University of Virginia Library

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.”