 | CHAPTER IX. Monaldi |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
Within a short lover's age Monaldi became a
husband; and his happiness would now have been
complete could he have felt assured that peace was
again restored to his friend. But Maldura had
long since disappeared, having left his lodgings
the day after Monaldi's offer; nor could the least
trace of him be discovered. Monaldi felt the disappointment
the more, as he had now persuaded
himself that no melancholy, however wayward,
could long withstand the sympathy of his wife.
Maldura's absence was occasioned by a letter
from Sienna, announcing the death of a rich relation,
and calling him there to take possession of
his inheritance. A few years back this accession
of wealth would have filled him with joy. But
what is wealth to the crumbled hopes of intellectual
ambition? It cannot rebuild them. Maldura
received the intelligence without the moving a
muscle. Though it gave no pain, it could give no
pleasure; for he was no sensualist; he had never
seated in his brain, seemed like a voracious reptile,
to swallow up every thought as soon as born, till,
bloated with overgorging, it had left no room for
the growth of another. To a vice like this money
was useless, except with a coxcomb. But Maldura
was no coxcomb; and he disdained to beg or
bribe — even for praise. Yet he notwithstanding
took possession of his fortune; there was no one
on earth whom he loved; and there was some satisfaction,
he thought, in possessing that which
many wanted; he was content to be rich because
others were poor.
Having arranged his affairs, he now began to
consider whither to direct his course. He had
quitted Rome, as he believed, forever, and Florence
was associated with too many bitter recollections
to be thought of again; but where to go he knew
not, for having no longer any object, there was
nothing to draw him to one place more than another.
In this state of indecision having one
evening strolled into a coffee house, a stranger
near him mentioned the name of Monaldi. He
thought he had schooled himself to hear it with
indifference; yet he leaned over his table towards
the speaker. The stranger was giving an account
to a person next him of Monaldi's marriage. Maldura
heard the name of Rosalia Landi. He could hear
no more, but starting up, rushed out of the house.
“I go to Rome,” said Maldura to his servant,
as soon as he reached home. “To-night, sir!”
exclaimed the man, staring. “Yes, to-night —
business calls me.” “Why, 't is almost dark, sir.”
“I want not your attendance,” said Maldura, impatiently;
“I go alone. Now see to my portmanteau,
and order a horse to the door.” The
servant obeyed, and Maldura was soon on his
way.
It was enough, he thought, to have been rejected;
but to be rejected for one whom of all others he
most envied, and therefore most hated; to know
that the woman he had once loved, and the man
he had once almost despised, were now as one;
that they were prosperous and happy; that without
title, rank, almost without family, they were yet
objects of the public gaze, of public admiration;
and that go where he would, talk with whom he
would, he must hear forever of the painter Monaldi
and his beautiful wife; to know all this — whilst
himself was unknown, miserable — drove him to
madness. He uttered no curse; he did not weaken
by words the deadly purpose which lay at his
heart. What that was, he had not yet defined, in
waited to mature it till he should find a proper
instrument to give it action; till then he was contented
with brooding over its general form, and
steadily looking forward to its birth.
In this mood Maldura pursued his journey. He
had now reached Radicofani, and was slowly moving
up the mountain, the reins given to his horse,
his eyes closed, and his thoughts busy about the
future, when a voice before him suddenly commanded
him to stop. He raised his eyes, but, it
being after nightfall, he could only discern the
figure of a horseman standing in his path, and
presenting what he supposed to be a pistol.
Maldura was wholly unprepared for defence, for
he had quitted Sienna in too much haste, and was
too intent on the object of his journey to think of
providing himself with arms; besides, it is doubtful
whether, in his present state of mind, he would
have taken the precaution, had it even occurred to
him.
“Your purse, or your life,” cried the stranger.
“Take which you will,” replied Maldura, calmly;
“they are both to me worthless.”
“Your purse, then,” said the robber.
Maldura deliberately handed him his purse.
“Does that content you?”
“If it be gold,” returned the other, weighing it
in his hand.
“'T is all gold, I assure you.”
“Don't lie, friend,” said the robber, — “the
weight of your purse has saved you, whatever its
contents.”
“Maldura never uttered a lie to man breathing!
nor could the fear of such a man as Fialto extort
one from him.” The robber started. “I know
you, Count,” added Maldura; “that voice, which
has ruined so many women, was never heard to be
forgotten.”
“You know me, then?” said the Count, after a
slight pause. “Well, sir, you shall also know that
the count Fialto never leaves any witnesses against
him above ground.”
“Put down your weapon,” said Maldura, coolly.
“My life is nothing to me, as I have told you, nor
would it be were it prolonged to a century; but to
you it may be worth something. In short, I need
your services, Count; and, more — I have wherewith
to pay for them.”
“Is the devil in you, Maldura, in good sooth;
or are you only playing the part of one, like our
worthy friars at an auto da fè?
“If you had said a hell, I should answer yes, —
but I lack a devil.”
“And therefore apply to me?”
“Ay; you are the very one I have been wishing
for.”
“Thank you! — Well, I must needs be a very
patient devil to bear this.”
“Your patience has served you, Count, in worse
cases. Have not I seen your presence empty a
coffee house in ten minutes? Yet you avenged it
only by a curl of your lip — and wisely; for none
but a madman would have thought of disputing
tastes with a score of stilettos. No, you are not
the fool, Count, to hazard either life or interest for
a reputation past mending. I address you in your
vocation — and there's surely no wrong done in
adding the title.”
“You have certainly the prettiest way,” answered
Fialto, “of persuading a man to sign himself rascal.
But words are words! so it matters little by what
name I live. Now, my good fellow-caitiff, what
is your infernal errand?”
“In a word then,” said Maldura, “I have been
injured.”
“Proceed.”
“And would be revenged.”
“Well, what prevents you? Are all the druggists
dead in Italy?”
“Pshaw! I want assistance.”
“Nay, I never stab or poison, except on my own
account.”
“I would have you do neither.”
“What then?”
“'T is a matter that requires considering; and I
would talk it over with you more at leisure, and in
a place less exposed. I do not like this parleying
in the dark; there may be ears about.”
“True, you talk like an adept; the grave is the
only place free of them. But dare you trust yourself
with me?”
“With an hundred such.”
“'T is more than I would,” observed Fialto
dryly. “Well then, follow me.”
Though the infamy of Fialto's character had
long excluded him from all sober society, his natural
and acquired endowments were yet too dazzling
not to obtain him a ready reception with the gay
and young; and there were some even among the
graver class, more nice perhaps in their taste than
their morals, who, attracted by the brilliancy and
extraordinary variety of his conversation, scrupled
not to court his acquaintance in private when
their prudence would have made them ashamed to
acknowledge it in public. Among this latter number
had been Maldura. But the fascination of Fialto
was not confined to listeners of his own sex;
swindled of their money, the uncommon beauty of
his person, and his insinuating manners gave him
no less advantage over the hearts of the women.
No woman, it was said, could withstand the witchery
of his eye; and many a husband and father,
have often stolen home from the assembly where
chance threw him in their way, but too happy if
their wives and daughters had escaped it. But
among his many seductions, the most notorious,
and the one for which he was most dreaded, was
that of a Nun. Of this, however, he was only
suspected, for no proof of it appearing, even the
Holy Office was obliged to acquit him.
Maldura had often heard of Fialto's gallantries,
and of this among the number; whether they
were true or not he cared little; it was enough
that they were imputed to him, that he was considered
a dangerous man; and when he added to
this character the certainty that the Count had
long since run through his fortune, that he had
been a gambler, a swindler, and was now become
a robber, he thought it impossible to find an accomplice
better suited to his purpose.
Such were his thoughts when, entering a thick
wood, his companion desired him to dismount.
“We must leave our horses here,” said Fialto;
out of the wood, and began to ascend a wild and
barren country.
It was one of those still nights from which a
quiet heart seems to imbibe a peace more profound.
Not a breath of air was stirring, nor a cloud to be
seen; all nature seemed buried in slumber — all
but the wakeful eyes of heaven — while the fitful,
uncertain light they shed upon the grey rocks, that
here and there jutted up from the black hollows of
the mountain, appeared to give them an undulating
motion, as if sleep had softened them into life, and
they were heaving with breath. But the repose of
the scene touched not the turbulent hearts of the
travellers, seeming rather to wall them about, and
shutting them up from the external world, to give
freer play and bolder daring to the evil spirits
within. As Maldura looked out upon the darkness
he felt as if it had compressed his soul to a
point, as if his whole being, once spread abroad,
modifying, and modified by, the surrounding elements,
were now suddenly gathered back, like the
rays of an extinguished lamp, and absorbed in one
black feeling of revenge. His libertine companion,
not less selfish, but more in humor with the world,
availed himself of his abstraction in maturing the
unfinished schemes which he hoped to turn to his
in silence, till winding up a narrow, broken path,
they stopped at the foot of a steep rock, forming
the base of a cliff.
“Our journey is ended,” said the Count; “this
is my castle when my good friends in the world
become importunate.” Then, taking a flageolet
from his pocket, he ran over a few wild notes,
when hearing the tinkling of a sheep-bell, apparently
from a great distance, he stopped. “I am
answered. All is safe.” So saying, he led the
way to a cleft, overhung with bushes, about midway
up the rock, the projections on its surface
serving for steps.
“What folly is this?” said Maldura.
“Part those bushes,” replied his companion.
He did so; and a door appearing, they entered
a cavern.
“'T is he at last!” cried a female voice. Maldura
leaned forward to look at the speaker, but he
instantly drew back. She stood near the entrance
holding a lamp, and as the light fell upon her large
dark eyes, it gave them a brightness so fearfully
contrasting with her other livid, shrunk features,
that he thought he had never beheld so strange a
mixture of life and death.
“Marcellina,” said the Count.
“It is he!” she cried, recovering her breath.
“Thank God!” Then instantly closing her eyes
she added half to herself. “But no — to Him —
I am nothing to him now;” and a visible tremor
ran over her limbs.
“Tut!” said Fialto. “Well, Marcellina, and
how are you?”
“Alas, 't is a long time,” said she —
“Since I have been here? I know it.”
“I thought you would never come.”
“Don't be foolish; I have brought you a visiter.
Have you anything to entertain him with?”
“Such as I have he is welcome to.”
“Well, whatever it is, Maldura I dare swear
needs no cardinal compound of pinochii and truffles
to sauce it down, He's a poet; and those of
his tribe seldom feast, except on posthumous dinners
with posterity. But I beg his laced cloak's
pardon; I see he has cut the chameleons — of
course now an ex-poet, for a fat purse makes but
lean verses.”
Had Maldura wavered in his purpose this accidental
allusion to his blasted hopes would soon
have fixed it. He affected to smile, but his face
darkened with vengeance.
“What, ashamed of your trade, man?” said
the Count, observing the change in his countenance.
never quarrel with what we are, but what we
have been; and I can't say but even I might be
ashamed of dicing, could I once leave it off. As
it is, however, I'm content to think it a very pretty,
gentlemanlike vice. But I see you are impatient
— so, we'll e'en to business.”
“Nay, but you will first tell me — ” said Marcellina,
making a timid attempt to detain her companion.
“Come, come,” said Fialto; “we will talk
about our own affairs another time. My friend, I
dare say, is hungry; this keen air of the mountains
whets one's appetite confoundedly.”
Marcellina sighed, and silently began to prepare
for supper.
The travellers in the mean time retired to an
inner apartment in order to confer on the subject
of their alliance. Maldura then stated his purpose
and the Count his conditions; at length, after
some discussion, the affair was arranged to their
mutual satisfaction.
“Such is my plan,” concluded Maldura; “but
should you do more, and succeed so far as to
cause their separation, the sum shall be doubled.”
“Nay, if you wish it,” replied Fialto, “I will
even take her to myself.”
“No,” said Maldura, “force would only defeat
my object.”
“You mistake me: I mean with her own consent.”
“Impossible!”
“That's a word I never knew the meaning of.
Give me but a month — ”
“Never. Proud as you are, Count, and with
as much reason as you have to be so, there is yet
one woman in the world to whom all your arts,
were they ten times more seductive, would be as
nothing: that woman is Rosalia.”
“'Faith, you have touched my pride; for, do
you know, I'm a purity-fancier.”
“Hold! — you must not attempt her; for, as
you would certainly fail, she would as certainly
betray you to her husband. What then becomes
of his jealousy?”
“So, I am only to sin by implication?”
“She must not even hear your name, at least
as connected with hers; for she knows you — as
who does not?”
“Ay, I dare say she has heard that I carry a
rosary of broken hearts, strung like beads, about
my neck; and that I count them every night before
a taper of brimstone, to keep good angels from
I've no great inclination to push my fortune.”
“You certainly have the credit of a free chart.”
“The world does me too much honor! No, I
don't more than half deserve it.”
“Well, the half is enough to prevent any decent
woman putting herself in your way.”
“Oh, if the painter's wife is afraid of me, she's
mine to a certainty.”
“I don't question your logic, Count,” said Maldura,
with a half-suppressed sneer; “yet you are
not, perhaps, aware that a virtuous woman might
avoid a libertine from other motives besides fear.
There may be such a thing as antipathy.”
“Umph!” answered Fialto, drumming on the
hilt of his dagger. “By the way, that's a very
pretty jewel on your finger.”
“'T is yours,” said Maldura, taking off the ring
and presenting it.
“By no means,” said the Count, though somewhat
hesitating; “we are not on the road now.
Besides, you are my guest — I could not in honor
accept it.”
“Then wear it as a pledge of my good faith.”
“Well, as a pledge. But what if this Monaldi
should refuse to be jealous? For I have known
stumble over him.”
“I know him too well to doubt your success.
Wherever he fixes his affections there will be his
whole soul; and though not suspicious, yet will
her constant presence in his mind make him acutely
sensitive to the least breath that touches her.”
“Say no more; I see he is most happily disposed
to be miserable.”
“Well, do we now understand each other?”
“Yes. But you have given such a description
of this paragon, that I dare not answer if — ”
“Fialto,” said Maldura sternly, “if you keep
not within the charter — ”
“What then?” retorted the Count, fiercely.
“I — hold the purse.”
“I bow before thee, most mighty wizard! That
little word would bind even Love, though he had
as many wings, and were as strong as a whirlwind.
Only repeat it when I become restiff, and you 'll
find me as docile as the pet-cat of an old maid.”
“Then we are agreed.”
“Agreed! Why, man, thou art a licensed sorcerer!
There is nothing on earth, bearing about
with it a full wit and an empty stomach, can withstand
thee. Thou hast the true charm, to soften,
or harden hearts at pleasure; and if I obey thee
shall have conjured me out of my appetite.”
They now returned to Marcellina, and sat down
to supper.
“But how is this, Marcellina?” said Fialto;
“this is the very flask of Montepulciano that I
brought you a month ago.”
“I reserved it for you,” answered Marcellina.
“That was foolish. You'll at least partake of
it now.” She shook her head. “Will you not
join us?”
“No,” she replied; 't is enough — ” she would
have added, “to see you — ” when a frown from
Fialto checked her. But he could not check the
language of her eyes. She had taken her seat at
a little distance opposite, and, watching every turn
of his countenance, seemed to hang upon it with a
fondness so intense and devoted — as if in her
whole mind there was but one thought — that of
the object before her. Yet there was a gloom in
her love which occasionally gave her an expression
almost awful.
Maldura had marked these looks, and the story
of the nun crossed his mind. He looked again,
and the more he examined her, the stronger became
his suspicion that she was the person; for
though her form was wasted, her features shrunk
traces of their former beauty were still too visible
to leave a doubt that she had once been lovely.
Had any one but Maldura beheld this piteous
object, and then looked on her betrayer, and surveyed
his elegant, yet muscular, limbs, his fresh
black hair, his smooth forehead, the cold sparkle of
his eye, the healthful color of his cheeks, the smile
that curled his lips, and the gaiety that danced like
a youthful spirit over the whole; and then thought
of his heart — the black life-spring of all this seducing
beauty — he would have shrunk from him
with horror, and turned for relief even to his
wretched companion. But Maldura felt not the
contrast, or if he did it was only to confirm him in
the choice of his instrument.
Though Fialto scarcely looked towards Marcellina,
he could not help feeling that her gaze was
upon him, and willing to divert his mind from certain
uneasy thoughts which that awakened, he
suddenly broke the silence into which their meal
had relapsed by inquiring, “if Maldura had heard
anything lately of a certain Cagliostro?”
“Yes,” answered Maldura; “I am told he is
now figuring away in England.”
“He is certainly the cleverest scoundrel I ever
met with. But he is one of those unfortunate
time; he should have been born two centuries
sooner, when he might have had half christendom
under his foot.”
“You knew him then?”
“I met him once in Madrid. What devil carried
him there with his tricks I never could guess;
but it must have been Beelzebub himself that carried
him out of it; for no other could have given
him safe conduct through the Inquisition.”
“Can nothing but the devil,” asked Maldura,
fixing his eye on the Count — “can only the devil
extricate a man thence?” Fialto affected to
cough. “You can tell,” continued Maldura, “for,
now I recollect, there was once a foolish story about
a nun — ”
Marcellina uttered a shriek, and fell senseless.
For a moment Fialto stood like one stunned; then,
smothering a curse, he sprang to her assistance.
Maldura offered his services, but the Count waving
his hand, he prudently drew back.
“Am I awake?” said Marcellina, at length recovering.
“I have had a frightful dream. Ah!
never could I live through such another. I thought,
dear Fialto, I thought — ”
“You must not speak, Marcellina,” said the
Count; “you are too weak — it hurts you.”
“But I must tell you this to relieve my mind.”
“Nay, you must not.”
“'T is only a few words — I thought that a
familiar of the Inquisition — ”
Fialto ground his teeth with rage, yet fearing to
trust himself with speech, he made a sign for Marcellina
to be silent; but she was too intent on
her own thoughts to observe him.
“Where was I?” she continued; “oh, well —
and the familiar I thought came into my cell — ”
“Peace!” cried the Count in a voice of thunder.
Marcellina, you know me — I will never
forgive you if you refuse to obey me.”
“Then I should be cursed on earth too — you
are obeyed.”
“You must go to bed,” said Fialto.
She assented by an inclination of her head; and
he was supporting her to her chamber, when she
caught a glimpse of Maldura.
“There! there he is again!” she screamed.
Fialto hurried her into the chamber, and closed
the door after him.
“It is so!” said Maldura to himself. “He is
now in my power, and shall be faithful.”
It was near an hour before Fialto returned.
“How is she?” asked Maldura.
Without answering the question, Fialto continused
arms folded; at length stopping and slowly raising
his eyes, “Maldura,” said he —
“Proceed, sir,” quietly returned Maldura; for
he guessed the subject of Fialto's thoughts, and
was prepared.
“What think you — of what has just passed?”
“Thoughts, Count, you know are free; they
come unbidden, and stay without leave; the mind
therefore — so it use them not — cannot be answerable
for their birth or nature.”
“You are metaphysical, sir.”
“'T is my humor. This being true, he is but a
fool, should their nature be dangerous, who willingly
betrays them to another.”
“I understand you, sir. But you should have
added,” observed Fialto, half drawing his stiletto,
“one trifling qualification — unless he find it his
interest to betray them.”
“Your dagger, Count,” said Maldura, “would
waste its edge on me; for I should not care if you
had seduced a whole convent.”
“Fool to have brought him here!” muttered
Fialto to himself.
“Count Fialto,” said Maldura, “I am now in
your power. If you fear me, this is a most convenient
place to bury your fears in.” Fialto's hand
secure your peace, strike! You will do more —
you will rid me of a hateful existence.”
“Maldura, I will be plain with you,” said Fialto.
“You say right — you are in my power; and I
would bury my secret with your corpse on the spot
where you stand but that I know that men, good
or bad, never act without motive: and you can
have none to betray me — at least for the present.
Should you have hereafter, why, then, I shall need
no prompter; and my hand has never missed whom
my eye has marked. Then, take your life; not as
a gift for which I expect gratitude — I know you
too well to delude myself with any such improbability
— 't is not in the heart which I have read
to-night — that frown is idle, sir — but I give it,
because I hold it of no moment to me.”
“The expression you were pleased to notice,”
replied Maldura with the same composure, “had a
deeper root than you can yet reach. You are free
to criticise my morals as you like, provided only I
be not bound in return to mend them by those of
my judge. But a truce to this. I will meet you,
Count, on your own ground, and with equal plainness.
Your secret with me is as with the dead.
My soul has no purpose save the one you know —
no pleasure, no profit in anything which man could
death? or the death of all the libertines in the
world? — Nothing. I should still be the same —
the same human weed, fastened to the same spot,
and still hating its own rankness.”
“I do trust you,” said the Count, extending his
hand. “So, good night. You will find a pallet
in that recess.”
| CHAPTER IX. Monaldi | |