“This announcement came upon me like a thunderbolt. I turned sick at heart—my eyes grew dim—my brain whirled—I staggered and should have fallen had I not come in contact with a wall. It appeared to me afterward that sobs of ineffable agony fell upon my ears, while I was yet in a state of semi-stupefaction—and methought likewise that a delicate, soft hand pressed mine convulsively for a moment. Certain it was, that when I recovered my presence of mind, when I was enabled to collect my scattered thoughts, the executioner’s daughter was no longer near me. I was in despair at the revelation which had been made—overwhelmed with grief, too, at having suffered her thus to depart—for I feared that I should never see her more. Before me was my hopeless love, behind me, like an evil dream, was the astounding announcement which still rang in my ears, though breathed in such soft and plaintive tones! Three or four minutes were wasted in the struggles of conflicting thoughts, ere I was sufficiently master of myself to remember that I might still overtake the maiden who had fled from me. It struck me that her father’s dwelling must be near the criminal prison; and this was in the squalid quarter of the town where I had first encountered her. Thither I sped—into the dark streets, so perilous after dusk, I plunged; and at length I overtook the object of my affection, just as she was skirting the very wall of the prison. I seized her by the hand and implored her to forgive me for the manner in which I had received the last explanation to which I had urged her.
“‘It was natural that you should shrink in loathing from the bare idea,’ she said, in a tone which rent my heart. ‘And now leave me, signor; for further conversation between us is useless.’
“‘No,’ I exclaimed; ‘I will not leave you until I shall have exacted from you a promise that you will be mine, and only mine! For I could not live without you; and most unjust should I be, most unworthy of the name of a man, if I were to allow a contemptible prejudice to stand in the way of my happiness.’
“She returned no answer, but the rapidity of her breathing and the ill subdued sobs which interrupted her respiration at short intervals, convinced me that a fierce struggle was taking place within her bosom. For it was now quite dark and I could not see her face; the hand, however, which I held clasped in my own, trembled violently.
“‘Beautiful maiden,’ I said after a long pause, ‘wherefore do you not reply to me? Were I the proudest peer in Christendom, I would sacrifice every consideration of rank and family for your sake. What more can man say? What more can he do?’
“‘Signor Cornari,’ she answered at length, ‘prudence tells me to fly from you; but my heart prompts me to remain. Alas! I feel that the latter feeling is dominant within me!’
“‘And you will be mine?’ I demanded eagerly.
“‘Thine forever!’ she murmured, her head sinking upon my breast.
“But I shall not dwell unnecessarily on this portion of my narrative. Suffice it to say we parted, having arranged another meeting for the next evening. It was on this occasion that I said to her:
“‘Vitangela, I have thought profoundly on all that passed between us yesterday; and I am more than ever determined to make you my wife. Let us away to your father, and demand his consent to our union.’
“‘Stay,’ she said, in an emphatic tone, ‘and hear me patiently ere you either renew the promise to wed me, or reiterate your desire to seek my father. You must know,’ she continued, while I listened with painful suspense, ‘that my father will not oppose a step in which his daughter’s happiness is involved. But the very moment that sees our hands joined, will behold the registry of the marriage in the book kept by the lieutenant of police; and thereby will be constituted a record of the name of one who, if need be, must assume the functions of that office which my sire now fills.’
“‘What mean you, Vitangela?’ I demanded, horrified by the dim yet ominous significance of these horrible words.
“‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘that the terrible post of public executioner must remain in our family while it exists; and those who form marriages with us, are considered to enter into our family. When my father dies, my brother will succeed him, but should my brother die without leaving issue, or having a son to take his place, you, signor, if you become my husband, will be forced to assume the terrible office.’
“‘But I am not a Neapolitan,’ I exclaimed; ‘and I should hope that when we are united, you will not insist upon dwelling in Naples.’
“‘I would give worlds to leave this odious city,’ she said, emphatically.
“‘Nothing detains me here another day, nor another hour,’ I cried; ‘let the priest unite our hands, and we forthwith set off for Florence. But why should not our marriage take place privately, unknown even to your father? and in that case no entry could be made in the books of the lieutenant of police.’
“‘You have expressed that desire which I myself feared to utter, lest you should think it unmaidenly,’ she murmured. ‘For your sake I will quit home and kindred without further hesitation.’
“I was rejoiced at this proof of affection and confidence on her part; and it was arranged between us that we should be married on the ensuing evening, and in the most private way possible.
“Before we parted, however, I drew from her a solemn pledge that, when once she had become my wife, she would never even allude to her family—that she would not communicate to them the name of her husband nor the place of our abode, under any circumstance—in a word, that she would consider her father and brother as dead to her,—and she to them.
“With streaming eyes and sobbing heart she gave the sacred promise I required, ratifying it with an oath which I made her repeat to my dictation.
“On the ensuing evening Vitangela met me according to appointment, and it was then I revealed to her my real name and rank.
“‘Dearest girl,’ I said, ‘you gave me your heart, believing me to be a poor and humble individual; and you have consented to become my wife and abandon home and kindred for my sake. Profoundly then do I rejoice that it is in my power to elevate you to a position of which your beauty, your amiability and your virtue render you so eminently worthy; and in my own native Florence, no lady will be more courted, nor treated with greater distinction than the Countess of Riverola.’
“She uttered an exclamation of sorrow and would have fallen to the ground if I had not supported her.
“‘Oh!’ she murmured, ‘I would have been happier were you indeed the humble Signor Cornari!’
“‘No; think not thus,’ I urged, ‘wealth and rank are two powerful aids to happiness in this life. But at all events; my beloved Vitangela, you now recognize more than ever the paramount necessity which induces you to maintain inviolate your solemn vow of yesterday.’
“‘I require no such inducement to compel me to keep that pledge,’ she answered. ‘Think you that I would bring disgrace on the name, whether humble or lofty, with which you have proposed to honor me? Oh! no—never, never!”
“I embraced her fondly; and we proceeded to the dwelling of a priest, by whom our hands were united in the oratory attached to his abode. At daybreak we quitted Naples, and in due time we reached Florence, where my bride was received with enthusiastic welcome by all the friends of the Riverola family. My happiness appeared to have been established on a solid foundation by this alliance; and the birth of Nisida in 1495—just one year after the marriage—was a bond which seemed to unite our hearts the more closely if possible. Indeed, I can safely assert that not a harsh word ever passed between us, nor did aught occur to mar our complete felicity for years after our union. In 1500, however, a circumstance took place which proved to be the first link in the chain of incidents destined to wield a dire influence over my happiness. It was in the month of April of that year—oh! how indelibly is the detested date fixed on my memory—the Duke Piero de Medici gave a grand entertainment to all the aristocracy of Florence. The banquet was of the most excellent description; and the gardens of the palace were brilliantly illuminated. The days of Lorenzo the Magnificent seemed to have been revived for a short period by his degenerate descendant. All the beauty and rank of the republic were assembled at this festival; but no lady was more admired for the chaste elegance of her attire, the modest dignity of her deportment, and the loveliness of her person, than Vitangela, Countess of Riverola. After the banquet the company proceeded to the gardens, where bands of music were stationed, and while some indulged in the exhilarating dance, others sauntered through the brilliantly lighted avenues. I need not inform you that no husband, unless he were anxious to draw down upon himself the ridicule which attaches itself to extreme uxoriousness, would remain linked to his wife’s side all the evening at such an entertainment as the one of which I am speaking. I was therefore separated from the countess, whom I left in an arbor with some other ladies, and I joined the group which had assembled around the prince. I know not exactly how it was I happened to quit my companions, after a lively conversation which had probably lasted about an hour; certain, however, it is that before midnight I was proceeding alone down a long avenue in which utter darkness reigned, but outside of which the illuminations shone brilliantly.
“Suddenly I heard voices near me; and one of them appeared to be that of the Countess of Riverola—but they were speaking in so subdued a tone that I was by no means confident in my suspicion. The voices approached; and a sentiment of curiosity, unaccountable at the time, as I believed Vitangela to be purity itself, impelled me to listen more attentively. To conceal myself was not necessary; I had to remain perfectly still for my presence to be unknown, utter darkness prevailing in the avenue. The persons who were conversing advanced.
“‘You know,’ said the soft and whispering voice which I believed to be that of my wife, ‘you know how sincerely, how tenderly I love you, and what a frightful risk I run in according you thus a few moments’ private discourse!’
“The voice of a man made some reply, the words of which did not reach my ears; then the pair stopped and I heard the billing sound of kisses. O! how my blood boiled in my veins! I grasped the handle of my sword—but I was nailed to the spot—my state of mind was such that though I longed—I thirsted for vengeance—yet was I powerless—motionless—paralyzed. To the sound of kisses succeeded those of sobbing and of grief on the part of the lady whose voice had produced such a terrible effect upon me.
“‘Holy Virgin!’ I thought, ‘she deplores the fate that chains her to her husband! she weeps because she has not courage to fly with her lover!’ and now I experienced just the same sensations as those which stunned and stupefied me on that evening at Naples when I first heard that Vitangela was the child of the public executioner. Several minutes must have passed while I was in this condition of comparative insensibility; or rather while I was a prey to the stunning conviction that I was deceived by her whom I had loved so well and deemed so pure. When I awoke from that dread stupor all was still in the dark avenue; not a footstep, not a whispering voice was heard. I hurried along amidst the trees, my soul racked with the cruelest suspicions. And yet I was not confident that it was positively my wife’s voice that I had heard; and the more I pondered on the circumstance, the more anxious was I to arrive at the conviction that I had indeed been deceived by some voice closely resembling hers. I accordingly hurried back to the arbor where I had last seen her in the company of several Florentine ladies. Joy animated my soul when I beheld Vitangela seated in that arbor, and in the very spot, too, where I had beheld her upward of an hour previously. But she was now alone.
“‘Where are your friends?’ I asked, in a kind tone, as I approached and gently took her hand.
“‘Indeed I know not,’ she replied, casting a hurried glance around, and now appearing surprised to find that there was not another lady near her. She seemed confused; and I also observed that she had been weeping very recently. The joy which had for a moment animated me, was now succeeded by a sudden chill that went to my heart death-like—icy. But, subduing my emotion, I said:
“‘Your ladyship has not surely remained here ever since I last saw you, more than an hour ago?’
“‘Yes,’ she responded, without daring to raise her eyes to meet mine. I knew that she lied, most foully lied: her confusion, her whole manner betrayed her. But I exercised a powerful mastery over my mind; the suspicion which I had all along entertained was strengthened greatly, but not altogether confirmed; and I resolved to wait for confirmation ere I allowed my vengeance to burst forth. Moreover, it was necessary to discover who the gallant might be—the favored one who had superseded me in the affections of Vitangela! I, however, promised myself that when once my information was complete, my revenge should be terrible; and this resolution served as a solace for the moment, and as an inducement for me to conceal alike the suspicions I had imbibed and the dreadful pain they had caused me.
“Presenting my hand, therefore, to Vitangela, I escorted her to that part of the ground where the company were now assembled, and where I hoped that some accident might make known to me the person of the gallant with whom, as I supposed, she had walked in the avenue. Anxiously, but unsuspected, did I watch the manner of the countess every time she returned the salutation of the various nobles and cavaliers whom we encountered in our walk; but not a blush, not a sign of confusion on her part, not one rapidly dealt, but significant glance, afforded me the clew I so ardently sought. And yet it struck me that she often cast furtive and uneasy, or rather searching looks hither and thither, as if to seek and single out some one individual in the multitudes moving about the illuminated gardens. She was certainly pre-occupied, and even mournful, but I affected not to observe that a cloud hung over her spirits, and in order to throw her completely off her guard, I talked and laughed quite as gayly as was my wont. To be brief, the festivities terminated a little before sunrise, and I conducted the countess back to our mansion. From that night forth I maintained the strictest watch upon her conduct and proceedings. I appointed Margaretha, the mother of my page Antonio, to act the spy upon her; but weeks and months passed, and nothing occurred to confirm the terrible suspicion that haunted me night and day. I strove to banish that suspicion from my mind—Heaven knows how hard I tried to crush it. But it was immortal—and it beset me as if it were the ghost of some victim I had ruthlessly murdered. Vitangela saw that my manner had somewhat changed toward her, and she frequently questioned me on the subject. I, however, gave her evasive answers, for I should have been ashamed to acknowledge my suspicion if it were false, and it was only by keeping her off her guard I should receive confirmation if it were true. Thus nearly nine months passed away from the date of the ducal banquet, and then you, Francisco, were born. The presence of an heir to my name and wealth was a subject of much congratulation on the part of my friends; but to me it was a source of torturing doubts and racking fears. You never bore the least—no, not the least resemblance, either physical or mental, to me; whereas the very reverse was the case with Nisida, even in her infancy. From the moment of your birth—from the first instant that I beheld you in the nurse’s arms—the most agonizing feelings took possession of my soul. Were you indeed my son?—or were you the pledge of adulterous love? Merciful heavens! in remembering all I suffered when the terrible thoughts oppressed me, I wonder that you, Francisco, should now be alive—that I did not strangle you as you lay in your cradle. And, oh God! how dearly I could have loved you, Francisco, had I felt the same confidence in your paternity as in that of your sister Nisida! But no—all was at least doubt and uncertainty in that respect—and, as your cast of features and physical characteristics developed themselves, that hideous doubt and that racking uncertainty increased until there were times when I was nearly goaded to do some desperate deed. Those mild blue eyes—that rich brown hair—that feminine softness of expression which marked your face belonged not to the family of Riverola!
“Time wore on, and my unhappiness increased. I suspected my wife, yet dared not proclaim the suspicion. I sought to give her back my love, but was utterly unable to subdue the dark thoughts and crush the maddening uncertainties that agitated my soul. At last I was sinking into a state of morbid melancholy, when an incident occurred which revived all the energies of my mind. It was in 1505—Nisida being then ten years old, and you, Francisco, four—when Margaretha informed me one evening that the countess had received a letter which had thrown her into a state of considerable agitation, and which she had immediately burned. By questioning the porter at the gate of the mansion, I learnt that the person who delivered the letter was a tall, handsome man of about thirty-two, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a somewhat feminine expression of countenance. Holy Virgin! this must be the gallant—the paramour of my wife—the father of the boy on whom the law compelled me to bestow my own name. Such were the ideas that immediately struck me; and I now prepared for vengeance. Margaretha watched my wife narrowly, and on the evening following the one on which the letter had been delivered, Vitangela was seen to secure a heavy bag of gold about her person, and quit the mansion by the secret staircase of her apartment—that apartment which is now the sleeping-place of your sister Nisida.
“Margaretha followed the countess to an obscure street, at the corner of which the guilty woman encountered a tall person, enveloped in a cloak, and who was evidently waiting for her. To him she gave the bag of gold, and they embraced each other tenderly. Then they separated—the countess returning home, unconscious that a spy watched her movements. Margaretha reported all that had occurred to me; and I bade her redouble her attention in watching her mistress. Now that the lover is once more in this city, I thought, and well provided with my gold to pursue his extravagance, there will soon be another meeting—and then for vengeance such as an Italian must have. But weeks and months again passed without affording the opportunity which I craved; yet I knew that the day must come—and I could tutor myself to await its arrival, if not with patience, at least with so much outward composure as to lull the countess into belief of perfect security.
“Yes, weeks and months passed away, ay, and years, too, and still I nursed my hopes and projects of vengeance, the craving for which increased with the lapse of time.
“And now I come to the grand, the terrible, the main incident in this narrative. It was late one night, in the month of January, 1510, Nisida being then fifteen and thou, Francisco, nine, that Margaretha came to me in my own apartment and informed me that she had seen the tall gallant traverse the garden hastily and obtain admission into the countess’ chamber by means of the secret staircase. The hour for vengeance had at length come. Margaretha was instantly dispatched to advise two bravoes whose services I had long secured for the occasion, that the moment had arrived when they were to do the work for which they had been so well paid in advance, and by the faithful performance of which they would still further enrich themselves. Within half an hour all the arrangements were completed. Margaretha had retired to her own chamber and the bravoes were concealed with me in the garden. Nor had we long to wait. The private door opened shortly, and two persons appeared on the threshold. The night was clear and beautiful, and from my hiding-place I could discern the fondness of the embrace that marked their parting. And they parted, too, never to meet again in this life!
“Vitangela closed the door—and her lover was passing rapidly along amidst the trees in the garden, when a dagger suddenly drank his heart’s blood. That dagger was mine, and wielded by my hand! He fell without a groan—dead, stone-dead at my feet. Half of my vengeance was now accomplished; the other half was yet to be consummated. Without a moment’s unnecessary delay the corpse was conveyed to a cellar beneath the northern wing of the mansion: and the two bravoes then hastened, to Vitangela’s chamber, into which they obtained admission by forcing the door of the private staircase. In pursuance of the orders which they had received from me, they bound and gagged her, and conveyed her through the garden to the very cellar where, by the light of a gloomy lamp, she beheld her husband standing close by a corpse!
“‘Bring her near!’ I exclaimed, unmoved by the looks of indescribable horror which she threw around.
“When her eyes caught sight of the countenance of that lifeless being, they remained fixed with frenzied wildness in their sockets, and even if there had been no gag between her teeth, I do not believe that she could have uttered a syllable. And now commenced the second act in this appalling tragedy! While one of the bravoes held the countess in his iron grasp, in such a manner that she could not avert her head, the other, who had once been a surgeon, tore away the garments from the corpse, and commenced the task which I had before assigned to him. And as the merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained deeply buried,—a ferocious joy—a savage, hyena-like triumph filled my soul; and I experienced no remorse for the deed I had done! Far—very far from that—for as the work progressed, I exclaimed—
“‘Behold, Vitangela, how the scalpel hews that form so loved by thee! Now hack away at the countenance—deface that beauty—pick out those mild blue eyes!’—and I laughed madly!
“The countess fainted, and I ordered her to be carried back to her apartment, where Margaretha awaited her. Indeed I had naturally foreseen that insensibility would result from the appalling spectacle which I compelled my wife to witness: and Margaretha was prepared to breathe dreadful menaces in her ears the moment she should recover—menaces of death to herself and both her children if she should reveal, even to her father confessor, one tittle of the scene which that night had been enacted! The surgeon-bravo did his work bravely; and the man who had dishonored me was reduced to naught save a skeleton! The flesh and the garments were buried deep in the cellar; the skeleton was conveyed to my own chamber, and suspended to a beam in the closet where you, Francisco, and your bride, are destined to behold it—ALONG WITH ANOTHER!
“My vengeance was thus far gratified—the bravos were dismissed, and I locked myself up in my chamber for several days, to brood upon all I had done, and occasionally to feast my eyes with the grim remains of him who had dared to love my wife. During those days of seclusion I would see no one save the servant who brought me my meals. From him I learnt that the countess was dangerously ill—that she was indeed dying, and that she besought me to visit her if only for a moment. But I refused—implacably refused. I was convinced that she craved my forgiveness; and that I could not give.
“Dr. Duras, who attended upon her, came to the door of my chamber and implored me to grant him an interview:—then Nisida sought a similar boon; but I was deaf to each and all.
“Yes—for there was still a being on whom I yet longed to wreak my vengeance;—and that being was yourself, Francisco? I looked upon you as the living evidence of my dishonor—the memorial of your mother’s boundless guilt. But I recoiled in horror from the idea of staining my hands with the blood of a little child—yet I feared if I came near you—if I saw your clinging affectionately to Vitangela—if I heard you innocently and unconsciously mock me by calling me ‘father!’—I felt I should be unable to restrain the fury of my wrath!
“I know not how long I should have remained in the seclusion of my own chamber—perhaps weeks and months, but one morning shortly after daybreak, I was informed by the only servant whom I would admit near me, that the countess had breathed her last during the night, and that Nisida was so deeply affected by her mother’s death, that she, poor girl, was dangerously ill. Then I became frantic on account of my daughter; and I quitted my apartment, not only to see that proper aid was administered to her, but to complete the scheme of vengeance which I had originally formed. Thus, in the first place, Dr. Duras was enjoined to take up his abode altogether in the Riverola Palace, so long as Nisida should require his services; and, on the other hand, a splendid funeral was ordered for the Countess Riverola. But Vitangela’s remains went not in the velvet-covered coffin to the family vault;—no—her flesh was buried in the same soil where rotted the flesh of her paramour—and her skeleton was suspended from the same beam to which his bones had been already hung. For I thought within myself: ‘This is the first time that the wife of a Count of Riverola has ever brought dishonor and disgrace upon her husband; and I will take care that it shall be the last. To Nisida will I leave all my estates—all my wealth, save a miserable pittance as an inheritance for the bastard Francisco. She shall inherit the title, and the man on whom she may confer her hand shall be the next Count of Riverola. The wedding-day will be marked by a revelation of the mystery of this cabinet; and the awful spectacle will teach him, whoever he may be, to watch his wife narrowly—and will teach her what it is to prove unfaithful to a fond husband! To both, the lesson will be as useful as the manner of conveying it will be frightful, and they will hand down the tradition to future scions of the Riverola family. Francisco, too, shall learn the secrets of the cabinet; he shall be taught why he is disinherited—why I have hated him: and thus even from the other world shall the spirits of the vile paramour and the adulterous wife behold the consequences of their crime perpetuated in this.’
“Such were my thoughts—such were my intentions. But an appalling calamity forced me to change my views. Nisida, after a long and painful illness, became deaf and dumb; and Dr. Duras gave me no hope of the restoration of her lost faculties.
“Terrible visitation! Then was it that I reasoned with myself—that I deliberated long and earnestly upon the course which I should pursue. It was improbable that, afflicted as Nisida was, she would ever marry; and I felt grieved, deeply grieved, to think that you, Francisco, being disinherited, and Nisida remaining single, the proud title of Riverola would become extinct; I therefore resolved on the less painful alternative of disinheriting you altogether; and I accordingly made a will by which I left you the estates, with the contingent title Count of Riverola, under certain conditions which might yet alienate both property and rank from you, and endow therewith your sister Nisida. For should she recover the faculties of speech and hearing by the time she shall have attained the age of thirty-six, she will yet be marriageable and may have issue; but should that era in her life pass, and she still be deaf and dumb, all hope of her recovery will be dead!
“Thus if she still be so deeply afflicted at that age, you, Francisco, will inherit the vast estates and the lordly title which, through the circumstances of your birth, it grieves me to believe will ever devolve upon you.
“Such were my motives for making that will which you are destined to hear read, doubtless before the time comes for you to peruse this manuscript. And having made that will, and experiencing the sad certainty that my unfortunate daughter will never become qualified to inherit my title and fortune, but that the name of Riverola must be perpetuated through your marriage, I have determined that to you and to your bride alone shall the dread secrets of the cabinet be revealed.”
Thus terminated the manuscript.
Powerful in meaning and strong in expression as the English language may be rendered by one who has the least experience in the proper combination of words, yet it becomes totally inadequate to the task of conveying an idea of those feelings—those harrowing emotions—those horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of Francisco di Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the manuscript. At first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it related the interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples; then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and unhappy being’s ignominious parentage—but a calmness was diffused through the minds of Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting place amidst the exciting incidents of the narrative when they reached that part which mentioned the marriage.
Their feelings were, however, destined to be speedily and most painfully wrung once more; and Francisco could scarcely restrain his indignation—yes, his indignation even against the memory of his deceased father—when he perused those injurious suspicions which were recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to explain the mystery in which all that part of the narrative was involved, yet he felt firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and he frequently interrupted himself in the perusal of the manuscript to give utterance to passionate ejaculations expressive of that opinion. But it was when the hideous tragedy rapidly developed itself, and the history of the presence of two skeletons in the closet was detailed, it was then that language became powerless to describe the mingled wrath and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the emotions of boundless horror and wild amazement that were excited in the bosom of Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her husband when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in which the few lines of the manuscript which she had read many months previously in Nisida’s boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling was the tale which the entire made. She was cruelly shocked, and her heart bled for that fine young man whom she was so proud to call her husband, but whom his late father had loathed to recognize as a son. And Nisida—what were her feelings as she lay stretched upon a couch, listening to the contents of the manuscript which she had read before? At first one hope—one idea was dominant in her soul, the hope that Flora would be crushed even to death by revelations which were indeed almost sufficient to overwhelm a gentle disposition and freeze the vital current in the tender and compassionate heart.
But as Francisco read on, and when he came to those passages which described the sufferings and the cruel fate of her mother, then Nisida became a prey to the most torturing feelings—dreadful emotions were expressed by her convulsed countenance and wildly-glaring eyes—and she muttered deep and bitter anathemas against the memory of her own father. For well does the reader know that she had loved her mother to distraction; and thus the horrifying detail of the injuries heaped upon the head and on the name of that revered parent aroused all her fiercest passions of rage and hate as completely as if that history had been new to her, and as if she were now becoming acquainted with it for the first time. Indeed, so powerful, so terrible, was the effect produced by the revival of all those dread reminiscences and heart-rending emotions on the part of Nisida that, forgetting her malignant spite and her infernal hope with regard to Flora, she threw her whole soul into the subject of the manuscript: and the torrent of feelings to which she thus gave way was crushing and overwhelming to a woman of such fierce passions, and who had received so awful a shock as that which had stretched her on the couch where she now lay. For the fate of him whom she had loved with such ardor, and the revulsion that her affection experienced on account of the ghastly spectacle which Wagner presented to her view in his dying moments—the disgust and loathing which had been inspired in her mind by the thought that she had ever fondled that being in her arms and absolutely doted on the superhuman beauty that had changed to such revolting ugliness, it was all this that had struck her down—paralyzed her—inflicted a mortal, though not an instantaneous blow upon that woman so lately full of energy, so strong in moral courage, and so full of vigorous health. Thus impressed with the conviction that her end was approaching, the moment the perusal of the manuscript was concluded the Lady Nisida said, in a faint and dying tone of voice:
“Francisco, draw near—as near as possible—and listen to what I have now to communicate, for it is in my power to clear up all doubt, all mystery relative to the honor of our sainted mother, and convince thee that no stigma, no disgrace attaches itself to thy birth!”
“Alas! my beloved sister,” exclaimed the young count, “you speak in a faint voice, you are very ill! In the name of the Holy Virgin! I conjure you to allow me to send for Dr. Duras!”
“No, Francisco,” said Nisida, her voice recovering somewhat of its power as she continued to address him: “I implore you to let me have my own way, to follow my own inclinations! Do not thwart me, Francisco; already I feel as if molten lead were pouring through my brain, and a tremendous weight lies upon my heart! Forbear, then, from irritating me, my well-beloved Francisco——”
“Oh! Nisida,” cried the young count, throwing his arms around his sister’s neck and embracing her fondly; “if you love me now, if you ever loved me, grant me one boon! By the memory of our sainted mother I implore you, by your affection for her I adjure you, Nisida——”
“Speak, speak, Francisco,” interrupted his sister, hastily: “I can almost divine the nature of the boon you crave—and—my God!” she added, tears starting from her eyes, as a painful thought flashed across her brain,—“perhaps I have been too harsh—too severe! At all events, it is not now—on my death-bed—that I can nurse resentment——”
“Your death-bed!” echoed Francisco, in a tone or acute anguish, while the sobs which convulsed the bosom of the young countess were heard alike by him and his sister.
“Yes, dearest brother, I am dying,” said Nisida, in a voice of profound and mournful conviction; “and therefore let me not delay those duties and those explanations which can alone unburden my heart of the weight that lies upon it! And first, Francisco, be thy boon granted—for I know that thou wouldst speak to me of her who is now thy bride. Come to my arms, then. Flora, embrace me as a sister, and forgive me if thou canst, for I have been a fierce and unrelenting enemy to thee!”
“Oh, let the past be forgotten, my friend, my sister!” exclaimed the weeping Flora, as she threw herself into Nisida’s outstretched arms.
And the young wife and the young woman embraced each other tenderly—for deep regrets and pungent remorse at last attuned the mind of Nisida to sweet and holy sympathy.
“And now,” said Nisida, “sit down by my side, and listen to the explanations which I have promised. Give me your hand. Flora, dear Flora, let me retain it in mine; for at the last hour, and when I am about to leave this fair and beauteous earth, I feel an ardent longing to love those who walk upon its face, and to be loved by them in return. But, alas, alas!” she added, somewhat bitterly, “reflections and yearnings of this nature come too late! O Flora! the picture of life is spread before you—while from me it is rapidly receding, and dissolving into the past. Like our own fair city of palaces and flowers, when seen from a distance beneath the glorious lights of the morning, may that glorious picture continue to appear to thee; and may’st thou never draw near enough to recognize the false splendors in which gorgeous hues may deck the things of this world; may’st thou never be brought so close to the sad realities of existence as to be forced to contemplate the breaking hearts that dwell in palaces, or to view in disgust the slime upon flowers.”
“Nisida,” said Francisco, bending over his sister, and speaking in a voice indicative of deep emotion, “the kind words you utter to my beloved Flora shall ever—ever remain engraven upon my heart.”
“And on mine also,” murmured the young countess, pressing Nisida’s hand with grateful ardor, while her eyes, radiant with very softness, threw a glance of passionate tenderness upon her generous-hearted and handsome husband.
“Listen to me,” resumed Nisida, after a short pause, during which she gave way to all the luxury of those sweet and holy reflections which the present scene engendered: and these were the happiest moments of the lady’s stormy life. “Listen to me,” she repeated; “and let me enter upon and make an end of my explanations as speedily as possible. And first, Francisco, relative to our sainted—our innocent—our deeply-wronged and much-injured mother. You have already learned that she was the daughter of the public executioner of Naples; and you have heard that ere she became our father’s wife she swore a solemn oath—she pledged herself in the most solemn manner that she would never even allude to her family—that she would not communicate to them the name of her husband nor the place of his abode, under any circumstances—in a word, that she would consider her father and brother as dead to her! And yet she had a tender heart; and after she became the Countess of Riverola she very often thought of the parent who had reared her tenderly and loved her affectionately; she thought also of her brother Eugenio, who had ever been so devoted to his sister. But she kept her promise faithfully for five years; until that fatal day of April, 1500, which our father has so emphatically mentioned in his narrative. It was in the garden belonging to the ducal palace that she suddenly encountered her brother Eugenio——”
“Her brother!” ejaculated Francisco, joyfully. “Oh! I knew, I felt certain that she was innocent.”
“Yes, she was indeed innocent,” repeated Nisida, “But let me pursue my explanations as succinctly as possible. It appeared that the old man—the executioner of Naples—was no more; and Eugenio, possessing himself of the hoardings of his deceased father, had fled from his native city to avoid the dread necessity of assuming the abhorrent office. Accident led the young adventurer to Florence in search of a more agreeable employment as a means whereby to earn his livelihood, and having formed the acquaintance of one of the duke’s valets, he obtained admittance to the gardens on that memorable evening when the grand entertainment was given. In spite of the strict injunctions he had received not to approach the places occupied by the distinguished guests, he drew near the arbor in which our mother had been conversing with other ladies, but where she was at that moment alone. The recognition was immediate, and they flew into each other’s arms. It would have been useless, as well as unnatural, for our mother to have refused to reveal her rank and name; her brilliant attire was sufficient to convince her brother that the former was high, and inquiry would speedily have made him acquainted with the latter. She accordingly drew him apart into a secluded walk and told him all; but she implored him to quit Florence without delay, and she gave him her purse and one of her rich bracelets, thereby placing ample resources at his disposal. Five years passed away, and during that period she heard no more of her brother Eugenio. But at the expiration of that interval she received a note stating that he was again in Florence—that necessity had alone brought him hither, and that he would be at a particular place at a certain hour to meet either herself or some confidential person whom she might instruct to see him. Our mother filled a bag with gold, and put into it some of her choicest jewels, and thus provided, she repaired in person to the place of appointment. It grieved her generous heart thus to be compelled to meet her brother secretly, as if he were a common robber or a midnight bravo; but for her husband’s peace, and in obedience to the spirit of the oath which imperious circumstances had alone led her in some degree to violate, she was forced to adopt that sad and humiliating alternative.”
“Alas! poor mother!” sobbed Francisco, deeply affected by this narrative.
“Again did five years elapse without bringing tidings to our mother of Eugenio,” continued Nisida, “and then he once more set foot in Florence. The world bad not used him well—Fortune had frowned upon him—and, though a young man of fine spirit and noble disposition, he failed in all his endeavors to carve out a successful career for himself. Our mother determined to accord him an interview in her own apartment. She longed to converse with him at her ease—to hear his tale from his own lips—to sympathize with and console him. Oh! who could blame her if in so doing she departed from the strict and literal meaning of that vow which had bound her to consider her relations as dead to her? But the fault—if fault it were—was so venial, that to justify it is to invest it with an importance which it would not have possessed save for the frightful results to which it led. You have already heard how foully he was waylaid, how ruthlessly he was murdered! Holy Virgin! my brain whirls when I reflect upon that hideous cruelty which made our mother the spectator of his dissection; for, even had he been a lover—even were she guilty—even if the suspicions of our father had all been well-founded——”
“Dwell not upon this frightful topic, my beloved Nisida!” exclaimed Francisco, perceiving that she was again becoming greatly excited, for her eyes dilated and glared wildly, her bosom heaved in awful convulsions, and she tossed her arms frantically about.
“No, I will not—I dare not pause to ponder thereon,” she said, falling back upon the pillow, and pressing her hands to that proud and haughty brow behind which the active, racking brain appeared to be on fire.
“Tranquilize yourself, dearest sister,” murmured Flora, bending over the couch and pressing her lips on Nisida’s burning cheek.
“I will, I will, Flora, whom I now love as much as I once hated!” exclaimed the dying lady. “But let me make an end of my explanations. You already know that our dear mother was gagged when she was compelled to witness the horrible deeds enacted in the subterranean charnel-house by the dim light of a sickly lamp; but even if she had not been, no word would have issued from her lips, as the manuscript justly observes. During her illness, however, she sought an interview with her husband for the purpose of proving to him her complete innocence, by revealing the fact that his victim was her own brother! But he refused all the entreaties proffered with that object, and our unfortunate mother was forced to contemplate the approach of death with the sad conviction that she should pass away without the satisfaction of establishing her guiltlessness in the eyes of our father. Then was it that she revealed everything to me—to me alone—to me, a young girl of only fifteen when those astounding facts were breathed into my ears. I listened with horror, and I began to hate my father, for I adored my mother. She implored me not to give way to any intemperate language or burst of passion which might induce the inmates of the mansion to suspect that I was the depositary of some terrible secret.
“‘For,’ said our mother, when on her death-bed, ‘if I have ventured to shock your young mind by so appalling a revelation, it is only that you may understand wherefore I am about to bind you by a solemn vow to love, protect, and watch over Francisco, as if he were your own child, rather than your brother. His father, alas! hates him. This I have observed ever since the birth of that dear boy, but it is only by means of the dread occurrence of the other night that I have been able to divine the origin of that dislike and unnatural loathing. Your father, Nisida,’ continued my mother, ‘believes that I have been unfaithful, and suspects that Francisco is the offspring of a guilty amour. With this terrible impression upon his mind, he may persecute my poor boy; he may disinherit him; he may even seek to rid him of life. Kneel, then, by my bedside, Nisida, and swear by all you deem sacred—by the love you bear for me—and by your hopes of salvation, that you will watch unweariedly and unceasingly over the welfare and the interests of Francisco—that you will make any sacrifice, incur any danger, or undergo any privation, to save him from the effects of his father’s hate—that you will exert all possible means to cause the title and fortune of his father to descend to him, and that you will in no case consent to supplant him in those respects—and lastly, that you will keep secret the dread history of my brother’s fate and your knowledge of your father’s crime.’ To all these conditions of the vow I solemnly and sacredly pledged myself, calling Heaven to witness the oath. But I said to our mother, ‘My father will not forever remain locked up in his own apartment; he will come forth sooner or later, and I must have an opportunity of speaking to him. May I not justify you, my dear mother, in his eyes? May I not assure him that Eugenio was your brother? He will then cease to hate Francisco, and may even love him as he loves me; and you may then have no fears on his account.”
“‘Alas! the plan which you suggest may not be put into execution,’ replied our dying mother; ‘for were your father to be aware that I had revealed the occurrences of that dread night to you, Nisida, he would feel that he must be ever looked upon as a murderer by his own child! Moreover, such appears to be the sad and benighted state of his mind, that he might peradventure deem the tale relative to Eugenio a mere excuse and vile subterfuge. No; I must perish disgraced in his eyes, unless he should accord ere I die, the interview which yourself and the good Dr. Duras have so vainly implored him to grant me.’
“Our dear mother then proceeded to give me other instructions, Francisco, relative to yourself; but these,” added Nisida, glancing toward Flora, “would now be painful to unfold. And yet,” she continued, hastily, as a second thought struck her, “it is impossible, my sweet Flora, that you can be weak-minded—for you have this day seen and heard enough to test your mental powers to the extreme possibility of their endurance. Moreover, I feel that my conduct toward you requires a complete justification; and that justification will be found in the last instructions which I received from the lips of my mother.”
“Dearest Nisida,” said the young countess, “no justification is needed—no apology is required in reference to that subject; for your kind words, your altered manner toward me now, your recognition of me as a sister, made so by union with your brother—oh! this would efface from my mind wrongs ten thousand times more terrible than any injury which I have sustained at your hands. But,” continued Flora, in a slow and gentle tone, “if you wish to explain the nature of these instructions which you received from the lips of your dying parent, let not my presence embarrass you.”
“Yes, I do wish to render my explanation as complete as possible, dearest Flora,” replied Nisida; “for if I have acted severely toward you, it was not to gratify any natural love of cruelty, nor any mean jealousy or spite; on the contrary, the motives were engendered by that imperious necessity which has swayed my conduct, modeled my disposition, and regulated my mind ever since that fatal day when I knelt beside my mother’s death-bed, and swore to obey her last words. For thus did she speak, Flora—‘Nisida, there is one more subject relative to which I must advise you, and in respect to which you must swear to obey me. My own life furnished a sad and terrible lesson of the impropriety of contracting an unequal marriage. All my woes—all my sorrows—all the dreadful events which have occurred—may be traced to the one great fact that the Count of Riverola espoused a person of whose family he was ashamed. Nisida,’ she continued, her voice becoming fainter and fainter, ‘watch you narrowly and closely over the welfare of Francisco in this respect. Let him not marry beneath him; let him not unite himself to one whose family contains a single member deserving obloquy or reproach. Above all, see that he marries not till he shall have reached an age when he will be capable of examining his own heart through the medium of experience and matured judgment. If you see him form a boyish attachment of which you have good and sufficient reason to disapprove, exert yourself to wean him from it: hesitate not to thwart him; be not moved by the sorrows he may manifest at the moment; you will be acting for his welfare; and the time will speedily come when he will rejoice that you have rescued him from the danger of contracting a hasty, rash, and ill-assorted marriage.’ These were the last instructions of our mother, Francisco; and I swore to obey them. Hence my sorrow, my fears, my anger when I became aware of the attachment subsisting between yourself, dear brother, and you, my sweet Flora: and that sorrow was enhanced—those fears were augmented—that danger was increased, Flora, when I learnt that your brother Alessandro had renounced the creed of the true God, and that your family thereby contained a member deserving of obloquy and reproach. But that sorrow, those fears, and that anger have now departed from my soul. I recognize the finger of Heaven—the will of the Almighty in the accomplishment of your union, despite of all my projects, all my intrigues to prevent it. I am satisfied, moreover, that there is in this alliance a fitness and a propriety which will insure your happiness: and may the spirit of my sainted mother look down from the empyrean palace where she dwells, and bless you both, even as I now implore the divine mercy to shed its beauties and diffuse its protecting influence around you.”
Nisida had raised herself up to a sitting posture as she uttered this invocation so sublimely interesting and solemnly sincere; and the youthful pair, simultaneously yielding to the same impulse, sank upon their knees to receive the blessing of one who had never bestowed a blessing on mortal being until then! She extended her hands above those two beautiful, bending heads: and her voice, as she adjured Heaven to protect them, was plaintively earnest and tremulously clear, and its musical sound seemed to touch the finest chord of sympathy, devotion, and love that vibrated in the hearts of that youthful noble and his virgin bride. When this solemn ceremony was accomplished, an immense weight appeared to have been removed from the soul of the Lady Nisida of Riverola; and her countenance wore a calm and sweet expression, which formed a happy contrast with the sovereign hauteur and grand contempt that were wont to mark it.
“I have now but little more to say in explanation of my past conduct,” she resumed, after a long pause. “You can readily divine wherefore I affected the loss of those most glorious faculties which God has given me. I became enthusiastic in my resolves to carry out the injunctions of my dear and much-loved mother; and while I lay upon a bed of sickness—a severe illness produced by anguish and horror at all I had heard from her lips, and by her death, so premature and sad—I pondered a thousand schemes, the object of which was to accomplish the great aims I had in view. I foresaw that I—a weak woman—then, indeed, a mere girl of fifteen—should have to constitute myself the protectress of a brother who was hated by his own father; and I feared lest that hatred should drive him to the adoption of some dreadful plot to rid himself of your presence, Francisco—perhaps even to deprive you of your life. I knew that I must watch all his movements and listen to all his conversations with those unprincipled wretches who are ever ready to do the bidding of the powerful and the wealthy. But how was all this to be accomplished?—how was I to become a watcher and a listener—a spy ever active, and an eavesdropper ever awake—without exciting suspicions which would lead to the frustration of my designs, and perhaps involve both myself and my brother in ruin? Then was it that an idea struck me like a flash of lightning; and like a flash of lightning was it terrible and appalling, when breaking on the dark chaos of my thoughts. At first I shrank from it—recoiled from it in horror and dismay;—but the more I considered it—the longer I looked that idea in the face—the more I contemplated it, the less formidable did it seem. I have already said that I was enthusiastic and devoted in my resolves to carry out the dying injunctions of my mother:—and thus by degrees I learnt to reflect upon the awful sacrifice which had suggested itself to my imagination as a species of holy and necessary self-martyrdom. I foresaw that if I affected the loss of hearing and speech, I should obtain all the advantages I sought and all the means I required to enable me to act as the protectress of my brother against the hatred of my father. I believed also that I should not only be considered as unfit to be made the heiress of the title and fortune of the Riverola family, but that our father, Francisco, would see the absolute necessity of treating you in all respects as his lawful and legitimate son, in spite of any suspicions which he might entertain relative to your birth. There were many other motives which influenced me, and which arose out of the injunctions of our mother,—motives which you can well understand, and which I need not detail. Thus it was that, subduing the grief which the idea of making so tremendous a sacrifice excited, on the one hand—and arming myself with the exultation of a martyr, on the other,—thus it was that I resolved to simulate the character of the deaf and dumb. It was, however, necessary to obtain the collusion of Dr. Duras; and this aim I carried after many hours of argument and persuasion. He was then ignorant—and still is ignorant—of the real motives which had prompted me to this self-martyrdom;—but I led him to believe that the gravest and most important family interests required that moral immolation of my own happiness;—and I vowed that unless he would consent to aid me, it was my firm resolve to shut myself up in a convent and take the veil. This threat, which I had not the least design of carrying into effect, induced him to yield a reluctant acquiescence with my project: for he loved me as if I had been his child. He was moreover consoled somewhat by the assurance which I gave him, and in which I myself felt implicit confidence at the time, that the necessity for the simulation of deafness and dumbness on my part would cease the moment my father should be no more. In a word, the kind Dr. Duras promised to act entirely in accordance with my wishes; and I accordingly became Nisida the deaf and dumb!”
“Merciful heavens! that immeasurable sacrifice was made for me!” cried Francisco, throwing himself into the arms of his sister and imprinting a thousand kisses on her cheeks.
“Yes—for your sake and in order to carry out the dying commands of our mother, the sainted Vitangela?” responded Nisida. “I shall not weary you with a description of the feelings and emotions with which I commenced that long career of duplicity; by the very success that attended the part which I had undertaken to perform you may estimate the magnitude and the extent of the exertions which it cost me thus to maintain myself a living—a constant—and yet undetected lie! Ten years passed away—ten years, marked by many incidents which made me rejoice, for your sake, Francisco, that I had accepted the self-martyrdom which circumstances had suggested to me. At length our father lay upon his death bed: and then—oh! then I rejoiced—yes, rejoiced, though he was dying; for I thought that the end of my career of duplicity was at hand. Judge, then, of my astonishment—my grief—my despair, when I heard the last injunctions which our father addressed to you, Francisco, on that bed of death. What could the mystery of the closet mean? Of that I then knew nothing. Wherefore was I to remain in complete ignorance of the instructions thus given to you? And what was signified by the words relative to the disposal of our father’s property? For you may remember that he spoke thus, addressing himself of course to you:—‘You will find that I have left the whole of my property to you. At the same time my will specifies certain conditions relative to your sister Nisida, for whom I have made due provision only in the case—which is, alas! almost in defiance of every hope!—of her recovery from that dreadful affliction which renders her so completely dependent upon your kindness.’ These ominous and mysterious words seemed to proclaim defeat and overthrow to all the hopes that I had formed relative to the certainty of your being left the sole and unconditional heir alike to title and estate. I therefore resolved to maintain the character of the deaf and dumb until I should have fathomed the secrets of the closet, and have become acquainted with the conditions of the will. Oh! well do I remember the glance which the generous-hearted Duras cast toward me, when, returning to the chamber, he inquired by means of that significant look whether the last words of our dying father were prognostic of hope for me—whether, indeed, the necessity of sustaining the dreadful duplicity would cease when he should be no more. And I remember, also, that the look and the sign, by which I conveyed a negative answer were expressive of the deep melancholy that filled his soul.”
“Alas! my dear self-sacrificed sister,” murmured Francisco, tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Yes—my disappointment was cruel indeed,” continued Nisida. “But the excitement of the scenes and incidents which followed rapidly the death of our father, restored my mind to its wonted tone of fortitude, vigor, and proud determination. That very night, Francisco, I took the key of the cabinet from your garments, while you slept—I sped to the chamber of death—I visited the depository of horrible mysteries—and for the first time I became aware that two skeletons were contained in that closet! And whose fleshless relics those skeletons were, the dreadful manuscript speedily revealed to me. Then was it also for the first time that I learnt how Margaretha was the detestable spy whose agency had led to such a frightful catastrophe in respect to Eugenio and Vitangela; then I became aware that our mother’s corpse slept not in the vault to which a coffin had been consigned:—in a word, the full measure of our sire’s atrocity—O God! that I should be compelled thus to speak—was revealed to me! But on Margaretha have I been avenged,” added Nisida, in a low tone, and with a convulsive shudder produced by the recollection of that terrible night when she immolated the miserable woman above the grave where lay a portion of the remains of her mother and of Eugenio.
“You have been avenged on Margaretha, sister,” ejaculated Francisco, surveying Nisida with apprehension.
“Yes,” she replied, her large black eyes flashing with a scintillation of the former fires: “that woman—I have slain her! But start not, Flora—look not reproachfully upon me, Francisco: ’twas a deed fully justified, a vengeance righteously exercised, a penalty well deserved! And now let me hasten to bring my long and tedious explanations to a conclusion—for they have occupied a longer space than I had at first anticipated, and I am weak and faint. Little, however, remains to be told. The nature of our father’s will compelled me to persist in my self-martyrdom: for I had sworn to my dying mother not to accept any conditions or advantages which should have the effect of disinheriting you, Francisco.”
“Oh! what a debt of gratitude do I owe thee, my beloved sister!” exclaimed the young count, deeply affected by the generous sacrifices made by Nisida on his behalf.
“And think you I have experienced no reward?” asked the lady in a sweet tone, and with a placid smile: “do you imagine that the consciousness of having devoted myself to the fulfillment of my adored mother’s wishes has been no recompense? Yes—I have had my consolations and my hours of happiness, as well as my sufferings and periods of profound affliction. But I feel a soft and heavenly repose stealing over me—’tis a sweet sleep, and yet it is not the slumber of death! No, no; ’tis a delicious trance into which I am falling—’tis as if a celestial vision——”
She said no more. Her eyes closed, she fell back and slept soundly.
“Merciful Heavens! my sister is no more!” exclaimed Francisco, in terror and despair.
“Fear not, my beloved husband,” said Flora; “Nisida sleeps, and ’tis a healthy slumber. The pulsations of her heart are regular; her breath comes freely. Joy, joy, Francisco, she will recover!”
“The Holy Virgin grant that your hope may be fulfilled!” returned the young count. “But let us not disturb her. We will sit down by the bedside, Flora, and watch till she shall awake.”
But scarcely had he uttered these words when the door of the chamber opened, and an old man of venerable appearance, and with a long beard as white as snow, advanced toward the newly married pair.
Francisco and Flora beheld him with feelings of reverence and awe, for something appeared to tell them that he was a mortal of no common order.
“My dear children,” he said, addressing them in a paternal manner, and his voice firm, but mild, “ye need not watch here for the present. Retire, and seek not this chamber again until the morning of to-morrow. Fear nothing, excellent young man, for thou hast borne arms in the cause of the cross. Fear nothing, amiable young lady, for thou art attended by guardian angels.”
And as the venerable man thus addressed them severally, he extended his hands to bless them; and they received that blessing with holy meekness, and yet with a joyous feeling which appeared to be of glorious augury for their future happiness. Then, obedient to the command of the stranger, they slowly quitted the apartment—urged to yield to his will by a secret influence which they could not resist, but which nevertheless animated them with a pious confidence in the integrity of his purpose. The door closed behind them, and Christian Rosencrux remained in the room with the dead Wagner and the dying Nisida.
CHAPTER LXIV.
While the incidents related in the last few chapters were taking place at the Riverola Palace, the council of state had assembled to receive the grand vizier, the mighty Ibrahim, who had signified his intention of meeting that august body at three o’clock in the afternoon. Accordingly, as soon as he had witnessed the marriage ceremony which united his sister to the Count of Riverola, he returned from Wagner’s mansion to his own pavilion in the midst of the Ottoman encampment. There he arrayed him in a manner becoming his exalted rank, and mounting his splendid caparisoned steed, he repaired with a brilliant escort to the ducal palace. The streets of the city of Florence were thronged with multitudes eager to gain a sight of the representative of the sultan—a view of the man whose will and pleasure swayed the greatest empire in existence at that period of the world’s age!
And as Ibrahim passed through those avenues so well known to him—threaded those thoroughfares, each feature of which was so indelibly impressed upon his memory—and beheld many, many familiar spots, all of which awakened in his mind reminiscences of a happy childhood, and of years gone by; when, too, he reflected that he had quitted Florence poor, obscure, and unmarked amidst the millions of his fellow-men; and that now, as he entered the beauteous city, multitudes came forth to gaze upon him, as on one invested with a high rank and enjoying a power mighty to do much; when he thought of all this, his bosom swelled with mingled emotions of pride and tenderness, regret and joy; and while tears trembled upon his long black lashes, a smile of haughty triumph played on his lips. On, on the procession goes, through the crowded streets and across the spacious squares, watched by the eyes of transcendent beauty and proud aristocracy from the balconies of palaces and the casements of lordly mansions; on, on, amidst a wondering and admiring populace, and grateful, too, that so great a chief as Ibrahim should have spared their city from sack and ruin.
At length the grand vizier, attended by the great beglerbegs and pashas of his army, entered the square of the ducal palace; and as his prancing steed bore him proudly beneath the massive arch, the roar of artillery announced to the City of Flowers that the Ottoman Minister was now within the precincts of the dwelling of the Florentine sovereign. The duke and the members of the council of state were all assembled in the court of the Palazzo to receive the illustrious visitor, who, having dismounted from his horse, accompanied the prince and those high dignitaries to the council-chamber. When the personages thus assembled had taken their seats around the spacious table, covered with a rich red velvet cloth, the grand vizier proceeded to address the duke and the councilors.
“High and mighty prince, and noble and puissant lords,” he said, in the tone of one conscious of his power, “I am well satisfied with the manner in which my demands have been fulfilled up to this moment. Two ladies, in whom I feel a deep and sincere interest, and who were most unjustly imprisoned to suit the vindictive purposes of the Count of Arestino, have been delivered up to me: and ye have likewise agreed to make full and adequate atonement for the part which Florence enacted in the late contest between the Christians and Mussulmans in the Island of Rhodes. I have therefore determined to reduce my demands upon the republic, for indemnity and compensation, to as low a figure as my own dignity and a sense of that duty which I owe to my sovereign (whom God preserve many days!) will permit. The sum that I now require from your treasury, mighty prince and puissant lords, is a hundred thousand pistoles; and in addition thereto, I claim peculiar privileges for Ottoman vessels trading to Leghorn, guaranty of peace on the part of the republic for three years, and the release of such prisoners now in the dungeons of the inquisition, whom it may seem good to me thus to mark out as deserving of your mercy.”
“A hundred thousand pistoles, my lord, would completely exhaust the treasury of the republic,” said the duke, with dismay pictured upon his countenance.
“Think you,” cried the grand vizier, angrily, “that I shall dare to face my imperial master, on my return to Constantinople, unless I be able to lay at his feet a sum adequate to meet the expenses incurred by this expedition of a great fleet and a powerful army?”
“Your highness will at least accord us a few days wherein to obtain the amount required,” said the duke, “for it will be necessary to levy a tax upon the republic!”
“I grant you until sunset, my lord—until sunset this evening.” added the grand vizier, speaking with stern emphasis. “And if you will permit me to tender my advice, you will at once command the grand inquisitor and the Count of Arestino to furnish the sum required: for the former, I am inclined to suspect, is a most unjust judge, and the latter, I am well convinced, is a most cruel and revengeful noble.”
“The Count of Arestino is no more, your highness,” answered the duke. “The Marquis of Orsini murdered him before the very eyes of the grand inquisitor, and will therefore head the procession of victims at the approaching auto-da-fe.”
“By the footstool of Allah! that shall not be!” exclaimed Ibrahim. “The machinations of the Count of Arestino threw into the inquisition dungeons those two ladies whom ye delivered up to me last night; and it was my intention, when I spoke of releasing certain prisoners ere now, to stipulate for the freedom of all those whom the vengeance of that count has immured in your accursed prison-house. See then, my lords, that all those of whom I speak be forthwith brought hither into our presence!”
It may be proper to inform the reader that Flora had solicited her brother to save the Marquis of Orsini and the Countess Giulia, to whom the young wife of Francisco had been indebted for her escape from the Carmelite Convent; for, as the secrets of the torture chamber were never suffered to transpire, she was of course ignorant of the death of the guilty Giulia, and of the assassination of the Count of Arestino by the Marquis of Orsini.
At the command of Ibrahim Pasha, who spoke in a firm and resolute manner, the duke summoned a sentinel from the corridor adjoining the council chamber, and issued the necessary orders to fulfill the desire of the grand vizier. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed during which one of the councilors drew up the guaranty of peace and of the commercial privileges demanded by Ibrahim. At length the door opened, and several familiars made their appearance, leading in Manuel d’Orsini and Isaachar ben Solomon, both heavily chained. The former walked with head erect, and proud bearing; the latter could scarcely drag his wasted, racked, and tottering limbs along, and was compelled to hang upon the arms of the familiars for support. Nevertheless, there was something so meek—so patient and so resigned in the expression of the old and persecuted Israelite’s countenance, that Ibrahim Pasha’s soul was touched with a sentiment of pity in his behalf.
“But these are not all the prisoners,” exclaimed the grand vizier, turning angrily toward the duke; “where is the Countess Giulia of Arestino?”
“My lord, she is no more,” answered the prince.
“And Heaven be thanked that she is indeed no more!” cried Manuel d’Orsini, in a tone of mingled rage and bitterness. “Fortunate is it for her that death has snatched her away from the grasp of miscreants in human shape and who call themselves Christians. My lord,” he continued, turning toward Ibrahim, “I know not who you are; but I perceive by your garb that you are a Moslem, and I presume that your rank is high by the title addressed to you by the duke——”
“Presume not thus to intrude your observations on his highness the grand vizier!” exclaimed one of the councilors in a severe tone.
“On the contrary,” said Ibrahim Pasha, “let him speak, and without reserve. My Lord of Orsini, fear not—I will protect you.”
“The remark I was about to make, illustrious vizier,” cried Manuel, “is brief, though it may prove not palatable to the patrons of the inquisition and the supporters of that awful engine of despotism and cruelty,” he added, glancing fiercely at the duke and the assembled councilors. “I was anxious to observe that the Christian Church has founded and maintained that abhorrent institution; and that there is more true mercy—more genuine sympathy—and more of the holy spirit of forgiveness in the breast of this reviled, despised and persecuted Jew, than in the bosoms of all the miserable hypocrites who have dared to sanction the infernal tortures which have been inflicted upon him. For myself, I would not accept mercy at their hands; and I would rather go in the companionship of this Jew to the funeral pile, than remain alive to dwell amongst a race of incarnate fiends, calling themselves Christians!”
“This insolence is not to be borne,” exclaimed the duke, starting from his seat, his countenance glowing with indignation.
“Your highness and all the councilors now assembled well merit the reproaches of the Marquis of Orsini,” said the grand vizier, sternly. “But it is for me to command here, and for you to obey, proud prince! Let the chains be removed from those prisoners forthwith.”
The duke sank back in his chair, and, subduing his rage as well as he was able, he made a sign to the familiars to set the Jew and the marquis at liberty.
“Grand vizier,” exclaimed Manuel, “the life and the liberty which, at your all-powerful nod are restored to me will prove irksome and valueless if I be compelled to remain in a Christian land. Confer not favors by halves, my lord—render me completely grateful to you! Take me into your service—even as a slave, if your highness will; but let me accompany to a Mussulman country a Mussulman who can teach the Christians such a fine lesson of mercy and forgiveness.”
“You shall go with me to Constantinople, Manuel—but not as a slave,” returned Ibrahim, profoundly touched by the sincere tone and earnest manner of the young noble; “no—you shall accompany me as a friend.”
“A thousand thanks, grand vizier, for this kindness—this generosity!” said the marquis, deeply affected; then as a sudden idea struck him, he turned toward the Jew exclaiming, “But we must not leave this old man behind us. ’Twere the same as if we were to abandon a helpless child in the midst of a forest inhabited by ferocious wolves.”
“Yes—yes—let me accompany you, excellent young man!” murmured Isaachar, clinging to the arm of the marquis, for their chains were now knocked off. “You were the first Christian who ever spoke kindly to me; and I have no kith—no kindred on the face of the earth. I am a lone—desolate old man; but I have wealth—much wealth, Manuel d’Orsini—and all that I have shall be thine.”
“The Jew shall accompany us, my lord,” said Ibrahim, addressing himself to the marquis; then, turning toward the duke, he exclaimed in a severe tone, “But a few hours remain till sunset, and the ransom of a hundred thousand pistoles must be paid to me; or I will deliver up this proud palace and the homes of the councilors now assembled to the pillage of my troops.”
“Nay—nay, my lord!” cried the Jew, horror-struck at the threat; “bring not the terrors of sack, and storm, and carnage into this fair city! A hundred thousand pistoles, your highness says,—a hundred thousand pistoles,” he added, in a slower and more musing tone; “’tis a large sum—a very large sum! And yet—to save so many men and their innocent families from ruin—from desolation—— Yes, my lord,” he exclaimed, hastily interrupting himself—“I—I will pay you the ransom-money.”
“No—by Allah!” ejaculated Ibrahim; “not a single pistole shall be thus extorted from thee! Sooner shall the Florentine Treasury grant thee an indemnification for the horrible tortures which thou hast endured, than thy wealth be poured forth to furnish this ransom-money. Come, my Lord of Orsini—come, worthy Jew,” continued the grand vizier, rising from his seat, “we will depart to the Ottoman encampment.”
“Patience, your highness, for a few hours,” urged the duke, “and the hundred thousand pistoles shall be counted out before thee.”
“This poor man,” answered the grand vizier, indicating the Jew with a rapid glance, “has been so racked and tortured in your accursed prison-house, that he cannot be too speedily placed under the care of my own chirurgeon. For this reason I depart at once; see that the ransom be dispatched to my pavilion ere the sun shall have set behind the western hills.”
With these words the grand vizier bowed haughtily to the duke, and quitted the council chamber. Manuel d’Orsini followed, supporting Isaachar ben Solomon; and, on reaching the court, one of Ibrahim’s slaves took the Jew up behind him on his steed. The marquis was provided with a horse; and the cavalcade moved rapidly away from the precincts of the ducal palace. Profiting by the hint which Ibrahim Pasha had offered them, the duke and the councilors instantly levied a heavy fine upon the grand inquisitor; and the remainder of the money required to make up the amount demanded, was furnished from the public treasury. Thus by the hour of sunset the ransom was paid.
*****
At an early hour on the ensuing morning, Francisco di Riverola and his beautiful, blushing bride quitted the chamber where they had passed the night in each other’s arms, and repaired to the apartment where so many terrible mysteries had been revealed to them, and so many dreadful incidents had occurred on the preceding day. Hand in hand they had traversed the passages and the corridors leading to that room in which they had left Christian Rosencrux with the dead Wagner and the dying Nisida; hand in hand and silently they went—that fine young noble and charming bride!
On reaching the door of the chamber, Francisco knocked gently; and the glance of intelligence which passed between himself and Flora showed that each was a prey to the same breathless suspense; the same mingled feelings of bright hopes and vague fears. In a few moments the door was slowly opened; and the venerable old man appeared, his countenance wearing a solemn and mournful aspect. Then Francisco and the young countess knew that all was over; and tears started into their eyes.
Christian Rosencrux beckoned them to advance toward the bed, around which the curtains were drawn closer; and as they entered the room, the rapid and simultaneous glances which they cast toward the spot where Fernand Wagner fell down and surrendered up his breath, showed them that the corpse had been removed. Approaching the bed with slow and measured steps, Rosencrux drew aside the drapery; and for a moment Francisco and Flora shrank back from the spectacle which met their view; but at the next instant they advanced to the couch, and contemplated with mournful attention the scene presented to them. For there—upon that couch—side by side, lay Fernand Wagner and Nisida of Riverola—stiff, motionless, cold.
“Grieve not for her loss, children,” said Christian Rosencrux; “she has gone to a happier realm—for the sincere repentance which she manifested in her last hours has atoned for all the evil she wrought in her lifetime. From the moment, young lady, when she banished from her soul the rancor long harbored there against thee—from the instant that she received thee in her arms, and called thee sister—the blessing of Heaven was vouchsafed unto her. She was penitent, very penitent, while I administered to her the consolations of religion, and a complete change came over her mind. Grieve not, then, for her; happy on earth she never could have been again—but happy in heaven she doubtless now is!”
Francisco and the young countess knelt by the side of the couch, and prayed for a long time in silence, with their faces buried in their hands. When they again raised their heads, and glanced around, the venerable old man no longer met their eyes. Christian Rosencrux had departed, leaving Francisco and Flora in complete ignorance of his name; but they experienced a secret conviction that he was something more than an ordinary mortal; and the remembrance of the blessing which he had bestowed upon them the preceding day, shed a soothing and holy influence over their minds.
Little now remains to be said; a few brief observations and a rapid glance at the eventual fortunes and fates of the leading characters in the tale, will acquit us of our task. Nisida and Wagner were entombed in the same vault; and their names were inscribed upon the same mural tablet. The funeral was conducted with the utmost privacy—and the mourners were few, but their grief was sincere. And among them was Dr. Duras, who had loved Nisida as if she had been his own child. On the night following the one on which these obsequies took place, another funeral procession departed from the Riverola Palace to the adjacent church; and two coffins were on this occasion, as on the former, consigned to the family tomb. But the ceremony was conducted with even more privacy than the first; and one mourner alone was present. This was Francisco himself; and thus did he perform the sad duty of interring in sacred ground the remains of his ill-fated mother Vitangela and her brother Eugenio. The manuscript of the late Count of Riverola was burnt; the closet which so long contained such fearful mysteries was walled up; the chamber where so many dreadful incidents had occurred was never used during the lifetime of Francisco and Flora. The grand vizier remained with his army a few days beneath the walls of Florence: and during that time Isaachar ben Solomon so far recovered his health and strength, under the skillful care of an Egyptian physician, as to be able to visit his dwelling in the suburb of Alla Croce, and secure the immense wealth which he had amassed during a long life of activity and financial prosperity.
When the day of the grand vizier’s departure arrived, he took a tender farewell of his sister Flora and his aunt, both of whom he loaded with the most costly presents; and in return, he received from Francisco a gift of several horses of rare breed and immense value. Nor did this species of interchange of proofs of attachment end here, for every year, until Ibrahim’s death, did that great minister and the Count of Riverola forward to each other letters and rich presents—thus maintaining to the end that friendship which had commenced in the Island of Rhodes, and which was cemented by the marriage of Francisco and Flora. Isaachar ben Solomon and Manuel d’Orsini accompanied the grand vizier to Constantinople, and were treated by him with every mark of distinction. But the Jew never completely recovered from the tortures which he had endured in the prison of the inquisition; and in less than two years from the date of his release, he died in the arms of the marquis, to whom he left the whole of his immense fortune. Manuel d’Orsini abjured Christianity, and entered the Ottoman service, in which his success was brilliant and his rise rapid, thanks to the favor of the grand vizier. The reader of Ottoman history will find the name of Mustapha Pasha frequently mentioned with honor in the reign of Solyman the Magnificent—and Mustapha Pasha, beglerbeg of the mighty province of Anatolia, was once Manuel d’Orsini.
For nearly sixteen years did Ibrahim Pasha govern the Ottoman realms in the name of the sultan: for nearly sixteen years did he hold the imperial seals which had been intrusted to him at a period when the colossal power of the empire seemed tottering to its fall. During that interval he raised the Ottoman name to the highest pinnacle of glory—extended the dominions of his master—and shook the proudest thrones in Christendom to their foundation. Ferdinand, King of Hungary, called him “brother,” and the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Germany styled him “cousin” in the epistolary communications which passed between them. But a Greek who had long, long cherished a deadly hatred against the puissant grand vizier, at last contrived to enter the service of the sultan in the guise of a slave; and this man, succeeding in gaining that monarch’s ear, whispered mysterious warnings against the ambition of Ibrahim. Solyman became alarmed; and, opening his eyes to the real position of affairs, perceived that the vizier was indeed far more powerful than himself. This was enough to insure the immediate destruction of a Turkish minister.
Accordingly, one evening, Ibrahim was invited to dine with the sultan, and to sleep at the imperial palace. Never had Solyman appeared more attached to his favorite than on this occasion and Ibrahim retired to a chamber prepared for him, with a heart elated by the caresses bestowed upon him by his imperial master. But in the dead of night he was awakened by the entrance of several persons into the room; and starting up with terror, the grand vizier beheld four black slaves, headed by a Greek, creep snake-like toward his couch. And that Greek’s countenance, sinister and menacing, was immediately recognized by the affrighted Ibrahim—though more than fifteen years had elapsed since he had set eyes upon those features. Short and ineffectual was the struggle against the messengers of death; the accursed bowstring encircled the neck of the unhappy Ibrahim, and at the moment when the vindictive Greek drew tight the fatal noose, the last words which hissed in the ears of the grand vizier, were—“The wrongs of Calanthe are avenged!”
Thus perished the most powerful minister that ever held the imperial seals of Ottoman domination;—and the long-pent-up but never subdued vindictive feelings of Demetrius were assuaged at length! Dame Francatelli had long been numbered with those who were gone to their eternal homes when the news of the death of Ibrahim Pasha reached Florence. But the Count and Countess of Riverola shed many, many tears at the sad and untimely fate of the grand vizier.
Time, however, smooths down all grief; and happiness again returned to the Riverola Palace. For when Francisco and Flora looked around them and beheld the smiling progeny which had blessed their union,—when they experienced the sweet solace of each other’s sympathy, the outpourings of two hearts which beat as one, ever in unison, and filled with a mutual love which time impaired not,—then they remembered that it was useless and wrong to repine against the decrees of Providence; and, in this trusting faith in Heaven and in the enjoyment of each other’s unwearying affection, they lived to a good old age—dying at length in the arms of their children.