Chapter V (2)

The Duke of Palma, minister of police of the kingdom of Naples, was one of the friends of Fernando IV. He was not a great minister, but was young and intellectual. His principal merit was that he amused his master, by recounting secret intrigues, whimsical adventures, and delicate affairs, a knowledge of which he acquired by means of his position. Thus he found favor with Fernando, who was not served, but amused and satisfied. Sovereigns who are amused are indulgent. Maulear hesitated a long time before he accepted the invitation. His soul was occupied by new and delicious emotions. It seemed to him to be profanity to transport them to such a different and dissipated scene. He however shrunk from solitude, and the idea of living apart from Aminta for whole days, made him desire the amusement and excitement promised by the invitation. The entertainment was superb. All the noble, elegant and rich of Naples were bidden. The concert began. The first pieces were scarcely listened to, in consequence of the studiously late entries of many distinguished personages, and of many pretty women, who would not on any account enter _incognito_ either a drawing-room or a theater, and were careful never to come thither until the moment when their presence would attract attention or produce interruption. Silence however pervaded in a short time all the assemblage. The crowd which a moment before had been so agitated became at once calm and mute. A fairy spell seemed to have transfixed them. A fairy was really come--that of music.... The Queen of the theater of Italy, _La Bella Felina_--that strange sibyl of the ball at San Carlo. The excitement to hear her was great, and the prima donna had immense success. The young woman, by coming to his soiree, did the minister of police a great favor: The singer had during the whole year refused the most brilliant invitations and the largest sums to sing any where but at San Carlo. Thrice she had appeared on the concert gallery, and thrice descended amid immense applause.

Great is the triumph of song. Yet its success is fleeting and ephemeral, and may be annihilated by the merest accident. The glory is frail, the fortune uncertain, of all that emanates from the human throat.

The concert was over and all left. Henri and the intimate friends alone, of whom the Duke spoke, passed into an elegant and retired room into which the minister led La Felina. "Messieurs," said he, "the Signora honors me by partaking of our collation. Let us bow before the Queen of Song and thank her for the honor she confers on us." The cantatrice exhibited no embarrassment at being alone amid so many of another sex, so notorious for the volatility of their manners. Her habitual calm and dignity did not hide a kind of restraint from the observation of Maulear. She replied by a few graceful words to the gallantries of which she was the object. They then all sat down. Many witty remarks were made by the guests. Champagne increased Neapolitan volubility, and heads were beginning to grow light, when the minister seeing that La Felina was ill at ease at the conversation, said, "The supper, Signora, of a minister of police should be unique as that of a banker or senator. Where else would one learn of piquant adventures, scandal, hidden crimes, but at my house, for I am the keeper of all records and the compulsory confessor of all. I wish then to give you another fruit and to tell you of a strange adventure, the hero of which is a person all of you know. That man is Count Monte-Leone."

The name of Monte-Leone, so well known in Naples, created the greatest sensation. All were silent and listened to the Duke of Palma. La Felina became strangely pale.

IV.--THE DUKE OF PALMA.

"You know," said the Duke to his friends, "that the Count Monte-Leone has for a long time professed opinions entirely opposed to the government of our sovereign king Fernando. The heir of the political errors of his unfortunate father, he seems to travel fatally toward the same sad fate. The king long ago bade us close our eyes to the guilty conduct of the young Count. His Majesty was unwilling to continue on the son the rigors to which his father had been subjected. A revelation of great importance forced us to act, and we caused the offender to be arrested for an offence of which he must make a defence before the appointed tribunal. During many months the Count contrived to avoid all efforts made to arrest him. At last, however, in consequence of a youthful escapade in which he should by no means have indulged, his retreat was revealed to us. The house which concealed him and his accomplices was found out on the night of the last ball of San Carlo. The countersign of his associates had been revealed to us by a traitor, and our precautions were so skillfully taken, that the three friends of Monte-Leone were arrested one after the other, at the very door of his house, without in the least rendering the arrest of the Count doubtful. Two hours after, Monte-Leone, arrested by our agents, was borne to the _Castle del Uovo_, a safe and sure prison, whence as yet no prisoner ever escaped. The report of the chief of the expedition," continued the Duke, "states, that he saw a woman fainting on the floor. He adds, that he thought he had nothing to do with it, his orders relating entirely to the four of whom he obtained possession."

During this preamble La Felina more than once inhaled the perfume of her _bouquet_. When, however, she looked up, her face expressed no trouble or change.

"The three friends of Count Monte-Leone," said the Duke, "are a Frenchman, a German, and an Italian. The first is the Count of Harcourt, son of the Duke, one of the noblest and most powerful men of France. We cannot fancy how the heir of so noble a family has become involved in such a plot, where persons of his rank have all to lose and nothing to gain. He is a brilliant young madcap, amiable and adventurous, like almost all of his countrymen, and became a conspirator merely for recreation and to while away the time he cannot occupy with love and pleasure. The second is a graver character: the son of a Bohemian pastor, imbued with the philosophic and political opinions of his countrymen, Sand, Koerner, and the ideologists of his country, he dreams of leveling ideas which would set all Europe in a blaze. He has become a conspirator from conviction, is a madman full of genius, but one of those who must be shut up, before they become furious. The fanatical friendship of this young man to Monte-Leone involved him in the party of which he is the shadow and the reflection. He is a conspirator, _ex necessitate_, who will never act from his own motive, and who, consequently, is a subject of no apprehension to us, as long as he has no head, no chief to nerve his arm, and urge him onward. We have without any difficulty exonerated Italy from the reproach of containing these three men, without any scandal or violence.... The German on the very night of his arrest was sent to the city of Elbogen, his native city, with recommendations to the paternal care and surveillance of the friendly governments through which he was to pass. The Count of Harcourt has already seen the shores of France. When this brilliant gentleman placed his foot on the deck of the vessel, he was informed that henceforth he was forbidden ever to return to Naples, under penalty of perpetual imprisonment. Young Rovero was confined in this identical palace, until such time as the trial of Count Monte-Leone shall be terminated. I am informed that he does nothing but sigh after a mysterious beauty, the charms and voice of whom are incomparable."

La Felina again put her bouquet to her face.

"I am now come, Messieurs, to the true hero of this romance."

Just then he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of one of his secretaries, who whispered briefly to him, and placed before him a box mysteriously sealed, with this superscription--_"To His Excellency Monsignore the Duke of Palma, minister of police, and to him alone."_

The countenance of the minister expressed surprise, as his secretary said, "Read, Monsignore, and verify the contents of the box."

The Duke requested his guests' pardon, and unsealed the letter, which he rapidly read. He then opened the box, examined it with curiosity, and without taking out the objects it contained, said, "It is unheard of: it is almost miraculous."

The minister's exclamations put an end to all private conversations, and every eye was turned upon him, "Messieurs," said he with emotion, "I thought I was about to tell you a strange thing, but all that I know has become complicated by so strange an accident, that I am myself amazed--used as I am to mysterious and criminal events."

At a signal, the secretary left, and the Duke continued: "The trial of Count Monte-Leone was prepared. Vaguely accused of being the chief of the secret society, the object of which was the overturning of the monarchy, he might have been acquitted from want of proof of his participation in this dark and guilty work, when three witnesses came forward to charge him with having presided in their own sight over one of the assemblages which in secret discuss of the death of kings by the enemies of law and order.

"On this formal declaration made by three well-known inhabitants of the town of _Torre del Greco_, devoted to king Fernando, the Count was sought for by the police, arrested as I have told you, and imprisoned in the _Castle del Uovo_. Every means was taken to make sure of the person of the prisoner. The garrison of the castle was increased, lest there should be some daring _coup de main_ to deliver him. The charge of him was intrusted to the most stern and incorruptible of the jailers, who was however carefully watched by the agents of the government. This excess of precaution had nearly cost the life of the prisoner, from the fact that he was placed in a dungeon into which the sea broke. Judge of my surprise when yesterday, two of the accusers of the Count, the Salvatori, came to my hotel insisting that two days before, just as the population of _Torre del Greco_ was leaving church, their eldest brother Stenio Salvatori had been poignarded at his door by Count Monte-Leone.

"'This evidence,' continued they, 'will be confirmed by all the inhabitants of the town, in the presence of whom the affair happened.' I refused to believe anything so improbable. I told them the Count had been a prisoner several days, and assured them I would have been informed of his escape. Overcome by their persuasions, shaken in my conviction by their oaths, I determined to satisfy myself that the Count was at the prison, and went thither."

The Duke had not deceived the auditors by his promises, for the interest had rapidly increased, and every one listened to his words with intense curiosity. A single person only seemed listless and uninterested. This was La Felina, whose eye never lost sight of the box which the secretary had given the Duke, and which he had shut, so that no one knew the nature of the contents. The Duke resumed his story:

"The new governor of the Castle, whom I had appointed after the inundation, was not informed of my visit. No one expected me, yet all was calm and in good order.

"'Signore,' said I to the governor, 'I am informed that the prisoner I have confided to your charge, the Count Monte-Leone, has escaped from the fortress. If this be so, you know the severity of military law, and must expect its utmost rigor.' As he heard this menace, the governor grew pale. I fancied his change of color came because he was aware of some error, and I awaited his answer with anxiety. 'If the Count has escaped, Monsignore,' he replied, 'it must have been within an hour, for it is not more than twice that time since I saw him.'

"I was amazed. Unwilling as I was to be face to face with the Count, the violence and exasperation of whom I was aware of, I ordered myself to be led to his cell. The jailer threw back the door on its hinges, and far from finding the room unoccupied, I saw him stretched on a bed, and reading a book, which seemed very much to interest him. He appeared pale and thin. A year had passed since I had seen him, brilliantly and carefully dressed, giving tone to the saloons, the cynosure of which he was. Dignified and haughty, and always polite, even in the coarse dress he wore, the Count rose, recognized, and bowed to me. 'I did not,' said he, 'expect the honor of a visit from his excellency the minister of police, and would have wished to receive him in my palace. As the state of affairs is, however, he must be satisfied with the rude hospitality of the humble room I occupy.' He offered me his only stool. I said, 'Not I, Count, but yourself, have been the cause that you are thus situated. If you had chosen, you might have lived happy, free, and esteemed, as your rank and birth entitled you. Remember that all must be attributed to yourself, if you exchange all these advantages for the solitude of a prison and the dangers which your opinions have brought on you.' 'Shall I dare to ask, Monsignore, is the visit I receive an act of benevolence, or of official duty?' 'I am come hither, Count, from duty. The rumor of your escape is spread everywhere. A crime committed on the day before yesterday in the vicinity of Naples is attributed to you, and I am come to ascertain here if there be any foundation for the accusation.' The Count laughed. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'one never leaves this place except under the charge of keepers. As for the new crime of which I am accused, and of which I know nothing, I trust that the good sense of the judges will think me innocent as of the imaginary offenses which brought me hither.'

"The calmness and sang-froid of Monte-Leone, the improbability of the story told me, excited a trouble and confusion which did not escape the observation of the prisoner. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'we have met under happier circumstances. I expect and ask a favor from no one. I can however ask an indulgence from so old an acquaintance as yourself. Hurry on my trial! The preliminary captivity I undergo is one of the greatest outrages of the law. While a man is uncondemned he should not be punished. God does not send any one to hell untried and uncondemned. My life is sad here. This book, the only one allowed me,' said he, presenting me with it open at the page where he had been reading when I entered, 'this great book, _De Consolatione Philosophiae_ of Anicius Severinus Boethius, does not console but afflicts me; for in spite of myself I remember that the author, imprisoned by a tyrant at Pavia, terminated in torture a life of glory. If such be my fate, signore,--if I am guilty, the punishment is great enough: if I am not guilty, it is too great.'

"I was touched by this logical reasoning. Far more influence however was exerted on me by his noble tranquillity and the natural dignity misfortune often kindles up in the noblest souls. 'Count,' said I, 'be assured that within a few days you will be placed on trial,' and I retired satisfied with the mistake or falsehood of Monte-Leone's accusers.

"I found the Salvatori at my palace. I told them that they played a terrible game. I said, 'If you had brought a false charge against a young man at liberty, and on the head of whom there lay no accusation, your crime would be capital, and you would be vulgar calumniators, such as are too often made infamous by our criminal records. This matter is however so complicated by revenge that it will excite general horror, and draw on you all the severity of the law. Count Monte-Leone, whom you accused of having poignarded your brother, is now in the _Castle del Uovo_, which I left a few minutes ago, and where I saw him.'

"Nothing can describe the singular expression of the faces of the two men as they listened. But they still persisted that they had spoken the truth, and were sternly dismissed by me, affirming that they would prove all they had said. They have kept their word, and here is the evidence," said the Duke, opening the box and exhibiting a glittering ring, on which was engraved the escutcheon of Monte-Leone.

"This ring," said he, "is acknowledged to be one of the _chef d'oeuvres_ of Benvenuto Cellini. It has an historical fame, and is considered one of the most admirable works of that great artist. Twenty times the government has sought to buy it, but the Monte-Leoni have uniformly refused to part with it. This letter accompanied the precious jewel:

"_Monsignore_: Heaven has come to our aid. Since our evidence, corroborated by that of all _Torre del Greco_, could not convince you of the truth of our accusation--since you refuse to believe that Count Monte-Leone, to avenge himself, wounded our brother, we send you this ring, engraved with his arms, which he lost in his contest with Stenio Salvatori, and which God has placed in our hands to confound and to punish him.

"Raphael and Paolo Salvatori."

"All is lost!" said La Felina.

"What now shall we believe?" said the Duke to his guests.

V.--THE VISIT.

The story of the Duke of Palma was concluded by the last question. All seemed wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular incident. The night was far advanced, and the company separated.

The Duke escorted La Felina to her carriage. Just however as the door was about to close on him, he said: "Would you not like, beautiful Felina, to know the name of the woman at Count Monte-Leone's on the night of the ball?"

"Why ask that question?" said she.

"Because," he said, "I know no one more beautiful or more attractive."

"Her name?" said the singer, with emotion.

"Is La Felina!" said the Duke. "What surprises you?" he added; "a minister of police, from his very office, knows everything." La Felina said to herself, "But he does not!"

The spirited horses bore the carriage rapidly away.

In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Taddeo Rovero had especially arrested the attention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation or connection of Aminta? During the few minutes he had passed at Sorrento he had learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked no questions of Aminta. Allied however by the heart to this family already, he naturally enough took interest in the dangers its members incurred. He therefore determined to return at once and ascertain this fact from the minister, when a note handed to him drove the matter completely from his mind. Thus ran the note:

"_Monsieur_: My daughter now knows how much she is indebted to you, and the efforts you made to rescue her from the fearful danger which menaced her. The heroic remedy employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. Aminta is entirely recovered and is unwilling to delay any longer the tribute of gratitude. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. If you will deign to receive them in our poor villa, we will be delighted to see you there to-day.

Your grateful,

Antonia Rovero."

The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at these words. He would in the course of a few hours see Aminta, the impression of whose beauty had so deeply impressed his heart, and from whom he had fancied he would yet be separated for days. He mounted his best horse and rapidly crossed the distance which separated him from Sorrento. Two hours after the receipt of the letter he knocked at the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant again admitted him.

"The Signorina is in no danger," said he to Maulear, as soon as he saw him. Nothing is more graceful than this familiarity of old servants, who as it were are become from devotion a portion of the family of their masters. "We know," added the good man taking and kissing Maulear's hand respectfully, "that we owe all to your Excellency, who drove away the vipers which otherwise had stung her on the heart, and allowed Tonio no time to rescue her."

There was such an expression of gratitude in the features of the old man, that Maulear was deeply moved.

"The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Count, to thank you." The old man let tears drop on the hand of the Marquis.

"What noble hearts must the mistresses of such servants have," thought Maulear as he stood in waiting.

Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but not with a cold ceremony. The stranger who had contributed to the salvation of her daughter henceforth was a friend to her. "Come, come," said Signora Rovero, "she expects you."

The door was opened, and they were in the presence of Aminta. The White Rose of _Sorrento_ never vindicated more distinctly her right to the name.

Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, Aminta was wrapped in a large dressing-gown, the vaporous folds of which hung around her. Her face, become yet more pale from suffering, was, as it were, enframed in light clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her a beautiful alabaster statue, but for the two beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous hair which were drawn around her charming face.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, as she led Henri forward, "the Marquis of Maulear proves that he is not insensible of the value of our thanks, since he has come so promptly to receive them."

"Alas! Signora," said Henri to the mother of Aminta, "the true savior of your daughter is not myself, but the generous lad who risked his own life for hers. God, however, is my witness, that had I been aware I could have thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to employ the means."

The chivalric and impassioned tone with which these words were pronounced, made both mother and daughter look at Henri. The latter, however, immediately cast down her eyes, confused by the passionate expression of his.

"Monsieur," said Aminta, with emotion, "I might doubt such devotion from you, to a person who was a stranger, were I not aware of the nobility and generosity of the French character."

For the first time Maulear heard Aminta speak. She had one of those fresh and sweet voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that every word she spoke had the air of a caress--one of those delicious voices with which a few chosen natures alone are endowed, which are never heard without emotion, and are always remembered with pleasure. If the head and imagination of the Marquis were excited by her charms, his heart submitted to the influence of her angelic voice, for it emanated from her soul; and Maulear, as he heard her delicious notes, thought there was in this young girl something to love besides beauty.

The physician had ordered the patient to repose. He feared the wound made by Tonio's dagger would re-open if she walked. By the side of her sofa, therefore, the hours of Maulear rolled by like seconds.

The father, an educated and dignified man, had superintended, in person, the education of his two children. Wishing neither to separate nor to leave them, for he loved them both alike, his cares were equally divided between them, so that Aminta, profiting by the lessons given to her brother, shared in his masculine and profound education, and acquired information far surpassing that ordinarily received by her sex. The seeds of science had fallen on fertile ground. A studious mind had developed them in meditation and solitude, and this beautiful child concealed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled and amazed.

A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulear's visit. He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversation, one thought was ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom the minister had spoken? The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy, might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy himself.

"Signora," said he to the mother, "there is in Naples a young man named Taddeo Rovero."

"My son--the brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant."

The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her son's pleasures.

"My brother is the soul of honor and courage," said Aminta, "but his head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his best friends."

"My daughter means his best friends," said Signora Rovero, gaily, "the brilliant Count Monte-Leone, one of the proudest nobles of Naples. Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him."

The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Rovero speak thus--and he admired the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition, foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo.

The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blushed to see one of her sentiments thus displayed before a stranger. In the impenetrable sanctuary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affections. Besides, by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason, of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for Taddeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison.

"I am astonished," said the Signora, "that my son is so long absent without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fifteen days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible."

"I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you."

As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out, "It is he--it is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go!"

As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of agony. "It is nothing," said she, immediately. "I thought myself strong enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio." Signora Rovero passed into the next room.

"It is he," said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. "It is my savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair did he think we forgot him."

Signora Rovero returned. "The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible," said she; "his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die."

The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appearance, however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and gave him her pretty hand with an expression of deep gratitude.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said she, "for your compassion for Tonio. A heart like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you have shed." These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfully on the hand offered to him, he bade adieu to Signora Rovero, and set out for Naples, bearing with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, anticipation, and wishes--of everything, in fine, which composes the first and most adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charming preface to the yet unread book.

On the next day Maulear visited the Duke of Palma. "Monsignore," said he to the minister, "I am about to ask you a favor to which I attach immense value. The pardon of young Rovero, who has been, your Excellency tells me, rather imprudent than guilty." The Duke laughed. "His liberty! On my word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if he would accept it."

"What does this mean, Monsignore?" said Maulear.

"That Rovero refuses liberty. The king, fancying that mildness would cure his folly, ordered me to dismiss the _novice_ to his family. I told Rovero. He replied, 'I refuse a pardon--I ask for justice: I am innocent or guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if innocent, let them acquit me. I will not leave this prison except by force, as I entered it.' Thus I have a prisoner in spite of my wish to release him."

"I will see him," said the Marquis, "and will speak to him of his mother."

VI.--THE PRISONER.

The Hotel of the Minister of Police at Naples had been constructed on the site and on the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes of Palma, ancestors of the present Duke. Amid the vestiges of the old palace, which still existed, was an ancient chapel, connected with the new edifice. This chapel, abandoned long before, had been changed into a prison, for the reception of persons arrested secretly by the Minister of Police, into the offences of whom he wished to inquire personally, before he turned them over to justice. Of this kind was young Rovero. King Fernando wearied of foolish and ephemeral conspiracies which disturbed, without endangering his monarchy, combated with all his power the disposition of his ministers to be rigorous, and the Duke of Palma to please his master suppressed the various plots which arose everywhere. This indulgent and pacific system did not all comport with the revolutionary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the deposition of the brothers Salvatori, united to public rumor, made the arrest of the Count unavoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to the annoyance of Fernando IV. and his minister. An example was needed. One criminal must be severely punished to terrify all the apostles of dark sedition. The more exalted the rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing his pardon, subjected the Duke of Palma to a new annoyance. His refusal made a trial necessary, or he would be forced to release him, contrary to his own protestations, and therefore subject the government to the odium of arbitrary injustice and a criminal attack on the liberties of the people. This would be a new theme of declamation for malcontents. The motives assigned by Taddeo for insisting on a trial were specious and dignified. We will however, soon see that they had no reality, and only masked the plans of the prisoner. A strange event had taken place in the old chapel we have mentioned, and in which Rovero was shut up.

Before we relate what follows, we must acquaint the reader with the secret sentiments of young Rovero. All had done justice to the seductive grace, which attracted so many adorers to the feet of the singer. Rovero, the youngest of the band of four, felt far more than admiration for the prima donna. His soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became aware of an emotion of which it had not been cognisant, at the sight of the great artist, the fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so powerful expression to her glances. Rovero had hitherto thought of women only under ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid modesty and grace which seem to call on the ruder sex for protection,--as charming creatures whom God has formed to command in obeying, to triumph by weakness. The young and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers of twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The native nobility of Felina, her elegant habits, the ardent imagination which had expanded the love of her art, the very practice of her profession which ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of the great masters, with the royal sovereigns she represented, had enhanced her natural dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, which so perfectly harmonized with her person, so entirely consorted with her habits, form and queenly bearing, that she might have been fancied a Juno or a Semiramis disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather than the reverse, which really was the case. Glittering with these attractions to which Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she appeared to him: like an enchantress and the modern Circe, dragging an enthusiastic people in her train, and ruling in the morning in her boudoir, which glittered with velvet and gold, and in the evening making three thousand people fanatical with her voice and magic talent, it was not unnatural that she subdued him. The impression produced on Taddeo by La Felina on the evening they were at the Etruscan house, was so keen, so new, so full of surprise and passion, that the young man left the room, less to ascertain what had become of the two friends who had preceded him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on him by the eyes of La Felina. He had not seen her since.

Like Von Apsberg and d'Harcourt, taken in the snare which had been set for him by the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured after a brief but violent contest. It seemed to him that his soul was torn from his body when he was separated from La Felina. He had however previously heard her at San Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and wonderful beauty, the illusion was so perfect that he fancied he saw the Juliet of Zingarelli or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a woman to be herself adored,--in one word, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the Neapolitan was enkindled by the eyes of the Neapolitan. He did not love, but was consumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days, he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero thought only of his love. Concentrating all power in his devotion, he evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In his fancy he ran over all the perfections of this beautiful being. It seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the impotence of which he cursed. Religious exaltation, like the enthusiasm of love, assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man and most devoted lover living in the world. Long days and endless nights occupied with one idea, fixed and immutable, rising before us like the ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais.

Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occupied his mind. Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he could scarcely distinguish fiction from reality, and after a troubled sleep he asked if he had addressed his burning declarations to the phantom of the singer or to La Felina herself.

Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with which Monte-Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to complain of their fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is true only by means of a doubtful light which reached him through the stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through the _glory_ of the Virgin. Still it was the light of day, which is half the sustenance of a prisoner.

On the fourth night after Rovero's arrest, he reposed rather than rested on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, "It is either he, or I am mistaken."

The shadow moved on.

After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero, who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night.

"It is a woman!" said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and delicate hand was placed on his lips.

"If you are heard, I am lost!" said his visitor, in a trembling voice.

"Who are you? and what do you want?" said Taddeo, suffering his voice to escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips.

"I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to penetrate it." Then by a rapid movement, the visitor pulled the vail again over her face.

Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly, lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe form of her who held him captive.

One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La Felina to render it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not the singer's hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to think. "Lift up your vail, Felina," said he. But at the evidence of terror which she exhibited, he resumed. "Do not attempt to deceive me. In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it meditates by day and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided you hither, in pity of the torment I have endured since I left you. An hour, Felina, in your presence, has sufficed to enslave my soul forever. Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void in my heart been completely filled."

"He loves me!" murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep pity. This however was uttered in so low a tone that the prisoner did not hear her.

"Hear me," said Rovero. "You told us at Monte-Leone's that you loved one of the four."

"True," said the singer, in a feeble voice.

"You said that for him you would sacrifice your life."

"True."

"That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life."

"I also said," Felina answered, "that my love would ever be unknown, and that the secret would die with me."

"Well," said Rovero, "I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you, is at your feet."

"How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your friends?"

Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul.

"Hear me," said she; "time is precious. Watched, and the object everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy myself that you were really the person I sought for, and, hidden beneath this vail, and by a yet greater concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my purpose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. I was ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would have kept my secret."

"Why fear my love?" said Rovero; "think you I sell my devotion? A love which hesitates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying you. But let your requests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that you may estimate me by my deeds."

"You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant your capacity fall not below your courage. In four days you will know what I expect from you."

"And will you," said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, "tell me which of the four you love?"

"You will then know. To you alone will I reveal the secret."

"How can I live until then!" said Rovero, with a sigh.

The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It was growing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to the door to listen to what was passing, she disappeared like a shadow behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the walls, attempting to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible, there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to be informed of his pardon.

The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria, Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of the _Museo Borbonico_, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been pressed by the feet of La Felina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the prints of her footsteps.

Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. "Excuse me, sir," said he to the prisoner, "that I have thus intruded without an introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have learned it."

Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police agent.

"I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and are inconsolable in your absence."

"Two ladies!" said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of passion, he added--"Signor, I love but one." He paused and was much confused by the avowal he had made.

"At least," said the stranger, "you love three; for in a heart like yours family affections and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies of whom I speak, Signor, are your mother and sister."

The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were exiled from his memory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty. "Signor," said he, "you have thought correctly. Notwithstanding the forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what they expect from me."

"They expect you to return," said the stranger. "A service I rendered them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf."

"Signor," said Rovero, "tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may know to whom I must utter it."

"Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your strange rejection of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly grasp at. The minister has informed me of your motives, and, though honorable, permit me to suggest that you do not forget your duty. Did your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice."

Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of discussion nor of reply.

"Signor," continued Maulear, "what principle, what opinions can combat your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the logic of passion and political hatred be still, and hearken only to duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget every scruple which now retains you."

Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes on those of Maulear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts.

"Marquis," said he, "I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it. Swear on your honor not to betray me, and I will tell you all."

"I swear."

"Well," said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that he might be sure he was not overheard; "I accept the liberty offered me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and before sunset on the third, _I will have returned with you to Sorrento_."

Henri, surprised, could not help looking at Rovero.

"Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I can, and not one other word shall leave my mouth."

"I may then tell Signora Rovero, that you will return."

"Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in three days, _you will place me in her arms_."

Taking Maulear's hand he clasped it firmly.

"Thanks, Signor," said Maulear, "I accept your friendship. With people like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover that it has not on that account less flavor and value."

Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection on Taddeo.

Never did time appear so long to Aminta's brother as that which intervened between Maulear's departure and the night he was so anxious for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal. He did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her precious visit. Remembering that his preceding nights had been agitated and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be overcome by weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself. Like most of the Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which the people of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed something to keep him awake, and asked for wine.

He approached the table on which his evening meal was placed, he took a flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his veins.

He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded, he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid gradually made his eyelids grow heavy--and that though he sought to overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he was forced to sit down.

I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those situations when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor, rapidly took possession of the young man. Then commenced a painful contest between mind and body,--the latter succumbed. He felt his body powerless, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy which sought to make him senseless, inert and powerless. His head fell upon his bosom and he sank to sleep.

Just then, he heard a light noise, the rustling of a silk dress, and a timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Rovero's face to assure herself that he was in reality asleep.

END OF PART II.

[From the Gem.]

"THE TWICKENHAM GHOST."

Come to the casement to-night,
And look out at the bright lady-moon;
Come to the casement to-night,
And I'll sing you your favorite tune!
Where the stream glides beside the old tower,
My boat shall be under the wall,--
Oh, dear one! be there in your bower,
With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl.

Oh! come where no troublesome eye
Can look on the vigil love keeps;
When there is not a cloud in the sky,
What maid, _but an old maiden_, sleeps?
And you know not how sweet is the tone
Of a song from a lip we have press'd,
When it breathes it "by moonlight alone,"
To the ear of _the one_ it loves best.

Oh! daylight love's music but mars,
(As it breaks up the dance of the elves!)
The moon and the stream and the stars,
Should hear it alone with ourselves:
And who'd be content with "_I may_,"
If they only would think of "_I might_?"
Or _who'd_ listen to music by day,
That had listened to music by night?