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.
