Chapter XIV: Book IV: I. Explanation of the Enigma (1)

While the events we have described are taking place at Sorrento, we will retrace our steps to the Etruscan House, where we left Monte-Leone and Taddeo when the latter placed in the hands of the former the letter of La Felina. The Count opened the letter, and read:

"Taddeo--You told me in the prison of the palace of the Dukes of Palma, whither I went to find you, '_Love which speculates is not love. Mine will obey you for obedience' sake. Try, however, to ask something grand and difficult, that you may judge it by its fruits._'"

"Then you love her?" said Monte-Leone, interrupting himself.

"Read on," said Taddeo.

"'Your heart, Taddeo, is noble,' replied I. 'I have faith in it. May God grant that your strength do not betray your courage. In four days you will learn what I expect from you.' I write down what I expect, for I have not courage to tell you. I cannot crush your hopes, though I know that they cannot be realized. The feelings you have avowed to me, Taddeo, demand entire confidence: for it would be a crime to deceive a heart like yours. I will therefore tell you the truth, painful as it may be. It is a year since I came to Naples, having been attracted thither by a brilliant engagement at San Carlo. My success was as great as it had been in the other capitals of Italy. After the applause and ovations of the public--the truest and most discriminating of all--came privileged admirers; those, who, from their rank, birth, and fortune, have a right to pass the curtain of the sanctuary, and cast incense at the very foot of the idol; who can compliment the artiste on the stage, and follow her with their commonplaces to her very box. There was no scarcity of sacrificers. The noblest of Naples overwhelmed me with adulations; from compliments they came to declaration, and there, as at Rome, Venice, and elsewhere, I was persecuted by the insipid gallantries of suitors, to which every successful artiste possessed of any personal attraction must submit. To all these advances my heart remained cold, and my insensibility cost me nothing; for I neither loved nor wished to. A strange event, however, changed my plans. It was an evening of last autumn, and the air was as sultry as possible. Exhausted by the heat of the theatre, after the performance was over I sent my carriage home, and resolved, in company with my _confidante_, to return on foot. I avoided my many suitors, and escaped from the theatre by a back-door. The air was so pure, and the night so beautiful, that I walked for some time on the _chiaja_. It was late when I returned homeward. Crossing an isolated street, which I had taken to shorten the walk, my _confidante_ and myself were unexpectedly attacked by a party of men who stood beneath the portico of a palace. They had well-nigh stifled our cries with scarfs, which had been thrown over our heads, and we should possibly have been murdered, when a man, rushing sword in hand, I know not whence, attacked our aggressors, disarmed three of them, whom he put to flight, and killed the fourth by a dagger-thrust. Rapidly as possible, he then took off the bandages from our faces, and gave me, half dead with terror, his arm.

"A carriage passed, the stranger called to it, placed us in it, and said: 'A lady, signora, of your appearance, met in the streets of Naples at such an hour, doubtless is under the influence of some secret motive she would be unwilling to expose. My services to you have been too slight to warrant my questioning you. Now you have nothing to fear, and this carriage will take you any where you please. I will inquire into no orders which you may give.' 'But your name, signore?' said I. 'Count Monte-Leone,' said he, as he disappeared."

"That is true," said the Count. "I never knew, though, whom I had rescued from the hands of bandits."

He then began again to read:

"From that time the Count was, in spite of myself, the object of my constant thoughts and secret meditations. I was very anxious, at least, to know the features of the man, whom I had only seen in the dark; for the services he had rendered me, the courage he had displayed, even the sound of his voice, spoke both to my head and heart. One day, as I was crossing the street of Toledo, some young persons pointed out to me a cavalier, mounted on a noble horse. 'No one but Monte-Leone can ride such an animal as that. No one else rides so well.' 'He is the handsomest and most brilliant of our young nobles,' said another. 'What a pity he gives himself so completely to the people,' said a third. The Count, whom I saw then for the first time, was the realization of all my youthful dreams and illusions. I loved the Count, though I did not know it. From the moment I saw him, my heart and soul were consecrated to him."

A painful sigh, uttered near Monte-Leone, made the Count look at young Rovero, the pallor of whom indicated intense suffering.

"My friend," said the Count, taking his hand, "what matters it if Felina love me, provided I do not love her?"

"Some day you may love her," said Taddeo.

"No," said the Count.

"And why?"

"Because I have but one heart, and that is another's."

A happy smile lighted up the face of Rovero, and Monte-Leone continued to read, with as much _sang-froid_ as if another were the subject of the letter:

"You wished to know which of the four I loved; excuse me, Taddeo, but now I have told you all. From that time I conceived an ardent devotion to Monte-Leone. My passion was, however, of that kind which only demands the gratification of the soul. All I had heard of the Count's character, of his errors, follies, and numerous passions, far from alienating, rendered him still dearer to me. It seemed that his lofty, generous disposition, full of courage and honor, had wanted nothing but a guide, or rather an angel, to wrest him from the torment of the life he had prepared for himself."

The Count paused, and reflected for a few moments, which seemed centuries to Rovero. He then began again to read:

"Ah, had I met Monte-Leone in the days of my innocence, in the days when I also looked for some one to guide my early steps, with my hand in his, with my heart beating against his, I should, perhaps, have avoided the rocks on which I have been wrecked? To the Count, however, I could be now but an ordinary woman, whose attractions might, perhaps, for the moment fascinate him, but whom he would soon cast aside, as he has his other conquests: then I feel _I should have killed him!_"

The Count quietly read on:

"I loved him too fondly to become his mistress; yet his image pursued me by night and day. At last my heart, in its immense and pure love, inspired me with the noblest and purest idea: 'Be more than a woman, be more than a mistress to him,' said I to myself, 'be a providence, a secret and protecting providence which preserves him in all dangers, and provides all his happiness.' Alas! I fancied that I had to defend Monte-Leone only against the ordinary perils of life, against the rivalry excited by his triumphs, and not against the serious dangers to which his opinions subjected him. I soon heard the rumors which were being circulated about the Count, learned of his danger, and the perilous part he had to play in relation to the secret societies. I learned all this from public rumor, but I needed other aid and information to guide me in the defence of him I loved. Among those most carried away by my talent, and if I must say so, most captivated by my beauty, was the Duke of Palma, minister of police. I received the minister kindly, and without yielding to his persuasions, conferred trifling favors on him. His confidence in me was immense. When I was stern to him he became desperate, but he professed there was such a charm in my company that he sought constantly to see me. Minister as he was, he became not my _sicisbeo_, for that I would consent to at no price, but my _cavaliero sirviente_, thus occupying the second grand hierarchy of love. I learned from the minister himself the snares prepared for Monte-Leone, twenty times I informed your friend of them, and enabled him to avoid them. In the same manner I heard of your imprudent folly at the ball of San-Carlo, and you know what I did to avert its consequences. A certain Lippiani, a skilful officer placed by means of my influence in the Neapolitan police, while paying a visit of inspection to the jailor of the Castle _Del Uovo_, contrived to introduce into the prisoner's loaf the mysterious information he received. The imagination, or rather the genius of the Count, inspired him with a design to secure his liberty. To assure the success of this ruse, the Count escaped for some hours from his prison, and amid that season of trouble, energy, and anguish, Monte-Leone lost the famous ring he always wears. This loss again placed his life and liberty in danger. Then I conceived a hardy and bold plan, which cannot succeed without your aid and devotion. On that, however, for you so promised me, I rely. I learned that you were a prisoner, but were about to be released. You can then aid me, but it is necessary to awake no suspicion. Aware of every outlet to the palace, which had often been shown to me by the Duke of Palma, I remembered a certain secret passage and door hidden in a pillar, whither the Duke often comes, to hear, unseen, the examinations of prisoners. Thither I sought to come. The porter admitted me at night; doubtless, fancying I was come to keep an appointment with his master. Of what value, however, were honor and reputation to me compared with his danger. Now, Taddeo, read with attention the lines I am about to write; follow my advice exactly, or Monte-Leone is lost.

"I obtained possession for a few days of the emerald lost by the Count, and which had been sent by his enemies to the Duke of Palma. At a great cost I caused a similar one to be made by one of the most skilful workmen of Naples. The copy will be easily recognized: _that is what I wish_. I have substituted it for the original, and placed it myself in the minister's jewel case, the key of which he had given to me to take an antique _cameo_, the design of which I wished. The false ring will be given to the Count, instead of the true one, which is in the _coffret_ I have placed by you. Go to Monte-Leone's house, during the night after your release. I am too closely watched now, to dare go thither myself. Give this ring to the old servant, tell him to deliver it to the judges, but not till the trial. The enemies of whom I spoke will be overcome by this pretended proof of their imposition, and the safety of the Count will be sure. I have told you all. Now, Taddeo, excuse me for having pained you by my disclosure. Excuse me for having unfolded all my heart to you, excuse me for having permitted you to read my most secret sentiments. Your love deserves something better than mine; but if it inspire you with any pity for me, rescue the Count from the executioner, and know that to save Monte-Leone is to save La Felina."

"What a woman!" said the Count, as he let fall the letter; "what passion and devotion!"

"Ah!" said Taddeo, who looked anxiously into the eyes of the Count, to divine the effect produced by the singer's letter, "you see her devotion pleases and touches you:--that you love her----"

"Taddeo," said the Count, with great emotion, "that woman was my providence, and defended me against my accusers.... She saved my life.... It is a noble heart that thus hopelessly devotes itself. Let me give her all my gratitude.... A poor and sterile recompense for such devotion. The other sentiments of my heart you shall also know!"

Rising up with the dignified and lofty air of a noble, he said:

"Taddeo Rovero, Count Monte-Leone asks of you the hand of Aminta Rovero, your sister."

Just then a painful exclamation was heard in the next room. Monte-Leone seized his dagger and rushed to the door. He threw it open, and a strange spectacle presented itself to him. A woman, pale and trembling, leaned on the arm of an old man. Her eyes, fixed and tearful, seemed to look without seeing, and her ears appeared to catch no sound. It was La Felina. She was sustained by old Giacomo.

"Excuse me, Monsignore, she was permitted to come in; for Signor Rovero, when he brought your ring, said you owed your safety to her."

"Felina!" said Taddeo. He fell at the singer's feet.

She remained motionless as a statue whose lips only were living.

"Signore Monte-Leone," said she, "I leave Naples to-night, and for ever. Before I did so, however, I wished to see and give you a piece of advice. Death menaces you from all sides, and your most insignificant actions are observed. Escape from the country, for here you will no longer find the faithful friends who have watched over you."

"Say, Signora, the _faithful friend_, the generous providence who saved me from the axe of the executioner."

"You know all, Signor," said La Felina; and she looked at Taddeo--"my secret has been revealed to you--for blushing, however, I now acknowledge with pride that it is true, for it has won for me the expressions you uttered just now. Alas!" said she bitterly, "I should have fled and have heard no more."

Tears filled her eyes; overcoming her emotion, however, she said:

"My mission is fulfilled, Count Monte-Leone, for you will live and be happy. If misfortune, though, befall you, do not forget that one heart in the world will taste of all your sorrow.--Taddeo," said she, giving the young man her hand, "time and reason will exert their influence on so noble a heart, and ere long you will find one worthy of you. Forget me," she added, when she saw him about to reply, "do not speak to me of sentiments the intensity of which I know--and I will assist you to triumph. To-morrow you will love me less. I know so. To-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Taddeo.

"Yes," said Felina, "and in a little time I shall be but the shadow of a dream, which some reality will expel from your heart."

She went towards the door.

"Signori," said she, when she saw Monte-Leone and Taddeo preparing to follow her, "I came hither with confidence in the honor of two gentlemen, who, I am sure, will not leave the room until I shall have left. Do not be afraid," she continued, with a faint smile on her lips, "a carriage awaits, but not to convey me to the Castle _Del Uovo_."

Then casting on the Count a glance instinct with sadness and regret, she offered her hand to Taddeo, who covered it with kisses, and preceded by Giacomo left the room. For some moments the two friends looked at each other in silence. Taddeo then went towards the door, saying:

"But I am a fool to let her escape thus."

He crossed the court and went to the door of the room. The carriage, however, was gone, and far in the distance he heard the sound of the wheels.

II.--A LAST APPEARANCE.

The hearts of Monte-Leone and of Taddeo Rovero were, after the departure of the singer, in very different conditions. Monte-Leone, delighted with the present, and with the prospect of future success, to be attained as the husband of Aminta, forgot all else--even the terrible responsibility which weighed on him as the chief of a faction of forbidden societies, and the perpetual dangers with which it menaced him. Monte-Leone had an energetic heart but a volatile mind, over which the accidents of life glide like the runner of a sleigh over polished ice, almost without leaving traces.

A circumstance of which we will speak of by and by, aroused the Count from his peace of soul to cast him in the waves of that sea of politics where shipwrecks are so common and tempests so usual. The only idea which occupied Taddeo was to see La Felina again. He said rightly enough that the rays of such a star could not long be concealed; that its glory and success would always betray it, and that the farewell token of Monte-Leone in the Etruscan house would not be for ever.

Under the influence, then, of very different sentiments, the two friends returned to the Count's hotel at Naples. Less beautiful than the magnificent palace of Monte-Leone, it did not, like the latter, render indispensable the numerous and imposing array of servants, of which his somewhat restricted fortune deprived Monte-Leone. Descried by its master during the whole time of his seclusion, this hotel had been the scene of the ruinous pleasures of the Count. Splendid festivals had been given there; joyous suppers had been proposed, and the shadow of more than one graceful dame, wrapped in silken folds, had been traced at midnight on the great white marble wall of the portico.

Giacomo, who had left the Etruscan house at an early hour, had superintended the preparation of the hotel for its master, and the unfolding of the tall wide windows made the house seem to stare on the sunlight, like blind persons who but recently have recovered their sight. The resuscitation of the hotel of Monte-Leone, as people in the Toledo-street said, created a great sensation in that quarter. The Count and Taddeo had been there but a short time, when Giacomo, evidently in a very bad humor, announced Signor Pignana. Many of the Count's friends who had heard of his return came to see him and crowded around him. They arose to leave when the new-comer was announced; but they paused when they saw the strange person introduced.

"_Buon giorno caro mio Pignana_,"[O] said the Count, advancing to meet him. "You are not the last to visit me, and I am deeply touched by your visit. He is my landlord, Signori, an excellent man. Something of an Arab, it is true, in money matters; but as he is an old tradesman, you see it is impossible for him to change his habits. For twenty years he furnished the family liveries, and the result is that now he is richer than me."

"Ah, my Lord," said Pignana, "you flatter me."

"Not at all, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "Now you can yourself have liveries with the Pignana arms, '_Two winged shears on a field argent_,' a regular tailor's escutcheon."

"How then," asked one of the young men, "is Signor Pignana your landlord--is it of this hotel or of your beautiful palace?"

"Ah," said the Count, "he is not exactly my landlord yet, but he will be if my friend and creditor, Signor Pignana, continues to lend me money at cent. per cent. At present, however, the excellent man only owns my Etruscan house, a very gem of a thing, which he rents to me, and for which I am much obliged."

"It is I who am obliged," muttered Pignana.

"Ah!" said the Count, with a smile, "I believe you. That house had nearly become historical. If the executioner of Naples, the father of a family, and passionately fond of flowers," continued the Count to his friends, "with whom I passed a fortnight at the Castle _Del Uovo_, had been forced to arrange matters for me, the house in which Monte-Leone was arrested would have become historical. Pignana could have let it out to tourists, and could have retailed the stores for the London museums. Instead of this piece of good fortune, which I am very glad was not Pignana's, he possesses a good tenant, who will some day pay him punctually, when he has himself been paid all that is due him; for you can fancy how the arrest of one man discourages the business of others. All his debtors, all the friends of his purse, leap with joy; he seems at once outlawed, especially to those who are indebted to him. The most honest merely pray that his imprisonment may be prolonged; the least delicate pray that the executioner may send them a receipt."

"But the Count also has some true friends who would be distressed at his death," said Pignana. "Monsignore counts me among them."

Pignana probably uttered these words under the influence of great emotion, for a tear hung on the lid of his eye above an aquiline nose of immense size.

"My dear Pignana," said the Count, "I know how far I can depend on you, for _I know you_."

Monte-Leone accented this word, the significance of which to Pignana was very expressive, for he looked proudly around, as if the Count had given him a certificate of valor and courage.

"I am about to give you the list of our men--that is to say of our transactions,"[P] said the old man, eagerly correcting himself.

"Yes," said Monte-Leone, who had glanced sternly at him, "the list of our transactions. Go on, Pignana, go on, prove your account and diminish the total, contrary to your wont; above all, exhibit your vouchers; that is especially important."

"Do not trouble yourself, Monsignore: I have all regular, and now you must pay in person."

"In person," replied the Count. "Yes, Pignana, I will thus discharge my obligations without having recourse to a third party. Go thither, however, at once," said he, and he pushed the tailor into the next room. "You will find writing materials," he added, aside, "and no one to listen to you."

"Excuse me, Signori," said he, speaking to his friends; "you have seen one of the greatest misfortunes of our rank, the necessity of civility to a fool who is a creditor."

Just then Taddeo Rovero, who had gone out when Pignana entered, came in, introducing a handsome lad of about eighteen.

"Count," said he, to Monte-Leone, "let me introduce you to Signor Gaetano Brignoli, a friend of my family."

"Then, Signor," said the Count, "you are a friend of mine; for all whom they love are dear to me."

"Ah! Count," said Gaetano, "how much uneasiness your trial has caused all at Sorrento! Especially to myself, who was particularly charged by the charming Aminta to inform her of all the details of the trial. I set out on the night before your trial to be one of the first in the hall."

"I scarcely dare," said the Count, with an expression of great pleasure, "to think the Signorina entertains such interest in my behalf."

"It was not precisely of yourself that she spoke," replied Gaetano, "but of my friend Taddeo, her brother, who was known to be compromised with you, and about whom she, naturally enough, was interested."

The Count grew slightly pale as he saw this gratification wrested from him.

"By-the-by, Signori," said Gaetano, "you have heard the news with which all the city and suburbs echo, and which makes almost as much noise as the trial of the Count Monte-Leone."

"I trust," said the Count, bitterly, "that the news is more pleasant."

"Infinitely more so," continued Gaetano. "Every one is talking of it, and crazed with it--especially myself, who am a _pazzo per la musica_, like the here of Fioravanti. You know, Signori, nothing is more pleasant than to win again a pleasure we fancy to have been lost to us."

"Go on," said Taddeo, who had a presentiment that something pleasant was about to be related. The very mention of music made him quiver.

"Well, Signori," said Gaetano, "the Sicilian siren, the fairy _La Felina_, sings to-night at San Carlo."

"La Felina?" said all the listeners at once.

"La Felina! impossible!" said Rovero. "She left Naples last night."

"Certainly she did," said Gaetano; "and that makes the matter more charming and pleasant. _La Felina_ has her caprices as all pretty women, and singers especially. That is the condition and very qualification of talent. A _prima donna_ who did not keep the public uneasy about her health, her business, or her amours, one who did not outrage the manager, would not be a complete woman. How could she? One does not earn a hundred thousand francs a year for acting as if the salary was only a thousand crowns. It would be vulgar and common and altogether unbecoming a fine lady. La Felina, therefore, annoyed by the effect produced on the public mind by the drama of the Trial of Count Monte-Leone, which occupied the attention she thought should be engrossed by her own performances, would not appear while the trial was going on. She was about to throw up her engagement, and actually did so, when she was at the Porta-Capuana. The patrons of the opera, with the empresario at their head, accompanied by the orchestra and troupe, not wanting an enormous crowd of other admirers of _la Diva_, and they are many, prevented the carriage from passing. She was surrounded, pressed, and besought to such a degree that she was dragged back to her hotel, and promised to sing once more in the Griselda of the _Maestro Paer_, the best of all her characters. You can fancy the enthusiasm thus excited, and how all struggle to secure seats. I paid for mine thrice the usual price, and think I am very fortunate."

For a moment Taddeo said nothing, he saw nothing, and scarcely breathed. He was half stifled with joy and surprise. To see one again, from whom he had expected to be separated for so long a time, and perhaps for ever, seemed to him a dream from which he seemed afraid to awake. The friends of the Count left: all hurried to the theatre to secure an opportunity of being present at the solemnity.

"Come, come," said Taddeo, hurrying young Brignoli away. "I must go to San Carlo to-night at any price, even at that of my life!"

"Indeed!" said Gaetano, "I did not think you so passionate a dilettante. You exceed me--to pay for music with gold is well enough, but with life--ah, that is altogether a different thing; mine is valuable, and I keep it for greater occasions."

The Count stopped Rovero just as he was about to leave.

"What," said he, with an air of deep concern, "will you not go with me to-morrow to Sorrento?"

"To-morrow, to-morrow, for pity's sake," said Taddeo in a low tone. "Let me be happy to-day, and I will devote all my life to you."

He left with Gaetano.

"No, no," said Monte-Leone, "I will not wait a day, not an hour, before I see Aminta,--even if I go to Sorrento alone. I will go thither at once."

"Impossible," said a grave voice behind the Count.

The latter turned around and saw Pignana, who had glided unseen from the room as soon as he heard the young people leave.

"Why so?" said the Count.

"Why, Monsignore?" replied Pignana, who, casting aside the air and manner of a retired tradesman, became a dry and cold old man with a dignified bearing. "Because our brothers, terrified at your arrest, were on the point of dissolving the _vente_.--Because, it has been reported that your excellency was on the point of abandoning the cause, and laying aside the functions of supreme chief:--Because, the principal _Carbonari_, the agent of whom I am, wish to be informed of your intentions, and to be assured by you personally that you will not abandon them."

"Then," said the Count, with a gesture of ill-restrained temper, for these political embarrassments came in conflict with ideas which were far dearer to him, "that is the meaning of what you said just now. How can I restore confidence to our associates? The Neapolitan police watches over me; the least imprudence, the slightest exhibition of the existence of our association, would revive all, and endanger the fate and future success of the society, and also my life. You have few men of energy among you; you, who are one of the most devoted, trembled _in the presence of my friends_. You deserve to be hissed like a bad actor in a good part! Listen to me, Pignana: I wish to be your chief; I wish to risk a heavy stake in your cause; but now, especially when heavy matters weigh on me, I do not purpose to appear in _political comedy_. I wish to play a serious part, the theories of which are actions, with many deeds and few words. I will do all that is necessary to serve our cause, but nothing more. Remember this. The Castle _Del Uovo_, dungeons beneath the sea, the executioner and conversations with the Grand-Judge, warn me to be careful and prudent. Ask me, then, nothing more. In eight days our great general _venta_ will be held at the monastery of San Paola, fifty leagues from Naples. I will be there, and will tell you what our brethren in France and Germany have informed me of. Until then, however, question me about nothing."

"We do not, Monsignore," replied Pignana, who was aware of the firmness of the Count, and saw at once that he had mistaken his course. "The association, which admires your excellency, especially since the trial, which looks on your excellency as a martyr, asks nothing except one favor, which will overwhelm it with gratitude and joy."

"And what is that favor?" rejoined the Count.

"That Monsignore will appear to-night at San Carlo in a box, the key of which I have with me. This box may be seen from every part of the house. All of our principal men will be present, and if Monsignore will advance, during the interlude, to the front of the box, _placing his hand on his heart_, all our friends will know that they may rely on him."

"By my faith, shrewd as the Duke of Palma is, suspicious as the police may be, I do not think this can be construed into an act of treason. It pledges me to nothing. The ladies to whom we make the gesture understand it. I will then make this exhibition of my person, as the English say, and I will increase the interest of the performance by my presence. In a word, I will appear for the benefit of La Felina. The brave girl and myself will not even then be quits."

"Thank you, Count," said Pignana, as he left--"and now, adieu, until we meet at San Carlo."

* * * * *

A few hours after the scene we have described, an immense crowd thronged every entry to the theatre of San Carlo. It was not, however, the joyous crowd intoxicated with folly which we have seen hurry into its precincts at the commencement of this story. On this occasion the public seemed rather busy than in search of pleasure. It was a matter of importance, indeed, to be present at the last appearance of La Felina. The keys of the boxes, therefore, according to the Italian custom, were sold at the door of the theatre, and at double the usual price. I speak only of the small number of boxes, the proprietors of which were absent from Naples. We may also as well add, that in Naples a box is often _property_. All the other boxes were occupied by illustrious personages, or by the wealthiest inhabitants of the great city. San Carlo on that night was brilliant as possible. The Count had just come. The women glittered with flowers and diamonds. As on the occasion of the masked ball, the theatre was illuminated _a giorno_. No detail of the festival, no beauty present could escape observation. Count Monte-Leone appeared in the box which had been reserved for him, which soon became the object of every lorgnette and the theme of every conversation. He bore this annoying attention with icy _sang-froid_, seeming even not to observe it. His vanity, however, was secretly gratified, and we have said that this was his weak point. The overture began, and the curtain was finally raised. During this time, and the first scenes of the opera, the private conversation was so loud and animated that the singers and orchestra were almost overpowered. Suddenly silence was restored--admiration as respectful as that which precedes a sovereign's arrival pervaded all.

The true Queen of Naples, at this moment, was La Felina. This complete calmness was soon succeeded by a thunder of applause. A thousand voices uttered a long shout of commingled bravos and hurras. La Felina was on the stage. This delirium produced by a single person, this passionate worship expressed by an almost furious admiration, those thousand hearts hung to the lips of a single person, is found only on the stage, and was one of the triumphs which Naples decreed to the greatest artist in Italy. A report was in circulation, also, which added to this almost furious admiration. It was said, that she was about to retire for ever, and that this was her last appearance. The eyes of love have a secret and admirable instinct, enabling them to see what persons who are indifferent cannot discover. Among this eager and compact crowd, the glances of La Felina were immediately attracted to a point of the hall, to a single box in which Monte-Leone sat. To him Felina acted and sang, and she was sublime. At the moment when Paer's heroine appeared, a single voice was heard above all others, and the person who had uttered it, having exhausted all the powers of his soul, during the whole time Felina was on the stage, stood with his eyes fixed on her, as if he had been fascinated by some charm he could not shake off.

"Poor Taddeo," said the Count, when he saw him, "why does she not love him?"

The first act was concluded by a torrent of bouquets, which the audience threw at the feet of their favorite actress. The curtain fell. This was the moment expected by the associate of Monte-Leone. Faithful to his promise, the Count leaned forward in his box, naturally as possible, and looked around the brilliant assembly. He then placed his hand on his heart, and disappeared in the recess of his box. Before, however, he left, he heard a confused and joyous murmur, which rose from the parquet to the boxes, and became lost in the arch of the gilded ceiling.

"_They were there_," said Monte-Leone, "and Pignana must be satisfied. I have done all he asked literally."

A few friends joined the Count in his box.

"Indeed, dear Monte-Leone," said one of these, with whom he was most intimate, a friend of his childhood, "You have resumed your old habits."

"What do you mean?"

"That, scarcely out of prison, I saw you from my box beginning a new intrigue by exchanging signs with some fair unknown. This, too, at San Carlo. This is bold, indeed, unless the hand on your heart is the resumption of an old intrigue, interrupted, perhaps, by your imprisonment."

"I do not understand you, Barberini," said the Count, not a little annoyed. "I made no sign to any one."

"Perhaps so: if you please, I was mistaken. But if I am, it is all the better; for it proves to me that you no longer adhere to the plans you once confided to me. I was delighted, too, at what I heard yesterday evening."

"Of what plans do you speak?" replied the Count, moved, in spite of himself, by this half-confidence.

"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?"

"True," said the Count.

"Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you have a rival."

"A rival!" said the Count.

"Yes, and perhaps a happy one."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her honor, touches mine also."

"I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard."

"What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his head.

"One of my young relations," continued Count Barberini, "was at an entertainment given on the recurrence of her daughter's birthday by Signora Rovero. He spoke to me of a Frenchman who is with them, and who seems passionately fond of the young Aminta."

"And then?" said Monte-Leone, with the same tone in which he would have asked the executioner to strike him with certainty.

"And then! why that is all," said Barberini, who had become terrified at Monte-Leone's manner. "I heard nothing more.... If I did, I would take care to be silent when you look so furiously. All this interests me very slightly. One's own love affairs are too troublesome to enable us to occupy ourselves with those of others.... There, too, is the Countess d'Oliviero, waving her bouquet so impatiently to and fro that I see she will break it to pieces unless I go. I must leave you, to save her flowers." The young man left.

"I was right," said he, "not to tell the story of the night affair of which my kinsman was a witness. I think he would have killed me at once."

III. A PATERNAL LETTER

On the day after the terrible night during which Aminta had strayed in her sleep to the room of Maulear, two ladies met at about nine in the morning in the saloon of the villa of Sorrento, and were locked in each other's arms.

"Yes, my child," said one of them, "your sleep has given an interpretation to all that has passed, and I understand all. Your honor cannot suffer, for you are chaste and pure."

"In your eyes, dear mother, I am; but in those of the world, which they tell me is so envious and malicious! Even last night, when every eye was fixed on me, I fancied that I read suspicion and contempt in the expression of more than one."

"No, my child," replied Signora Rovero, clasping her to her heart, "I saw almost all our guests this morning, immediately before they left. They had already heard of your somnambulism, and our servants had told how you suffered with it from your childhood. All are convinced of your innocence."

"Dear mother, do not think so. They spoke to you only with their lips, but believe me guilty."

"Mother," added she, with that strange emotion to which she was sometimes a victim, "I think that this unfortunate affair is but the beginning of the realization of the unfortunate fate which I know is reserved for me. It seems to me that on yesterday our evil days began."

She hid her head in her mother's bosom to conceal her tears, and to find a refuge against the misfortunes she feared.

A servant came in, and said, "The Marquis de Maulear wishes to wait on the ladies."

"Mother, mother," said Aminta, "how can I refrain from blushing before him?"

Signora Rovero bade the servant show the Marquis in. Then arranging Aminta's beautiful hair, she kissed her forehead, and said:

"Daughter, one never blushes in the presence of a husband."

Aminta, with great surprise, looked at her mother.

"Ah, ah!" said Madame Rovero, with a smile, "a parent's eyes see much."

Before Aminta had time to speak, the Marquis entered. He was pale and excited.

"Signora," said he to Aminta's mother, "I come to beg you to pardon me for a great fault."

"To what, Signor, do you refer?"

"Of the greatest of all faults, after the manner in which I have been received, and your kindness towards me--for not having confided in you, and said yesterday what I wish to say to-day. Yet only from you have I kept my secret. Yesterday, nothing obliged you to grant me the favor I am about to solicit: yesterday, you might have refused it. To-day, perhaps, it will be less difficult. A circumstance favorable only to myself," added he, with a timid glance at Aminta, "marks out my conduct, which assumes now the aspect of an obligation. It fulfils all my wishes, and makes me the happiest of men. In one word, signora, I come to beg that you will suffer me to become allied to your family."

"Marquis," said Signora Rovero, "I expected to hear you speak thus, for I was sure of your honor. But far from wishing that now for the first time you had informed my daughter of the sentiments with which she has inspired you, I rejoice that your course has been different. Without this motive, signor, neither my daughter nor I would accept the alliance you wish to offer us. _No reparation can be exacted, where no fault has been committed._ I wish to strengthen your conscience, by assuring you, that in my opinion nothing obliges you to the course you have adopted, if it interferes with your prospects and success."

The last expressions of Signora Rovero produced a deep sensation on Maulear, and a shadow of uneasiness passed over his brow. She had ignorantly touched a sensitive chord of the heart of the young lover. Led astray by his heart, seduced invincibly by charms which were so new to him, Maulear, under the influence of passion, had entered on the flowery route, at the end of which he caught a glimpse of happiness. In the delirium of passion, he had forgotten that a severe judge, that the imperious master of his destiny, that a father, with principles eminently aristocratic, like all fathers in 1768, awaited to absolve or acquit him, to receive or repel him, to unite or to sever--in one word, to make him happy or miserable. All these important ideas were at once evoked in the mind of Maulear by the last sentence Signora Rovero had uttered. It was this hidden and sombre apparition which arose between Maulear and her he loved, the sinister aspect of which was reflected in a manner by the expression of Aminta's lover.

Signorina Rovero perceived it, and with the acute discrimination she possessed to so high a degree, said, in the melodious tones which touched all who heard them:

"Marquis, my mother has spoken for her family, I will speak for myself. You have informed us of the noble family to which you belong. I know that your wife one day will be a princess, and I wish you to remember, that she, to whom you offer this title, is the daughter of 'a noble of yesterday;' the glory of whom is derived from her daughter's virtues. This, Marquis, I say not for you, but for others. Excuse me, too, for what you are about to hear. If I have need of courage to own it to you, perhaps you will require all your generosity to hearken to it." With a trembling voice she added: "As yet, I do not reciprocate the sentiments you have expressed. To the hope, though, which I permitted you to entertain yesterday, let me add, that I am additionally gratified by the offer of your hand; for in the eyes of many persons, signor, in the eyes of those who were witnesses of our presence together last night, you would not now marry her you were anxious to espouse yesterday.

"I shall marry an angel!" said Maulear, falling on his knees before Aminta, "an angel of candor and virtue. If your heart does not yet reciprocate the love you inspire, my care and tenderness will so delight you, that some day you will love me."

"Well, then," said she to Maulear, "grant me one favor. Suffer me to await that day. Take pity on a poor girl full of terror and apprehension, at a tie she has always feared. Grant her heart time to make itself worthy of you, Marquis, and remember that until then you are free. As my mother has told you, nothing binds you to me. Now you owe me nothing, nor will you, until I shall confide my destiny to your hands, when you will owe me the happiness you promise me."

"You do not consent? Then, Signorina, I will wait. Henceforth, however, I am pledged _to you_; and my hand and heart are yours."

Just then a servant told Maulear that a courier from Naples had brought him important letters. The Marquis bade adieu to the two ladies, and left.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, in a tone of affectionate reproach, "what must a man do to win your love?"

"I do not know; I am certainly foolish, but I am afraid!"

Maulear found the courier of the French embassy in his room. "An urgent letter from France," said he, to Maulear.

Henri read the direction and shuddered. It was from the Prince de Maulear. The Prince wrote rarely. What did he ask? The son who felt that he had acted incorrectly in disposing of his hand, without consulting the head of his family, trembled before he broke the seal. The character of Maulear was weak, as we have said, and, like people of this kind, the prospect of danger and misfortune annoyed him more than the reality itself. At last he resolved to know all, and with a trembling hand opened the letter. He read as follows:

"Paris, April 10, 1816.

"MY SON:--I often hear of you, not through your own letters, for you write rarely, but through other friends, whom I have requested to keep me _au fait_. I know what kind of life you lead at Naples, and am dissatisfied with you. The son of a shop-keeper and a banker would act more like a gentleman than you. People talk of you here no better than they do of the deputy of the hangman. I had hoped the Marquis de Maulear would behave more correctly in a foreign country. I was no older than you are, when I went as secretary of legation to Madrid. Three months afterwards I was recalled. I had run away with three women, fought four duels, and lost at cards fifty thousand crowns. That was something to be recalled for. It was an assurance that in future I would be reasonable. When our youth reasons, and does not laugh, things go wrong. The King spoke to me yesterday about you. He asked me, if you found any thing to amuse you at Naples. I replied that you found too much to amuse you. 'I am glad of it,' said the King, 'so our family honor at least is saved.' Since, however, you are most ignobly virtuous, I have tried to turn the affair to the best advantage. I have brought about a magnificent match for you, to supersede one I have heard you were making for yourself. The lady is rich, noble, and beautiful. She is the daughter of the Duke d'Harcourt, one of the gentlemen in waiting of his majesty. You may, perhaps, at Naples have seen Rene d'Harcourt, the brother of the lady. The marriage will take place three months hence. I trust I have surprised you not unpleasantly. Adieu, my son. Your aunt, the Countess, sends her love to you, and amuses herself with the preparation of your _corbeille_.

"LE PRINCE DE MAULEAR.

"P.S. You have three months' more folly before you, and for the rest of your life you must be prudent. I have opened a credit of one hundred thousand livres in your favor, with the banker Antonio Lamberti."

The letter fell from the hands of the Marquis, and he sank on his chair completely overwhelmed. Like a thunder-bolt, it aroused him from a happy dream. There are, in fact, in all love matters, certain moments of intoxication, when men, ordinarily sensible, become blunderers. For a month the Marquis had been in this condition, half reasonable, half mad. Living with one thought prominent, all others were indistinct to him. To him love was every thing. His father, with his antiquated obstinacy, imbued with retrograde principles, disappeared like a ghost before the brilliant reality of passion. Besides, fear of a rival, dread of the brilliant Count Monte-Leone, who, full of love, as Henri had heard, aspired to nothing more than to become the husband of Aminta left him no other alternative, than to do what another was about to--make an offering of his hand and faith. Lovers, too, see nothing but the object of their passion; and Henri sometimes thought his father would agree with him. The strange epistle of the Prince had however reversed all his dreams. The anger of the Prince when he should learn that a marriage had been contracted, contrary to his wishes, and in spite of his orders, might possibly exert a terrible influence on the fortune and future fate of the young couple; without regarding the chagrin and humiliation to which he would subject Aminta by bringing her into a family without the consent of its head.

Maulear passed three days in this cruel perplexity, sometimes hoping and then fearing that Aminta would yield to his prayer. His heart wished. His mind feared. If Signorina Rovero should accept his hand, it would be necessary for him to decide, to act; and then, from the weakness of his character, Maulear would be subjected to cruel uncertainty.

A few days after the scene which had occurred in his room, Maulear and the ladies sat together in a boudoir near the _salon_, which opened on the park, a view of which Aminta was taking. The Marquis had been reading to the ladies the trial of Count Monte-Leone from the _Diario di Napoli_. This curious story, full of surprises, the noble energy, the wonderful _sang-froid_ of the Count, the remarks of the journalist on the character of the prisoner, and the unjust accusation to which he had been subjected, and which he had so completely refuted, and to which he had submitted with such nobleness and heroism, all was listened to with the greatest interest. Maulear had read all this much to his own dissatisfaction, because Signora Rovero had requested it. The praises of Monte-Leone were most unpleasant to him.

Aminta heard every word. Every detail of the Count's daring, every change of character in this judicial drama, awakened an inexplicable emotion in her. It seemed that Count Monte-Leone, to whose singular story she had listened, was a far different man from the one she had imagined him to be. His powerful mind, his exalted soul, all the powers of which had been developed by the trial, conferred on Monte-Leone new proportions hitherto not realized by her. Count Monte-Leone, whom she had seen at home, almost timid in the presence of her he adored, annoyed by his false position as a refugee, suffering from a passion he dared not own, was not the person of whom she had heard for the past month. Looking down on her drawing, which her increasing absence of mind made almost invisible to her, Aminta sought to recall the features of the Count which had been nearly effaced from her memory. Gradually, however, they arose before her. Had her mother then spoken, had her glances been diverted from the album on which they were fixed, a strange trouble and confusion would have been visible, when aroused from this meditation. The sound of wheels entering the court yard of the villa broke the charm which entranced Aminta, and made Signora Rovero utter a cry of joy.

"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter, let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."

Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter. This man was MONTE-LEONE.

IV.--TWO RIVALS.