falsehoods, employed by married women to abuse those on whom they depend. In either case they see each other insensibly change, and in spite of themselves conceive an aversion to those pleasures, even in sharing which they blush. The idol becomes a mere woman, and the hero of these adventures fancies himself right in estimating all women by a few exceptions, and becomes an atheist in love because he has sacrificed to false gods.

This deplorable theory had taken possession of Maulear. His naturally pure sentiments, the poetry of his heart, had been dissipated in ephemeral indulgences. The Countess of Grandmesnil, the guardian of the young man, fearing lest a serious passion should contravene his father's views,--encouraged him in his _liaisons_, or at least she did nothing to induce him to abandon them. Under this sad opinion, which is unfortunately too common in our days, that female virtue is but a name, and that the most prudent only need opportunity to go astray, Maulear came to Naples, where we must say much success in gallantry fortified his faith in these detestable principles.

His meeting with one so pure as Aminta had wrought a complete change in his ideas. He saw woman under a new aspect, as we dream of her at twenty, when the young soul first awakes. He suffered intensely when suspicion gnawed at his heart. "What," said he, yet under the influence of the pernicious theories of his youth, "not one woman worthy of respect! Even this young girl, apparently so modest and pure, unworthy the confidence I reposed in her." The recollection of the chaste and maidenly appearance of Aminta soon put such ideas to flight, and Maulear thenceforth had but one idea, but one desire. He sought to clear up the strange mystery of his nocturnal vision, and extricate himself from his cruel perplexity.

On the day appointed for his return to Sorrento, as the clock struck ten, he stopped his horse at the garden gate where four days before he had left Aminta. The gate was open. He entered the orange grove which lay between it and the house. A secret hope told him he would find Aminta there. He was not mistaken. She sat beneath a rustic porch, which served as a portal to the prettiest cottage imaginable. This building, constructed of the slightest material, had windows closed with gayly-covered verandahs, and served to shelter walkers from the heat of the summer's sun. It was Aminta's favorite retreat, and thither she came in the morning to paint her sisters, the white Bengal roses, the red cactus and the graceful clematides, which surrounded her charming retreat. There in the evening, pensive and reflective, the young girl suffered her glance to stray over the vast horizon of the sea gilded by the sun's expiring rays. On the day we speak of, Maulear found her reading, or rather seeming to read, for her book rested on her knee, her ivory brow supported by her hand. Her eyes, lifted up to heaven, seemed to ask the realization of some gentle dream inspired doubtless by the author. Perhaps the nature of the dream might have been devised by the book--Tasso's Divine Poem! Maulear glided rather than walked to her, so fearful was he of destroying the beautiful tableau presented to him by chance. Then he paused some moments behind a screen of leaves, and looked at the beautiful dreamer, in mute but passionate adoration. As he scanned her girlish form, becoming intoxicated with her modest charms, Maulear blushed at his suspicions, and resolved to abandon them. God did not make such angels for men to distrust, and Aminta, beautiful as the heavenly beings, must be pure and spiritual as they.

He left his concealment, and approached Aminta. She moved when she saw him, for he had surprised her in a dream. The dreams of young girls are treasures to be concealed from the profane in the most profound sanctuary of the heart. Aminta advanced a step or two towards Maulear, thus testifying her wish to return to the villa. But the Marquis, afraid of losing this favorable opportunity to see her for a short time alone, begged her to be seated, and took his place beside her, making, as an excuse, an allusion to the fatigue of riding rapidly from Naples to Sorrento.

Aminta sat down, but with an embarrassment which Maulear could not but see. "You have kept your promise, Signor," said she, seeking to disguise her trouble by speaking first.

"How could I not keep my promise?" said Maulear. "It was to see you again."

"We know what such devotion must cost you," Aminta replied, speaking aloud, as if her words were not intended only for Maulear. "Both my mother and myself are very grateful to you."

"Signorina," said Maulear, with an effort, for he was afraid of wasting in commonplaces moments in which every word he uttered had a priceless value, "I did not think, as I wrote on the wall of Tasso's house the simple lines you deigned to read and remember, that I thus wrote out my horoscope, and divined the happiness fate marked out for me at Sorrento."

"Happiness?" said Aminta, and she trembled as she spoke. "You must refer to the service you have rendered me."

"I speak," said Maulear, unable to restrain himself, "of a new and strange feeling to me, full of pleasure and pain, of hope and fear. I speak of a love, which will be the pride and joy of my existence, if it be shared; which will bring despair and torment, if she who inspires it rejects it."

"Pray be silent," said Aminta, rising and looking with fear around her.

"Ah, you have understood me," said Maulear, attributing to his confession Aminta'a emotion.

The young girl was silent. Her eyes turned towards the door of the hut, as if she feared some one would open it.

"What I say here, Signorina, with nought near me but the passing cloud and flying bird, I wish to repeat to those who love you--before your mother and brother, whom I would look on as my own. It is for you to tell me whether I shall speak to them or be silent."

Just then a faint noise was heard in the summer-house.

Maulear did not perceive it, for Aminta, more and more disturbed by the mysterious noise, had suffered the Marquis to take her hand, and the latter, interpreting this favor as his heart wished, fell on his knees before the young girl, who, overcome with emotion, sat down.

"Aminta," said he, passionately, "since the first day I saw you, my soul, my life, have been your own. If you but will it, your life shall be my own--my own, to make every hour of your life one of joy and pleasure--mine, in adoring you as we do the saints in heaven."

Maulear, with his eyes fixed on Aminta's, sought an echo to the outpourings of his soul. His lips were on Aminta's hand, when, between the young girl and himself, he saw a hideous head, made yet more horrid by the agony it expressed. Aminta suddenly withdrew, and Maulear experienced that terror of which the bravest are sensible when they tread on a reptile.

"Scorpione!" said the Marquis.

This name, on the lips of the Marquis at such a time, made such an impression, that a stream of blood, mingled with white froth, burst from his lips, and fell at Aminta's feet.

"Help, Signor!" said she to Maulear, "help, I pray you, for this unfortunate man! This is the first time he has gone out since that cruel day. See, he dies!"

"What is the meaning of all this?" said Maulear to himself, as he hurried towards the villa. "Twice my being with Aminta has exercised the same effect on this unfortunate being. Can she love him? Can he be jealous?"

IV. THE GRAND JUDGE.

The trial of Count Monte-Leone, which had been so anxiously looked for, and had given rise to so many disputes about the curious story which occupied both the high and low of Naples, was about to begin.

The Duke of Palma had not been able to make good his promise to the prisoner, and bring him promptly before his judges. The incident at _Torre-del-Greco_ made a new inquiry necessary, and the examinations, researches, and inquiries of every kind it led to daily, retarded the trial, much to the regret of the king and his minister of police, who were aware of the extent to which the public imagination was excited, and feared its consequences. Monte-Leone began to feel grave apprehensions in relation to the dangerous game he had played. On the evening of his excursion, faithful to his word, the Count had presented himself again to the keeper of the Castle del Uovo in the costume in which he had left it, and the pious wicket-keeper, when he saw the false assistant jailer, who had gone out on the previous evening, return with a trembling and uncertain step, read a long lecture on intemperance and the results of drunkenness, deplorable faults, especially to be regretted in one of his profession, where, added the turnkey proudly, one needs morality, reason, and vigilance especially, to unravel the plots of the prisoners confided to him, and to triumph over their detestable _mania for liberty_.

When Pietro on that evening, palpitating as he was with fear, saw Monte-Leone, whom he waited for at the postern of the castle, return, his joy was so great that he was ready to clasp the Count's neck. The latter was not much flattered by his transports.

"Well," said the head-jailer, "you are a noble and true gentleman. A scoundrel in your place would have escaped, and put his keeper in trouble. You are of a good race, of a noble and generous blood, you have paid me well, and have been unwilling to hang the father of a family. Now," added he, "do not let us talk together, or even look at each other. Our looks may be watched and interpreted."

From that time Pietro became more brutal, more savage and stern than ever. The visit of the minister of police justly enough increased the terror of the jailer. He had from public rumor heard of the terrible episode at _Torre-del-Greco_, though he did not precisely understand the motives of the prisoner. He was aware that he had become an accomplice of his crime, and shuddered more and more at its probable results. Whenever, therefore, the Count sought to ask him any question, Pietro exhibited such terror, and his countenance was so complete a picture of fright, that Monte-Leone at last ceased to speak to him. No news from without, nothing enlightened the Count in relation to the consequences of his daring conduct, and for the first time he despaired of the result. One morning his door opened as usual at meal time; but instead of withdrawing, the keeper approached Monte-Leone kindly, his ugly face, on account of the complaisance which lit it up, seeming yet more horrid. He said:

"Excellence, the great day approaches, and we must arrange some little details about which the High Court will no doubt be ill-mannerly enough to question us!"

"You can speak then," replied Monte-Leone, with surprise.

"To-day is not yesterday. Then and ever since your escape, my gossip, the Headsman, who lives up there as you know, distrusts me. I learn from his assistant, who is a friend of mine, that the story of the cell undermined by the sea has made him fancy I wish to deprive him of his perquisites. I know that while he waters his flowers on the platform he keeps an eye and ear open for all that passes here. Besides, he would not be at all sorry to obtain my place for his first assistant--a promising lad who becomes his son-in-law to-day."

"Ah!" said Monte-Leone, "the executioner's daughter is to be married."

"A love match. He wished to postpone the wedding until after _your affaire_, as he calls it, for on such cases he always has large perquisites, and would be able largely to increase the bride's portion. The young girl, however, was in love, and was unwilling to wait for you. The worthy father then determined to make her happy, and I have just seen all the party set out for the church of Santa-Lucia. The executioner, his wife, the bride, and the little executioners, all in their best garb. The procession was so imposing, they might have been taken for a family of turnkeys. Lest, however, the people should disturb the ceremony by a volley of stones, they set out early, at five o'clock. As, therefore, we have no inquisitive neighbors, I am come to have an understanding with your excellency, in order that I may not be compromised in the trial."

"So be it!" said the Count, "let us have an understanding. In the first place, have they any suspicions?"

"Of whom?"

"Of you to be sure, for unless I have wings and flew out of the window to _Torre-del-Greco_, no one but you can have opened the prison gate to me."

"That is true, then," said Pietro, "you went to _Torre-del-Greco_ to stab Stenio Salvatori. I really would not have believed it, for it seems that twenty thousand piasters is too large a sum for the pleasure of a poniard thrust--in the arm too! After all, though, we Neapolitans regard nothing valuable compared with revenge!"

"It matters little to you whether it was for revenge or another purpose. All I wish is, for you alone to know that I was away for twelve hours. As neither you or I will mention it, I am at ease."

"You are right in the main, your Excellency. But we have placed our heads in the balance, and I am determined yours shall not outweigh mine. The hand of justice weighs heavily, especially on the poor. It would be very bad if now, when I am prepared to live happily and pleasantly on the proceeds of our little operation, I were called on to dangle at the end of a rope, to the great delight of the dealers in ice-water and macaroni, whom the people of Naples on that day would enrich. Few would miss the entertainment which would be given at my expense."

"What makes you fear this?" asked the Count.

"One idea. They might take it into their heads to examine separately all the inhabitants of the castle. First your Excellency, as its principal guest, then your humble servant, the gate-keeper, and even my assistant Crespo. If all did not tell the same story the Grand Judge would see some trick."

"You think so?" said the Count, moodily.

"I know so," said Pietro. "The Grand Judge, as the child's story-book says of ogres, loves fresh meat, and would see a spot on the brow of an angel. Now, I am not exactly an angel--and if he saw a spot, your excellency's head might be safe, but for want of a chicken he might twist my neck. The jailer would be the victim, and my friend the executioner would have to do with me. I know him. He would be enthusiastic in the operation, to make a vacancy in my place. He is bound up in his family."

For an instant the Count had not heard the jailer. One single name inspired him with the greatest terror, for it recalled one of the participators in his escape. This man held in his own hands his own and his accomplice's escape. Pietro had not foreseen all. This assistant, the character and dress of whom he had assumed, this Crespo, this mole, would be summoned before the magistrate. The keeper had seen and spoken to him, had opened the gate of the castle to suffer him to pass out, or at least fancied he had. What then would the man say? With great emotion, then, Monte-Leone said,

"The danger does not come from the place you apprehend. One witness, however, may ruin all."

"Of whom do you speak?" said Pietro, trembling.

"Of Crespo," said the Count.

"Ah--what have you to fear of Crespo?"

"Have you gained him over?"

"No. I was spared the trouble. At this moment the poor fellow is probably in the other world."

"Have you killed him?" said the Count, with terror.

"For what does your excellency take me? One may yield to the prayers of a prisoner, and secure a fortune by permitting him a few hours' exercise, yet be no murderer. If Crespo dies, it is in consequence of his unfortunate passion."

"Was he in love?"

"No. He was fond of water-rats."

"Horrible appetite."

"Not at all," said the jailer. "Crespo says the animal is very savory, especially when fat as those in the ditches of the castle are. The waters bear hither all the offal of Naples, and the rats live like canons."

"And Crespo eats them?"

"He has a passion for game of that kind, and does nothing but hunt them. He makes some very ingenious traps to catch them with. I do not molest him, because the taste is so innocent, and besides, saves me the expense of several cats."

"But how came that passion to endanger Crespo's life?"

"Ah--one is not always lucky. Perhaps the last rats Crespo ate, had feasted on arsenic--rats are so whimsical. The poor devil, perhaps, was poisoned in that manner. Rather an expensive taste. Unfortunately, the lesson will do him no good."

After this touching funeral oration, the jailer took out a blue and torn handkerchief, and dried his eyes. The Count shuddered at this story. He understood the atrocious plan adopted by Pietro to get rid of a dangerous witness, and forgetful of his own safety, said,

"Perhaps, if you hurry for a physician, the poor man may yet be saved."

"Bah! do you think the Governor would let one of his officers die without assistance? The doctor, however, was too late; and when I came hither, Crespo was dying."

Notwithstanding his firmness, the horror of Monte-Leone at the wretch was so great that he hastened to terminate the conversation. The quasi complicity in a crime committed in cold blood, and with premeditation; was odious to him.

"Do not fear lest my examination should compromise you. I will be prudent. Now, one word more, or if you please to consider it so, one favor more--when will I be tried?"

"In two days. To-night they will come to take you to _Castello Capuano_, where the supreme court will meet."

Pietro left, and Monte-Leone relapsed into a profound reverie. The drama was about to begin. What the Count hitherto had done, was as it were but a prelude, an exposition, or rather a skilful introduction. On the eve of the event he did not quail, but like a sagacious tactician asked himself if he had been guilty of no neglect, if he had taken advantage of all the circumstances. One thing alone made him uneasy. When he returned to the Etruscan villa, to assume the clothes of the assistant-jailer, he saw with terror that he had lost the great emerald, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Benvenuto, the family ring, so long celebrated and so well known. He readily enough fancied that it had been lost during his rapid flight, and did not suspect that it had fallen into the hands of his enemies. Reassured on this point, he waited patiently for the hour when, as the jailer said, they would come to take him to _Castello Capuano_. It came at last, and Monte-Leone was glad of it, for it seemed to bring him nearer to liberty. It was about midnight when the Governor came to the Count's cell, accompanied by the worthy jailer and several officers.

"Excellency," said he to Monte-Leone, "I have an order from the Duke of Palma, minister of police, to take you to _Castello Capuano_, to be tried."

"I am ready to obey the orders of the Duke," said Monte-Leone, "late as the hour and bad as the weather are. But, Signor, the Duke treats me like those curious monsters, who travel by night to avoid the anxious eyes of the public, and to enhance the profits received from their exhibition."

"Signor, the Duke of Palma," said the Governor, piqued by this irony in relation to his patron, "has a more exalted object than exciting or allaying the curiosity of the people of Naples. He wishes to prevent any demonstration of your numerous partisans in your favor. Such conduct would certainly injure your cause."

The sarcasm of the Count had made the Governor say too much. He had revealed to Monte-Leone the interest he had excited, and the efforts which might be made to save him. To a man like Monte-Leone nothing was lost, and like a skilful geometer, he knew how to take advantage of the errors of his adversary.

"Let us go, Signor," said Monte-Leone to the Governor. "I am impatient to make an acquaintance with the new castle which the king honors me with. Let me change once or twice again, and I will be able to publish a statistical account of all the dungeons in the kingdom, for the information of his majesty's beloved subjects."

An hour after this scene the Count was in a room of _Castello Capuano_, appropriated to the reception of great and distinguished criminals to be tried by the high court.

On the next day, a man of cold and ascetic air waited on Monte-Leone. This person was Felippo San Angelo, the ogre of whom Pietro had spoken, the terror of all criminals, the Grand Judge of Naples. If the _morale_ of the Judge had been calumniated by Pietro, his physique bore a strong analogy to that of certain beasts of prey to which carnivorous appetite is attributed. His nose was hooked like an eagle's, his brow was prominent, oblong and bald, his lips were thin and fixed as if he had never smiled, his body was long and attenuated, and he never met the glance of those with whom he spoke.

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, "I am come to announce to you, as the law requires, that you will appear before the court on the day after to-morrow. You will be allowed to choose an advocate, and, as Grand Judge of the Kingdom, I come to invite you to do so."

"I am deeply sensible of your Excellency's consideration," said Monte-Leone, "but I must say, the first act of your _justice_ is _unjust_. If my enemies have had two months to prepare their accusation, it is cruel to allow me but two days to prepare my defence."

"This is the provision of the laws which regulate at Naples the special courts, like the one which is to try you, Signor Comte. I do not make the law, but only administer it."

"But, Excellency, a man of your character should not administer an unjust law; nothing should compel him to do so."

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, much annoyed at finding himself unexpectedly drawn into such a discussion, "the legislator gives us the text of law, we find the interpretation. Your judges, the chief of whom I am, have carefully studied them, and if we have assumed on our honor and conscience their application, it is because we think them just. We do not permit the accused to contest their forms. When a man is unfortunately brought before a court, he must submit."

"I do, Excellency," said Monte-Leone, "I will even court their severity, and will not take advantage of the very short time allowed me to choose a defender. For humanity's sake alone I address you as I do. It seems to me, however, that it is necessary that I should know, in the first place, of what I am accused; and I wait until it please your Excellency to tell me."

"You are charged, Signor, with two capital crimes. First, of having, on the night of the 20th December, 1815, conspired against the security of the state, near the ruins of Pompeii, where you presided over a secret society, the object of which is the overthrow of royalty. You are, in the second place, accused of having attempted to assassinate Stenio Salvatori, of _Torre-del-Greco_, to avenge yourself on account of his testimony."

"Is this all?" asked Monte-Leone.

"It is, Signor," said the Grand Judge; "I think such charges are important enough to induce you to remember that you must now choose your counsel."

"You are right, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "For such a cause a skilful advocate is required, one who shall be able to impress your heart with the conviction of my innocence, for on his word depends my life or death."

"Find such a one, then, Signor," said the Grand Judge. "Believe me, however, the most eloquent advocate has less influence over a conscientious judge than the facts of the case, the light which illumines them, and which it is their duty to make brilliant in our eyes, rather than seek an opportunity to display their fluency and their political opinions, or, worse yet, to produce public or private scandal--"

"You are right, Signor, but the person who will speak in my behalf is neither eloquent nor skilful, yet the most famous pleas, the most powerful defences of Naples, will not produce so much effect as the words of that man."

"You, Signor, alone," said the Grand Judge, "can choose your defender. But let me know his name--"

"That can only be revealed at the trial."

"But you do not know, Signor, you thus deprive yourself of a precious right to all who are accused, secured them by law, the right of communicating with their defenders."

"That right I waive. The man who will defend me will know his grave mission only when called on in the face of the supreme tribunal to fulfil it."

The Grand Judge looked with amazement at Monte-Leone. "Why, Signor, cannot he be informed of his grave duty?"

"God forbid he should!"

"Why?"

"Because in that case I would lose my cause." The Count laughed.

"Act then, Signor, as you please. Strange and whimsical as your conduct is, I have no authority to speak of its advantages and disadvantages."

He bowed to Monte-Leone and withdrew.

"He is mad," said he, as he was leaving _Castello Capuano_.

"He is a fool," said Monte-Leone, as the Grand Judge left. "He did not understand that one defends himself from the effects of a crime committed, but not when no crime has been committed."

V.--THE TRIAL.

The appointed day came at last, and all Naples assumed a strange and unusual air. One subject of interest took possession of all the city, one idea occupied it, and from the Senator to the Lazzarone all had one name on their lips. Monte-Leone, Count Monte-Leone.

"Monte-Leone, the people's friend," said some.

"Monte-Leone, the conspirator," said others.

"Monte-Leone, the assassin of Stenio Salvatori," said the enemies of the Count.

"Monte-Leone, the victim of Fernando," said the enemies of the King.

As all this was going on around the prison, calm and thoughtful Monte-Leone waited for the hour of trial.

_Castello Capuano_, usually called la Vicaria, had been for several centuries the palace of the Kings and Viceroys, until Pedro de Toledo abandoned for a more splendid palace, that of the existing Kings, and devoted la Vicaria or _Castello Capuano_ to the civil and criminal courts of the realm. Nothing can be more sad and melancholy than the portion of the palace in which the prisons are. As if to enhance this appearance, the outside of the prison was hung with iron cages, in which were the heads and hands of persons who had been executed. These relics of humanity, long before dried up, and the skeletons of which alone remained, rattled in the night wind horribly, and filled with superstitious terror the minds of belated travellers returning through the _Porta Capuano_, from which the Castle took its name, to Naples.

La Vicaria was then from an early hour in the morning besieged by a numerous crowd, awaiting the opening of its gates to rush into the hall of audience. The doors were opened. The hall was instantly occupied by a crowd of curious persons, who everywhere in Europe are attracted by criminal trials. It is a matter of surprise that in France women, and especially those of rank, are attracted in numbers sufficient sometimes to form a majority of the audience. But the reason is, that women are nervous and impressionable, and that they constantly require excitement. They are not often careful in the selection of these emotions, provided there are violent shocks, revulsions of feeling, terror, hope, surprise. Such are the fruits of criminal trials. The head of the prisoner becomes a shuttlecock between the advocate and magistrate. The varied chances of such a scene offer great and real interest, effacing all the fictions of tragedy. There, far more than on the stage, women take delight in the dark dramas, and are the first to resent the terrible effect of the denouements.

The beautiful women of Naples did not fail to add to the interest of the representation of this drama, the hero of which possessed the admiration of all and the good graces of many. Some of the upper seats were occupied by women of high rank, who did not dare to show themselves publicly at this strange spectacle, and came, like beggars, to enjoy a scene which they would be ashamed to have acknowledged. Places, too, had been reserved for the patrician women, near the bench of the judges and advocates. These cold, careless creatures, attracted by mere curiosity, were not the most numerous of the agitated crowd. The private friends of the Count, his partisans, the members of the society of which he was the chief, formed an imposing mass agitated by the most tumultuous sentiments. Two hearts beat violently, and, though in different places, a skilful clock-maker would have declared that one was not faster than the other by a single second. These two hearts were full of the same object, desired the same thing, pursued the same end. One sentiment united both, and they were equally tortured by hope and fear.

One of these was a woman dressed in black, and having a half disclosed, fresh and beautiful face. A fine and delicately gloved hand was placed upon her heart as if to restrain its pulsations. Her other hand, from time to time, was passed beneath her veil, to bear to her lips an exquisitely embroidered and perfumed handkerchief. She sat alone on one of the remote benches. For a long time she remained motionless, but suddenly seeming anxious to avoid observation, she approached, as nearly as possible, the front of the recess in which the bench on which she had been sitting was placed. She then cast a quick, anxious glance on the crowd which filled every portion of the court-room, returned, and became again motionless, and apparently calm as she had been before.

The other actor in this silent scene, was a young man with a pale and agitated countenance, which betrayed the anxiety of his mind, and the deep interest he took in the events of the day. Yet not to the place reserved for the judges, nor the doors through which the prisoner would be led, did he look. Suspiciously examining every bench in the hall, perceiving (so to speak) the mass of spectators, the long lines of which rose one above another, he examined the most remote, even, without perceiving what he was evidently so anxious to find. At last, by a sudden start, he attracted the attention of those near him,--a half-stifled cry burst from his lips; he had perceived the lonely woman on the remote bench.

"Do you know that lady?" said a young man who sat upon the advocates' bench.

"I know her?" said he, "not at all."

"Excuse me, you seemed surprised when you saw her."

"The fact was, I had not remarked those seats; they are real opera boxes."

"Look again, Signor, the lady amuses herself strangely."

"I see nothing, sir," said the pale young man, who still kept his eyes fixed upon the lady.

"Three times," said the first speaker, "she has placed her hand upon her hair, as if she would point out to somebody a diamond pin which shines amid her jetty locks like a star in a stormy sky."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it, it is a signal--and see, she has taken her pin from her hair, and is imploring. Ah! sir, what a pretty Venus hand. One kiss on her hand, and I would die content!"

"To be sure," said the other mechanically, and without knowing what he said.

"It is some intrigue," said the gossiper, "the women of our country go everywhere, to the church, to the court, and to the theatre. It would be odd if it were the judge's wife. They who always condemn others, sometimes must atone for it."

"Speak lower, Signor, speak lower; you may compromise her."

"True, true, but by St. Januarius, see what she is about now;" he spoke lower.

"What!" said the young man.

"She has placed her finger upon her pin, and looks this way, as if she was interrogating you."

"You are mistaken; besides, how can you see under a veil which way she looks?"

"There is no doubt about it, it is intended for us, and she wishes to speak either to you or to me."

Looking towards the person of whom they spoke, for the purpose of giving more force to his asseveration, he was amazed to see her white hand holding the diamond pin to her lips. The scene we have been so long describing had taken place in a few seconds. Prompt as was the reply of the young man to the interrogatory of the woman, his companion had perceived it. The latter being a man of good taste, and perfectly expert in the telegraphs of love, was persuaded that he had interfered in some love affair, and hastened to say to the hero of the adventure,

"Do not be afraid, sir, I have seen nothing. Well-bred people, such as you and I are, never speak of secrets we thus become acquainted with--and I am ready to maintain with my lip and with my sword, that you have not the slightest acquaintance with the lady there."

"Thank you, sir," said the young man; "your conduct proves you to be a gentleman."

Just then all the assemblage became full of eager expectation at the entrance of the High Court, preceded by the President.

"The court is opened--produce the prisoner," said the Grand Judge.

The agitation became stronger. Women stood up in their chairs, men climbed up on the banisters, and others, vexed at not being able to see, protested against the appropriation of seats by the legs and boots of those in front of them. The disorder was quickly put an end to by the imperious voice of the Grand Judge, who threatened to have the hall cleared if order were not at once restored, and the respect due to the court maintained. All became immediately quiet; the audience sat down, those in the rear ceased to complain, and many an eye was fixed on Count Monte-Leone.

The Count sat in the lofty seat reserved for him, an arm-chair replaced the stool used by vulgar criminals. The respect due to rank and birth was religiously observed in this aristocratic tribunal. The noble, if found guilty, was certainly sentenced to death, as the merest commoner--the form of trial, though, always exhibited respect for illustrious names, which was most gratifying to the people. The fact was, at that time people believed in social superiority, had faith in their God, king and nobles, and though they demanded that their nobles should be punished, did not expect them to die like common people; the difference was the difference between the rope and the sabre. That very difference, however, between the two deaths--the terrible theatrical effect of the latter, made a great impression on the masses.

The public accuser arose, and pronounced an eloquent harangue against Monte-Leone, as guilty of two crimes, the nature of which the Grand Judge had already described to him in prison.

First crime: Conspiracy against the State, in having presided at the secret _venta_ of Pompeia, as chief of a society, having for its object the overturning of the monarchy.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

From Graham's Magazine.

BALLAD OF JESSIE CAROL.

BY ALICE CAREY.

I.

At her window, Jessie Carol,
As the twilight dew distils,
Pushes back her heavy tresses,
Listening toward the northern hills.
"I am happy, very happy,
None so much as I am blest;
None of all the many maidens
In the Valley of the West,"
Softly to herself she whispered;
Paused she then again to hear
If the step of Allen Archer,
That she waited for, were near.
"Ah, he knows I love him fondly!--
I have never told him so!--
Heart of mine be not so heavy,
He will come to-night, I know."

Brightly is the full moon filling
All the withered woods with light,
"He has not forgotten surely--
It was later yesternight!"
Shadows interlock with shadows--
Says the maiden, "Woe is me!"
In the blue the eve-star trembles
Like a lily in the sea.
Yet a good hour later sounded,--
But the northern woodlands sway!--
Quick a white hand from her casement
Thrust the heavy vines away.
Like the wings of restless swallows
That a moment brush the dew,
And again are up and upward,
Till we lose them in the blue,
Were the thoughts of Jessie Carol,--
For a moment dim with pain,
Then with pleasant waves of sunshine,
On the hills of hope again.
"Selfish am I, weak and selfish,"
Said she, "thus to sit and sigh;
Other friends and other pleasures
Claim his leisure well as I.
Haply, care or bitter sorrow
'Tis that keeps him from my side,
Else he surely would have hasted
Hither at the twilight tide.
Yet, sometimes I can but marvel
That his lips have never said,
When we talked about the future,
Then, or then, we shall be wed!
Much I fear me that my nature
Cannot measure half his pride,
And perchance he would not wed me
Though I pined of love and died.
To the aims of his ambition
I would bring nor wealth nor fame.
Well, there is a quiet valley
Where we both shall sleep the same!"
So, more eves than I can number,
Now despairing, and now blest,
Watched the gentle Jessie Carol
From the Valley of the West.

II.

Down along the dismal woodland
Blew October's yellow leaves,
And the day had waned and faded,
To the saddest of all eves.
Poison rods of scarlet berries
Still were standing here and there,
But the clover blooms were faded,
And the orchard boughs were bare.
From the stubble fields the cattle
Winding homeward, playful, slow,
With their slender horns of silver
Pushed each other to and fro.
Suddenly the hound upspringing
From his sheltering kennel, whined,
As the voice of Jessie Carol
Backward drifted on the wind,
Backward drifted from a pathway
Sloping down the upland wild,
Where she walked with Allan Archer,
Light of spirit as a child!
All her young heart wild with rapture
And the bliss that made it beat--
Not the golden wells of Hybla
Held a treasure half so sweet!
But as oft the shifting rose-cloud,
In the sunset light that lies,
Mournful makes us, feeling only
How much farther are the skies,--
So the mantling of her blushes,
And the trembling of her heart,
'Neath his steadfast eyes but made her
Feel how far they were apart.

"Allan," said she, "I will tell you
Of a vision that I had--
All the livelong night I dreamed it,
And it made me very sad.
We were walking slowly, seaward,
In the twilight--you and I--
Through a break of clearest azure
Shone the moon--as now--on high;
Though I nothing said to vex you,
O'er your forehead came a frown,
And I strove, but could not soothe you--
Something kept my full heart down;
When, before us, stood a lady
In the moonlight's pearly beam,
Very tall and proud and stately--
(Allan, this was in my dream!--)
Looking down, I thought, upon me,
Half in pity, half in scorn,
Till my soul grew sick with wishing
That I never had been born.
'Cover me from woe and madness!'
Cried I to the ocean flood,
As she locked her milk-white fingers
In between us where we stood,--
All her flood of midnight tresses
Softly gathered from their flow,
By her crown of bridal beauty,
Paler than the winter snow.
Striking then my hands together,
O'er the tumult of my breast,--
All the beauty waned and faded
From the Valley of the West!"