University of Virginia Library

6. CHAP. VI.

“Will you waltz?” said a merry-voiced domino
to the red-cross knight, a few minutes after tapping
him smartly on the corslet with her black fan, and
pointing, for the first step, a foot that would have
tempted St. Anthony.

“By the mass!” answered Malaspina, “I should
pay an ill compliment to the sweetest voice that
ever enchanted human ear,” (and he bowed low to
Giulio) “did I refuse invitation so sweetly toned.
Yet my Milan armour is not light!”

“I have been refusing his entreaties this hour,”
said Giulio, as the knight whirled away with Violanta,

“for though I can chatter like a woman, I
should dance like myself. He is not unwilling to
show his grace to `his lady-mistress!' Ha! ha!
It is worth while to sham the petticoat for once to
see what fools men are when they would please a
woman! But, close mask! Here comes the Count
Cesarini!”

“How fares my child?” said the old noble, leaning
over the masked Giulio, and touching with his
lips the glossy curl which concealed his temple.
“Are you amused, idolo mio?”

A sudden tremour shot through the frame of poor
Giulio at the first endearment ever addressed to his
ear by the voice of a parent. The tears coursed
down under his mask, and for all answer to the question,
he could only lay his small soft hand in his
father's and return his pressure with irresistible
strength and emotion.

“You are not well, my child!” he said, surprised
at not receiving an answer, “this ugly hump
oppresses you! Come to the air! So—lean on me,
caro tesoro! We will remove the hump presently.
A Cesarini with a hump indeed! Straighten yourself,
my life, my child, and you will breathe more
freely!”

Thus entered, at one wound, daggers and balm
into the heart of the deformed youth; and while
Bettina, trembling in every limb, grew giddy with

fear as they made their way through the crowd,
Giulio, relieved by his tears, nerved himself with
a strong effort and prepared to play out his difficult
part with calmness.

They threaded slowly the crowded maze of
waltzers, and, emerging from the close saloons,
stood at last in the gallery overhanging the river.
The moon was rising, and touched with a pale light
the dark face of the Tiber; the music came faintly
out to the night air, and a fresh west wind, cool and
balmy from the verdant campagna, breathed softly
through the lattices.

Refusing a chair, Giulio leaned over the balustrade,
and the count stood by his side and encircled his
waist with his arm.

“I cannot bear this deformity, my Violanta!” he
said, “you look so unlike my child with it; I need
this little hand to re-assure me.”

“Should you know that was my hand, father?”
said Giulio.

“Should I not! I have told you a thousand times
that the nails of a Cesarini were marked—let me see
you again—by the arch of this rosy line! See, my
little Gobbo! They are like four pink fairy shells
of India laid over rolled leaves of roses. What was
the poet's name who said that of the old Countess
Giulia Cesarini—la bella Giulia?”

“Should you have known my voice, father?” asked
Giulio, evading the question.

“Yes my darling, why ask me?”

“But, father!—if I had been stolen by brigands
from the cradle—or you had not seen me for many,
many years—and I had met you to night as a gobbo
and had spoken to you—only in sport—and had
called you `father, dear father!' should you have
known my voice? would you have owned me for a
Cesarini?”

“Instantly, my fair child!”

“But suppose my back had been broken—suppose
I were a gobbo—a deformed hunchback indeed, indeed—but
had still nails with a rosy arch, and the
same voice with which I speak to you now—and
pressed your hand thus—and loved you—would
you disown me, father?”

Giulio had raised himself while he spoke, and taken
his hand from his father's with a feeling that life
or death would be in his answer to that question.

Cesarini was disturbed, and did not reply for a
moment.

“My child!” said he at last “there is that in
your voice that would convince me you are mine,
against all the evidence in the universe. I cannot
imagine the dreadful image you have conjured up,
for the Cesarini are beautiful and straight by long
inheritance. But if a monster spoke to me thus, I
should love him! Come to my bosom, my blessed
child! and dispel those wild dreams! Come, Violanta!”

“Giulio attempted to raise his arms to his father's
neck, but the strength that had sustained him so
well, began to ebb from him. He uttered some indistinct
words, lifted his hand to his mask as if to
remove it for breath, and sunk slowly to the floor.

“It is your son, my lord!” cried Bettina. “Lift
him, Count Cesarini! Lift your child to the air before
he dies!”

She tore off his mask and disclosed to the thunder-stricken
count the face of the stranger! As he
stood pale and aghast, too much confounded for utterance
or action, the black domino tripped into the
gallery, followed by the red-cross knight, panting
under his armor.

“Giulio! my own Giulio!” cried Violanta, throwing
herself on her knees beside her pale and insensible
brother, and covering his forehead and lips
with kisses. “Is he hurt? Is he dead? Water!
for the love of heaven! Will no one bring water?”
And tearing away her own mask, she lifted him
from the ground, and totally regardless of the astonished
group who looked on in petrified silence,
fanned and caressed him into life and consciousness.

“Come away, Violanta!' said her father at last,
in a hoarse voice.

“Never, my father! he is our own blood! How
feel you now, Giulio?”

“Better, sweet! where is Biondo?”

“Near by! But you shall go home with me.
Signor Malaspina, as you hope for my favor, lend
my brother an arm. Bettina, call up the chariot.
Nay, father! he goes home with me, or I with him.
we never part more!”

The red-cross knight gave Giulio an arm, and
leaning on him and Violanta, the poor youth made
his way to the carriage. Amieri sat at the door,
and received only a look as she passed, and helping
Giulio tenderly in, she gave the order to drive swiftly
home, and in a few minutes they entered together
the palace of their common inheritance.

It would be superfluous to dwell on the incidents
of the sequel, which were detailed in the Diario di
Roma, and are known to all the world. The hunch-back
Count Cesarini has succeeded his father in his
title and estates, and is beloved of all Rome. The
next heir to the title is a son (now two years of age)
of the Countess Amieri, who is to take the name of
Cesarini on coming to his majority. They live together
in the old palazzo, and all strangers go to see
their gallery of pictures, of which none are bad, except
some well intended but not very felicitously executed
compositions by one Lenzoni.

Count Lamba Malaspina is at present in exile
having been convicted of drawing a sword on a
disabled gentleman, on his way from a masquerade

at La Pergola. His seclusion is rendered the more
tolerable by the loss of his teeth, which were rudely
thrust down his throat by this same Lenzoni (fated
to have a finger in every pie) in defence of the attacked
party on that occasion. You will hear Lenzoni's
address (should you wish to purchase a picture
of his painting) at the Caffé del Gioco, opposite
the trattoria of La Bella Donna in the Corso.