University of Virginia Library

THE
LAST OF TORCONNIER'S BAND.

BY MRS. C. W. DENISON.

1. PART FIRST.

Torconnier was an Italian, and the leader of a band
famous for its great harmony and power. All Verona rang with
its praise. Was there to be a marriage of some Don's dark-eyed
daughter? Torconnier must be there with his handsome, straight
young musicians, that is, if one was able to pay them their stipulated
price, which, it must be confessed, was enormous.

Of gigantic stature, massive frame, and portly mein, this
chief of melody surpassed all others of his countrymen in grace
of form and commanding beauty of feature. Passionately fond
of his profession, at times his deep set eyes would sparkle with
a fire that made them almost too intensely brilliant, and his finely
cut lips, naturally of a coral glow, grew pale and tremulous with
the emotion that, wild or sweet sounds conjured in his heart.

To belong to Torconnier's band was esteemed a great honor;
and many young men of noble families met with him in private
at his rehearsals, and in public showed him much favor and feted
him, getting up entertainments in a style of almost princely
magnificence. The great leader was unmarried, constantly receiving
immense sums of money, yet, always poor. His saloons
were rich in adornment, beyond description; the rarest works of
art, the most elegant and costly tapestry, the softest frescoing on
walls and ceilings, carpet of luxurious pattern and material,

statue of the finest marble, and gorgeous furniture; indeed
the mansions of the great were rarely equalled with that of
Torconnier.

But alas' what a sight was this mighty leader, at times,
when the carousel was over, and the last midnight lamp gave a
yellow tinge to his handsome face as its sickly flame streamed
over him. Stretched out upon one of his velvet couches, his
great eyes glaring and bloodshed, his fine features convulsed,
poor Torconnier laid, drivelling and insensible; he had sipped
the wine till he was drunk; and none of his band as they reeled
home from his splendid suppers were in better condition than
himself. Generally, at such a time, a young female of great
beauty stood, weeping over him and lavishing caresses upon his
insensible form. She was his niece; the beautiful Viola Torconnier,
whom a dying brother had commended to the care of
his famous kinsman; and she was betrothed to young Tricolo,
first player upon the flute, who, Torconnier himself said, would
yet be the wonder of the world.

Both loved with a passionate fervor peculiar to that clime
burning and fervid as it is, and Viola seldom appeared in public,
because her loveliness made her subject to many annoyances, for
all Verona knew that the famous Torconnier had in his splendid
home, a gem for the possession of which, many would have
parted with their whole fortunes.

A dark day dawned upon the Italian city. Not that the
sun shone with less splendor, not that the soft winds were less
cool and fragrant of flowers, or the skies shorn of their blue
enamel-like transparency—no; the harp still sounded in the
land of song, but fair fingers elicited most melancholy cadences;
Torconnier was dead; the man who moved all hearts with his
stirring melodies, who brought forth, tears, smiles or sighs at his

pleasure, would never again sway the baton, or with the magic
of his pen clothe with glorious garments the noble creations of
his genius.

No! he slept for ever; his tongue was mute, his thrilling
glance passionless. Shorn of his great strength, he slept motionless
beneath a canopy of sable velvet over the dim splendor
of his darkened room, the tall candles threw at times a startling
light, the warm wind from between the marble pillars sweeping
their dull flames aside, as the mourner, or the sorrowing stranger
entered to pay their last tribute of respect to Torconnier. The
massive cross at the foot of his couch, all blazing with diamonds,
flashed with a ghastly radiance over the scene of death, and the
tall forms of monks gliding here and there in the funeral gloom,
gave a ghastly sort of harmony to the sad scene.

Poor Viola, her slight girlish figure trembled like the silver
aspen; she leaned upon young Tricolo near the tall jasper vase
that a monarch had presented the gifted Torconnier; one of
her white arms shining through its slight drapery of black, laid
upon the embossed handle of the ornament, the other within
that of Tricolo.

Her betrothed occasionally spoke to her soothingly, but his
eyes were troubled, though tearless, and his manly heart swelled
with this swollen grief. He of the few favored ones admitted
into the great composer's presence, enjoyed most his confidence,
understood best his wild, wayward genius. Early bereft of parents,
the chance child of fortune, he cherished in Torconnier all
the emotions of filial gratitude because he had indeed been as a
father to him. And then did he not feel the gentle but more
decided pressure of that fair arm? had not that little hand been
laid within his own, by the doting uncle? and now, left as she
was without father, mother, relatives; full of gentleness, guileless
as innocence and beautiful as the light, was he not bound to

stand before the altar with her—yes, even on the morrow, and
take upon himself those vows which no strong power but that
of death could sever.

Not such were the thoughts of Viola, her sorrowful glances
were fixed on the still troubled face of the corpse. He had died
in her presence, died raving mad—drunken with wine. She
knew whatever the smooth-faced physician might say, that, to
his last breath, he had raved the incoherent blasphemy of the
inebriate, the sot; that he knew her not, though her fingers
sometimes laid upon his burning temples—that he saw her not,
though his starting eyeballs glaring with the red lustre of the
maniac, roved meaningless from feature to feature of her beautiful
face. And yet so accustomed was she to the sight of this
ruby beverage, crowned with frothy pearls as it leaped from the
sparkling champaign crystal, so often had she seen it upon the
tables of the wealthy, so frequently had she herself sipped the
juice of the grape, since she was a little child, that she comprehended
not the true source of this great calamity, or very slimly
felt that an excess of indulgence and that only, had been the
ruin of her beloved uncle.

The grand funeral procession marched from the house of
mourning in solemn state; it was conducted on an almost regal
scale of splendor. Neither music nor mourners were wanting;
the priests chanted, and the solemn line of monks, all belonging
to the monastery where Torconnier had sometimes electrified
thousands with his entrancing strains, swelled the cortege to an
mmense number, and gave an appearance of due solemnity to
the occasion.

Viola returned to her desolate home; sobbing like a child,
and throwing herself within the open arms of her old nurse, she
half shrieked, half sobbed, “what friend have I now on earth,
dear old Lara—oh! this terrible loneliness at my heart.”

“Tricolo will take care of you now, my child, see—you
distress him with your grief. Compose yourself, my darling,
nay, he does not hear me, he is weeping over Master's baton—
I can see his eyes are full of tears. Torconnier, your uncle—
may his soul be at rest—has left you all this beautiful furniture
these magnificent rooms; Tricolo has wonderful genius, your
uncle himself said that; he will yet be a leader; he will be
famous; rich; ah! he will take care of you as if you were a
queen. See, younder; the poor youth is refreshing himself with
wine; I do not wonder; he wishes to drive away his heavy
thoughts.”

Viola shuddered as she turned her gaze slowly towards
him; the nurse's kindly meant consolation had not lifted an
atom of the weight that crushed her spirit.

Before many months Viola wore the long bridal veil with
its complement of orange blossoms, and her young face, though
pale, gleamed bewitchingly sweet through the thick tresses of
curling hair that fell heavily over her white neck and down to
her jewelled waist. And there she spoke solemn words which
one like her breathes not lightly, and from thence she moved,
amid admiring multitudes, the bride of Tricolo, the matchless
flutist of Torconnier's band. A home of splendor had been
decorated for her; a deathless fame seemed awaiting the husband
of her love, in the future. By degrees, the sad calamity
that had befallen her assumed a softer shade, and though for a
long while she mourned Torconnier, and looked through tears
upon the many possessions which his touch had hallowed in
her eyes, yet the sunny smile came back as of old, and she
gradually forgot that she had ever felt so lonely and heart-broken,
as when she left the ashes of the great composer in
his last and lowly home.

2. PART SECOND.

Bellonte, a citizen of Verona, noted for his benignity and
deeds of benevolence, was hurrying along a narrow street,
lighted here and there by the flames of candles in the shop-windows,
whose gaudy red signs displayed a legion names of
choice liquors.

A man stood near one of these villainous pits, whose master
is the great prince of darkness, and peered so strangely, holding
out his long thin neck at Bellonte, that he could not forbear
pausing, and gazing into the cavernous eyes that met his
own.

The stranger deliberately raised the slouching cap that
kept his face in shadow, and speaking in a sepulchral tone,
exclaimed, “how do you like the looks of a starving man,
signor?”

“Good God!” exclaimed Bellonte, falling back apace,
for the horribleness of the countenance before him was too much
for even his equilibrium, seldom though it was moved.

The eyes of the wretched man shone like a fitful fire, but
they were deep, deep within his brain. His hair, intensely
black, fell in unstudied waves over his threadbare coat collar,
and his cheeks, whiter than parchment, were plastered in as
it were to the very bone. Wild and ghastly, famished, yet
awful, as if inside that pallid receptacle, a mighty and restless
spirit struggled for release, looked that strange, yet truly,
as he had said—starving face.

“Is it possible! can you want for food?”

“I could gnaw the verriest bone that ever a dog fought
over in the street; but—but, sir—I would die sooner than tell
you this, had I not a wife—a wife”—he articulated thickly,

and then his utterance was checked by tears. Bellonte had
never so pitied a human creature. He drew nearer to him
and smelt the fumes of wine upon his breath; he looked closer,
and noticed the unmistakeable rim of flame around those tomblike
eyes, such as none but the Bacchanalian displays.

“You have had wine recently?” he said in a tone of
inquiry.

“To-night, once. I snatched it from the very lips of my
sick babe; it was a choice treasure, saved by my poor girl for
the hour of need; but my tongue was swollen with starvation;
my breath was leaving me and already sounded dry and rattling;
away down my throat was Death, choking me; good
heavens! I could not bear the thought of starving then, of
falling dead at the feet of my wife—no, no; I prayed for
strength to carry me from the house; and if I find no succour—
to-morrow—” he made a fierce gesture passing his lean forefinger
across his shrivelled cheek.

Bellonte shuddered. “My poor man;” he exclaimed,
his heart deeply moved, “do not tempt God. Has he not sent
me to your relief? Have faith in Him.”

“Give my sick wife some nourishment, and then I will
talk to you about faith. I only ask mercy when I feel to what
depth of poverty I have brought her. But if you will go with
me—no—no, trust me not with that”—he quickly added, as a
piece of silver shone in the hand of the stranger, “go to her;
give it to her; I have not the heart to ask it of her.”

Bellonte, at one glance, comprehended the case; he threw
the folds of his ample cloak around him, and motioning the
sufferer to go forward, walked hurriedly after him.

In a still narrower and more filthy street, where balcony
after balcony of the tall grey buildings overhung each other,
like inverted terraces, until the old black walls nearly met

away up in the gloomy space, lived this poor victim of his own
base appetite. Flight after flight of broken and still crumbling
stairs did the two men ascend, hearing on all sides noisy mirth
and drunken revelry, till they had gained and entered the topmost
apartment. A feeble little candle flickered upon the
hearth, and close beside it, watching the face of her babe with
the most agonizing earnestness, sat a young creature whose soft
mournful eyes were floating in unshed tears, so that they
flashed like diamonds in pearl setting, as they were raised, with
sudden surprise, to the benevolent countenance of the stranger.

She, too, had the abundant and glossy locks of an Italian
woman, and her rich, clear complexion was instantly suffused
with a burning flush, as she glanced quickly around the
wretched room, and then with almost a look of reproof, towards
her husband.

In truth it was a most deserted and cheerless place, being
a room of unusually large dimensions, containing not a particle
of furniture beside a high-post bedstead without coverlid, and a
low bench or table, perhaps used as both, against the wall from
which latter hung remnants of diverse colored paper.

Closet there appeared to be none; there was no food in
sight; the ember had long ago died out in the black fire-place,
and that young creature, so beautiful, sitting wan and hopeless
by the desolate hearth, completed the most affecting picture
that Bellonte had ever beheld.

“What is the matter with the babe?” he asked, in a low
voice.

“Want of proper nourishment,” exclaimed the father,
abruptly; “he and that poor girl are dying by inches.”

The woman moved her face towards the wall; large tears
were streaming from her eyes.

“Go and get whatever this will furnish;” exclaimed

Bellonte, placing a gold coin in the burning palm of the husband
and father; “but—stop,” he ejaculated rapidly, as the
man turned away, “promise me—”

“I know what you would say,” interrupted the other,
almost haughtily; “but there is no need; yesterday I promised
the Infinite—did I not, my Viola—that I would never again
quaff the infernal poison; and perish this right arm if I keep
not my oath,” he muttered with clenched teeth; and the
slight frame of the woman shuddered perceptibly, as again the
large hot tears rolled unrestrained over her cheeks. “Stop!”
exclaimed her husband, with energy, and hastening to a corner,
he returned with something wrapt in green baize. Unrolling
it, he displayed a magniflcent flute with silver rims and keys,
and curiously inlaid with crimson and violet pearl that ran in
delicate vines from end to end. Kissing it reverently, he held
it forth to the stranger, saying, as he did so, “take it as a
pledge; never yet have I asked charity; I do not now. Take
it—it is costly; the companion of my life; I have declared that
nothing should separate us but death; but I cannot beg. Dear
and loved relic of Torconnier, farewell; I will redeem it should
my fortunes brighten;” and he held it out towards Bellonte.

“You mentioned Torconnier;” said the stranger, in a
tone of inquiry, without assenting to his proposition; “is it the
great composer, you speak of?”

“Yes,” answered the other, toying nervously with his
flute, “but Torconnier is dead—perhaps you knew; his band
did badly after his death; and, would you believe it, out of his
twenty fine fellows, as most of them were, but one remains.
You see him before you. Yes,” and his voice grew low, “I
am the last of Torconnier's band, and in a few little days, the
sun will shine too upon my grave.”

“Alberti!” exclaimed a voice in agonized accents, and

before either could spring to her assistance, the fragile creature,
the gentle wife, had fallen insensible upon the hard floor.

“My poor girl!” said Alberti, in a low tone, springing
beside her; “you are starving, and I am mad thus to forget—
oh! that we might both die. I, that have been a brute, have
murdered you, my poor, poor lily—so pale—so deathly!” and
a groan from the very depths of his spirit, told of anguish, mortal
in the extreme, as he took both mother and child in his
arms, and staggered with them to the wretched bed.

Bellonti hurried from the room; his steps were bent
towards a salon, as he left the ricketty tenement; he ordered
fresh viands and a basket full of delicacies, and, with a boy to
carry them before him, returned to the suffering family of
Tricolo the once eminent flutist. He found him still hanging
over his wife, who had partially revived, lavishing the most
passionate kisses upon her marble forehead. Tricolo started, as
the food, varied and bountiful, was taken from the basket, and
spread over the narrow table; his cheeks, his high temples, his
very throat crimsoned; but mastering his pride, he snatched a
delicate cake with which to tempt the appetite of the young
mother, and held it to her lips.

“You will take my flute,” he said rapidly, as Bellonte, assuring
him that he would send him many comforts on the morrow,
turned to depart.

“But I am no musician; I do not need it, and you do
You are welcome, to the favors I have showt
you, and some time, not now, you can repay me.”

“I insist that you must take the flute,” exclaimed Tricolo,
with energy springing to his feet; but Bellonte had already
gone, and was hurriedly descending the stairs, aided here and
there by the casual opening of some door, through which light
streamed upon the broken staircase.

The following day, two hours before high noon, Bellonte,
true to his promise, again visited the lodgings of Alberti Tricolo.
Before he gained the door, he was astonished to hear loud voices
as though a harsh and angry altercation were going on within.
Entering, a terrible sight, truly, presented itself. The young
wife, crouched in a corner, corpse-like and with distended eyeballs,
was vainly striving to hush the moaning of the miserable
babe. Two or three persons stood near the bed, and as they
moved aside at Bellonte's wish, he saw that the unfortunate
man was lashed, almost limb by limb, with strong cords to the
bedstead. Tricolo, frothing at the mouth and making most unearthly
noises, was now, the men assured the stranger, much
calmer than he had been; still, for all their assertions, Bellonte
instinctively shrank from the scene, and the yells were unlike
anything he had heard before.

“He has gone mad,” thought he to himself; “he is dangerous;
he will burst his puny bonds;” but just than a half-whispered
sentence, gave him a better light on the subject.

“I thought it would come to this,” said one; “for three
weeks drunk-drunk steadily—and for a week this has been
advancing steadily. Delirium tremens, they call that complaint;
that is what he has got, signor.”

Suddenly, as Tricolo's blood-shot eyes rolled upon his
benefactor, he ceased raving and became comparatively quiet.
Bellonte's mild face seemed to act like a charm upon his bewildered
senses, till by degrees he grew passive.

“Where is my flute? give me my flute,” he whispered;
“unbind my hands, and let me call forth its forgotten melodies
for the last time; give me my flute;” he repeated, so plaintively,
that the men turned to Bellonte, recognizing his superiority,
and to their mute inquiry, he said, “give him his flute,
poor fellow.”

They unpinioned his arms, and Viola, grieved and careworn,
came forward with the beautiful instrument, and as she
timidly bent over her husband and placed it within his hands,
she imprinted a kiss upon his hot forehead.

“Thank you, my poor, forgiving girl,” exclaimed Tricolo,
gratefully, “you will not be troubled with me long; take care
of her, signor, she is a dear wife;” and as Viola retreated to
the corner to weep unobserved, the musician, half reclining on
his elbow, placed the flute to his lips, while the bystanders stood
ready to seize him on any renewed act of violence.

“My fingers are strangers to it,” he murmured, after running
lightly through the scale; “yet 'tis the same flute; Torconnier
loved it; it has swayed the impulses of an audience
both divine and mortal; it has the tones of an angel—hear;”
and again resuming an attitude, he broke out into a soft foreign
melody, beautiful and impassioned, and performed with so much
skill, that the strangers present gazed at each other, seemingly
transported with pleasure. By degrees, a sort of inspiration
came upon him; the tones grew wilder and leaped from the
flute as from the silvery throat of a mocking-bird; they seemed
to have flashed and penetrated the very soul of the listener; now
dancing and sparkling, anon tumultuous and intermixed—flying
from harmony to discord, and from discord to harmony with
inconceivable rapidity. In the pathos, Tricolo would bow and
bend, and sway his thin body from side to side, his eyes swimming
in tears; in the excution of the swifter passages, his brow
flushed, his eyes were rigid, his whole frame trembled, the veins
on his white hands, delicate as a woman's, swelled and grew
purple; indeed, sitting on the wretched mattrass, his lean arms
thrust through the wide sleeves of what had once been a rich
dressing tunic, and to which some of the silken fringe yet
adhered, his black wiry tresses falling in disorder down his

bony neck, his fingers quivering yet flying over the stops, he
looked the personification of a fiend, striving to pour all his unhallowed
passions into the thrilling language of melody.

Suddenly pausing, he blew a shrill, unearthly note, his
brow gathered blackness, and his eyes shot fire, as he raised the
flute high above his head, and with a yell of agony, dashed it
against the opposite wall with such violence that it was broken
into fragments.

“It has struck him,” he yelled; clapping his hands with
maniac triumph; “the blood streams and the wound gapes;
let me at him and thrust him to perdition—” the arms of four
strong men held him firm; they struggled with him, grappling
as often as he with his giant strength shook them off again;
but his frenzy gradually forsook him, and once more were the
ropes crossed and recrossed above his slender body; in his exhaustion
he resisted them not; and Bellonte, without striving to
soothe the agonized wife, who stood sobbing aloud, motioned to
one of the attendants to keep strict watch, and hurried away.
When he returned, he came in a carriage with two men; they
were ushered into the chamber of the wretched victim, and in
a few moments more he was pinioned within a straight-jacket,
and led down stairs, Bellonte, in the meantime, detaining the
poor distracted wife, who implored, with piteous shrieks, to be
allowed to follow her husband.

“He shall be well cared for, and you too;” he said—as
finding her passionate entreaties useless, poor Viola had thrown
herself upon her knee and was violently weeping; but the
woman looked up with such a strange mixture of pride and
dislike, glaring in her dark eyes, that the benevolent man was
distressed; “I have aided her, I have done a most needful office
for her husband,” he thought, “and she evidently hates me.

“I leave here, in a few hours, for England;” at last he
said, when Viola was more calm; “if you will, you shall have
a home in my family, you and your child, till the recovery of
your husband. To-morrow, if you are willing, I will send for
you, and my servant will convey you to my residence; you
should not distrust me, I wish to befriend you and save your
husband.”

In the morning a grand equipage rolled up before the
frowning tenement, and Bellonte springing out, wended his way
up to the forlorn room of the Tricolo's. It was empty; neither
mother or child was there; the people in the next apartment
had seen them go away the night before. Bellonte returned
dissatisfied to his carriage, near which some curious tenants of
the old house had crowded.

“It is useless to wait!” he exclaimed to the driver, “drive
to the quay, I must lose no more time; tell the family when
you return that the bird has flown.”

3. PART THIRD.

Five years had gone; Bellonte was becoming an old man;
his abundant locks were tinged with grey, yet his forehead was
smooth, for a peaceful life, a clear conscience, and temperate
habits, seldom indent a man's brow with wrinkles. He had sojourned
two years in America; and, since then, he had heard
no tidings of the last of Torconnier's band, except that he was
discharged from the hospital, cured of his malady, but wretch
edly thin and dispirited. Time banished the trio from his mind
though his benevolence was more active than ever, and he was
always bestowing charity upon some needy recipient.

On his sixty-seventh birth-day, all his family met together
as usual, to celebrate the occasion. They were assembled in
the beautiful parlors of Signor Bellonte; the young and the
lovely and the gay were there—wit, mirth, music and dancing
had alternately engaged the happy company, till it was now
near the midnight hour. All had grown still and thoughtful—
lovers whispered together, as they sat in the wide nooks that
shielded them from prying observation; and of the older persons
some were serious, some sleepy.

On a sudden, when each one thought of whispering a happy
“good night,” a tone of tremulous music floated on the breeze—
unearthly and heavenly. Purer and stronger it arose, the clear,
soft music of a flute; and so much did each one fear to break
the sweet illusion than an angel filled the midnight air with
melody, that no one stirred until two very beautiful airs had been
played entirely through.

Then a murmur arose—who could it be? Several ran to the
window as the music ceased, but only in time to behold an elegant
carriage start from before the mansion, and move rapidly away.

Every tongue was busy with conjecture, save Bellonte's;
he alone was silent, revolving anxious thoughts in his mind;

anxious yet pleasing, and perhaps, too, somewhat perplexing—
but he kept his own council.

The next afternoon, Bellonte and his two nieces were riding
in a volante; the weather was peculiarly charming, and the
ladies, more pleased than otherwise at the attention their very
beautiful faces attracted, persuaded the old gentleman to drive
slowly through the avenue that led directly on the suburbs.
They had just reached an extremely elegant cottage, whose
grounds were laid out with such faultless taste, that they paused
to admire them. The girls broke out with exclamations, commenting
on this and the other rare flower, when a sound that
thrilled them to their innermost being, surprised them into silence.
As if entranced they sat there, while a wierd and singular
melody issued from behind the Venetian blind; a flute
solo, so magical that the youngest niece declared it to be the
production of no human effort.

“Hark!” said Bellonte suddenly, “I recognize that—it is so distinct,
I shudder--I remember the night”--he continued, half speaking
to himself, while the young girls looked at him in astonishment.

“We will get out here,” he said, abruptly, and leaping to
the ground—he assisted his wondering nieces to alight.

A little rosy cheeked girl with a happy round face, and
laughing black eyes, answered to his impatient knock. Who
should he ask for?

“Do you want to see papa?” asked the little fairy, “he
told me to let you come in;” and leading the way, she threw
open the door of a beautiful little study, ushering them into the
presence of her father.

“Is it you? Tricolo,” and “Signor Bellonte I am overpowered;”
both simultaneously exclaimed, as each sprang forward.

“I am happy beyond measure to behold you thus,” said
Bellonte with unusual animation; “your wife—”

“Is here;” answered Tricolo, with a proud smile, as Viola,
lovely as ever, and with a sweet dignity, entered at that moment,
followed by a noble little fellow, and the child who had met
them at the door.

Frankly smiling, she advanced towards Bellonte, and
exlaimed,

“How much do we owe you; thanks my good benefactor,
it is you that have saved us and restored us to happiness; my
little son, and you Viola, this is the good gentleman we have
taught you to pray for.”

“The generous man was affected almost to tears; but half
smiling he replied, “I hardly see how I have been of this very
essential service, since you so cunningly eluded me and my family
when we have attempted to find you, in order to learn how
you were prospering.”

“Be seated, sir,” said Tricolo, “with these young ladies.”

“My nieces, sir; and let me add that they paid you a high
compliment; declaring that no mortal power called forth the
strains to which they have just listened.”

Tricolo's face grew red, and he looked grateful: “I have
much praise in public,” he said, “because I am popular; but
when commendation is given impulsively, and from such a
source, I am always happy. My little boy, or my little girl
sometimes say, `Oh you do make such sweet music papa;' it
is better Signor, than showers of ducats, it is so fresh, so real.”

“We think them good judges,” said Viola, smiling.

“Excellent;” exclaimed her husband; “my boy there,
plays even now upon this difficult flute; it is my highest ambition
that he shall be a second Torconnier. But I must tell you
my story Signor; I left the hospital whither I was carried that
dreadful night, in company with my wife who had lived concealed,
near me. I was weak and penniless; Viola too looked

languid, our child was still sick. I knew not what to do—where
to get food; we had already taxed too much the purse of poor
old Zara, once the nurse of my wife, with whom we were residing
for a time. Each morning I felt less inclination for life;
my wife smiled in vain; how humiliating the feeling, that I, a
man—an Italian, was dependant upon the bounty of a faithful
old servant. The thought distracted me; I sat one night weeping
inwardly; I was too proud to show my tears; my wife had
just said, “surely if you do right, something good will happen,”
when the door opened, and in walked Zelda; Claude Zelda, the
superintendent, whom I had often seen at the hospital. He
came straight up to the table, and I know not why, but in a
moment my heart was light.

“I have been absent from my post, the last week,” he
said, “else before you came away, I should have delivered you
a message left by Signor Bellonte, to this effect; that you
should use this purse of gold; consider it as a loan, and pay it
back whenever you shall be able.”

“The good man went out, leaving me in bewilderment; I
doubted the evidence of my senses; I drew the purse towards
me, and pushed it back again twenty times; but my Viola came
and laid her head upon my shoulder; that restored me to recollection.
If you had seen me then, signor, you would have
thought me delirious in reality; I felt free; a man once more;
I was elated beyond reason; I danced around the room, draging
Viola after me; I laughed and shouted; I could scarcely
contain myself for happiness.”

“Now, my wife,” said I, as soon as I could command my
faculties, “here we are, placed once more above want, thanks
to our benefactor: I have three things to do which are imperative;
the first is, not a particle of this gold shall be expended
for that fire-liquid which has proved almost my undoing; the

second, I will buy a good flute to-morrow; the third, you shall
go in the country and drink plenty of milk, you and the boy,
till you are healthy again.”

“Ah! signor, how can I repay you? I went forth into the
world; they crowded again in my path; they clamored for my
music. I had some choice pupils who paid me well; I have
tasted not a drop of wine since; my concerts have brought me
a fortune, and signor, here is your purse—the same amount is
there; take it, and make some other poor heart rejoice as mine
does now.”

“I will accept it,” said Bellonte, with quivering lip, “because
I know the delicacy of a noble heart; but—I—I am
overcome with delight—I really know not what to say; young
man you have done bravely; I thank God that it is so good to
help His creatures.”

The evening was near; Bellonte and his nieces prepared
to depart, after exchanging mutual kind wishes. The latter
had fallen in love with the amiable and beautiful Viola, and
they were lavish in her praise long after they reached home.
There the story was told, and the unknown flutist of the birth-night
recognized.

The following day, a parcel was delivered into the hands
of Tricolo, by a servant in livery; it was one of the costliest
flutes that could be purchased in Verona, adorned with pearls
and gems; and inscribed on a delicate plate of pure gold were
the words: “To the son of Tricolo the flutist—may he be
Torconnier the Second.”

And now I have only to say, that for many years the
citizens of Verona boasted that there had been raised in their
midst so glorious a genius as young Alberti Tricolo, and so good
and virtuous a musician as the great flutist, The Last OF Torconnier's
Band.