University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Nothing more occurring, the confederates proceeded
the next morning on their way to Rome,
taking care, however, always to separate when
they came to a town. According to this plan,
when they reached Viterbo, Maldura entered and
quitted it alone, and had proceeded some miles
before Fialto overtook him.

“We are in luck,” said the latter, as he rejoined
his companion, “I have seen Monaldi; he was
pointed out to me as he was getting into a carriage
just as I entered the inn yard. It seems he is on
his way to Florence, to see to the putting up of
some picture he has painted for a church there.
So said the inn-keeper.”

“But his wife,” interrupted Maldura —

“There was no lady with him. And he will be
absent a fortnight at least. Rare! eh?”

“Yes,” said Maldura, “if she remain at home.
A fortnight, did you say? That's time enough” —

“Ay, for any woman to transfer her affections —
at least in the calculation of a jealous husband.”

“Well sir, let us on.”

On their arrival in Rome, Maldura took lodgings
in a part of the city remote from his former abode,
and where from its obscurity he thought he was
least likely to fall in with Monaldi, whom he was
determined to avoid unless some circumstance
should occur to render their meeting necessary.
Fialto established himself nearer the scene of action,
and began his operations by making it appear
as if he haunted the painter's dwelling; passing
and repassing it a dozen times a day; sometimes
stopping before it under one pretence or another,
then giving a side glance towards the windows,
and suddenly turning another way if any one
chanced to observe him, and sometimes curveting
to and fro for several minutes on a restiff horse,
and occasionally affecting to take something from
his pocket and throw it into the court. All this
was done to excite the attention of the neighbors;
nor was it long before it succeeded. The first
effect, however, was that of mere surprise to see
him so often in the same street; generally ending
with simple exclamations, as, “Oh, here's the
same gentleman,” or “here he comes again!”
Then they began to wonder what brought him

there. But when they remembered his frequent
glances at Monaldi's house, the mystery was explained;
the transition was but too natural from
the handsome cavalier to the painter's wife.

Such was the state of things when Monaldi returned.
His arrival was accordingly noted by his
neighbors with as many shrugs and winks as are
usual in similar cases. But there was one amongst
them to whom it seemed to afford particular pleasure;
for now, as he thought, was a fair opportunity
to give play to his resentment in many a good
“fling” at the great man. This person, whom
Monaldi had unconsciously offended, was a worker
in mosaic, and kept a shop directly opposite him.
The cause of the offence was the negative one of
sometimes being silent when Romero expected to
be praised; not that Monaldi had ever denied him
praise when he thought it due, for he was too conscientious
to withhold it even from an enemy, but
only that he had fallen short of the exhorbitant
measure which the other demanded; an injury
often more important than one that is positive, for
while the latter is bounded by its word or deed,
the former is limited only by the vanity of the injured.

“Good morning, signor Monaldi,” said Romero,
“so, you have been a long journey. Ay, 't is
well you are come back.”

This speech would hardly have been noticed but
for its peculiar emphasis.

“Well, sir?” repeated Monaldi, “why well?”

“Oh, nothing — only — a man, you know, is
always better at home — especially” —

“Sir.”

“Umph! — Don't it look like rain? Carluccio,
why don't you attend to the shop?”

“You were observing,” said Monaldi.

“Oh, nothing of consequence — at least to me,”
replied Romero, closing his shop door. “Good
day, sir; I must see to my customers.”

“'T is of a piece,” thought Monaldi, “with his
usual forwardness; he wants to talk and has nothing
to say.” And the speech and Romero
passed from his mind.

Nothing more occurred for several days, till one
morning, as Monaldi was going out, he saw a man
standing at the entrance of his gateway. As he
approached, the stranger suddenly drew his hat
over his eyes, and precipitately retreated; not however,
before the former had distinctly seen his face.
Monaldi quickened his pace in order to overtake
him, but on entering the street, the man was lost
in the crowd; and before he had time to form any
conjecture on the incident, his attention was diverted
by a message from the pope, requiring his
attendance.

But going the next day to a window which overlooked
Romero's shop, he observed the same person
standing at the door, and apparently conversing
by signs with some one in his own house.
The recognition, even connected with such a circumstance,
might have passed off without a thought,
had not the stranger on catching his eye again
drawn his hat over his face and hastily entered the
shop. This last action gave an importance to the
other which he could not overlook. And for the
first time in his life, Monaldi became conscious of
suspicion; but of whom, or of what, he could not
tell. He felt that the stranger was somehow or
other connected with him or his household, and
the sensations excited by the thought became still
more painful from its being undefined.

Who the man was perplexed him. “Yet might
it not be some one he had formerly known? No;
he could not recollect meeting him before the day
preceding. Who was he, then? — Perhaps Romero
could inform him. But Romero was prying
and familiar; and should he ask the motive for the
inquiry — what answer could be given? No,
he would not question him. Yet the more he
thought of it, the more he felt inclined to apply to
him; but something — he knew not what — always
checked him.

In this mood he continued to pace the room for
a considerable time, when, going again to the window,
he saw the stranger come out of the shop,
and again make a sign as he thought, toward his
house. “I will know who he is.” But before he
had reached the street, the stranger was gone.

For near a fortnight after Monaldi observed the
same person almost daily hanging about the neighborhood,
and always betraying the same solicitude
to avoid him. Still no opportunity offered of
learning who he was. Wearied at length with
fruitless conjectures, and willing to divert his mind
with other thoughts, he was one evening prevailed
on to accompany his father-in-law, to see a new
opera. Rosalia had also been invited, but she declined
on account of a headache.

They had been but a little while in the theatre,
when Landi directed Monaldi's attention to a box
opposite.

“Do you observe that gay cavalier?”

“Which?” asked Monaldi.

“He that has just entered, with the embroidered
waistcoat.”

Monaldi looked, and beheld the Stranger. “Who
is he?” he asked quickly.

“'T is the notorious count Fialto.”

“Fialto!” repeated Monaldi.

“What makes you start so?” said Landi.

“N - nothing.”

“But you are ill?”

“No — not at all,” answered Monaldi, endeavoring
to assume a cheerful look — “quite well, I
assure you.”

“I fear you labor too much,” said Landi.

“Perhaps so. But go on — you were speaking
of this Count.”

“I pointed him out to you,” continued Landi,
“because I think him an anomaly in physiognomy.
To look at his noble countenance, no one, ignorant
of his character, would for a moment suspect that
such a face could possibly belong to anything vicious;
and yet, were all the wickedness in this
house extracted from the hearts of each individual,
I verily believe it would fall short in the gross of
that in his.”

“You seem to know him?”

“Not personally. But his character is no secret.
There is no crime of which he is not capable.”

“I have heard as much.”

“But his deadliest sins are against those of the
other sex. The catalogue of his seductions would
appal any common libertine.”

“He seems indeed no common one.”

“Nay, his person, of itself, is a mere subordinate

— but a fine statue, on which many women
might gaze with impunity; 't is only when animated
by his master-mind — when his devil's heart rises
to his angel's tongue, that it becomes an object of
worship — fatal to the rash woman who shall then
dare to look and listen.”

Monaldi knew not why, but he felt, while his
father-in-law was speaking, as if all his blood were
beating at his heart. But the opera was now begun,
and the exquisite tones of Crescentini soon
made him forget that there was such a being as
Fialto in the world.

The first act passed off without anything worth
noting, except that Monaldi's attention was again
drawn towards the opposite box by the entrance of
a person with a letter for Fialto, who, glancing
over it hastily, immediately withdrew; but this
excited no sensation in Monaldi except that of
pleasure in the other's absence, which left him at
ease to enjoy the remainder of the opera.

There are few cares which do not yield for a
time to the influence of fine music. Monaldi had
felt it, and he was returning homeward full of happy
thoughts, when arriving within a few paces of his
house, he perceived a person lurking about his
gateway. The impulse of the moment determined
him to stop; and being just then under a lamp

which hung before the image of a saint, he turned
his back towards it, and muffled his face in his
cloak. He had scarcely done so when the person
passed him. Monaldi was thunder-struck: there
could be no mistake — the light had fallen full on
the other's face — it was Fialto.

There is a little cloud often described by travellers,
and well known on the Indian seas, which at
first appears like a dark speck in the horizon; as
it rises its hue deepens, and its size increases; yet
the approach of it is gradual, and the air meanwhile
is soft and motionless; but while the inexperienced
mariner is perhaps regarding it as a mere
matter of curiosity, his sails unbent, and loosely
hanging to the masts — in the twinkling of an eye,
it seems to leap upon the ship — and, in a moment
more, sails, masts, and all, are swept by the board.
With like desolation did this little incident smite
the heart of Monaldi: he felt as if some sudden
calamity had laid his peace in ruins; yet he could
give it no distinct shape, nor even comprehend the
evil that would follow. He knew not with what,
or with whom to connect Fialto's visit; but that
Fialto had been in his house seemed almost beyond
doubt; he had not indeed seen him come out of
it — yet why was he hanging about it at this hour?
“But how did this appear to concern himself?”

He had scarcely asked the question, when twenty
circumstances occurred in answer; but chiefly by
the Count's uniform solicitude to avoid him; his
confusion when detected gazing at the house, his
disappearance from the theatre soon after Monaldi's
entrance; his absence during the rest of the
evening, though it was a new play; and his sudden
reappearance in this place, and at such a time;
these were too evident in their bearing to allow of
any misapprehension, and Monaldi was forced to
admit that Fialto's purpose, whatever it was, had,
in some way or other, relation to himself. There
was an obscurity in this conclusion which thickened
on his brain like an Egyptian darkness; not
a thought could pierce it; even the avenues to
conjecture were closed; he could only feel that he
was surrounded by a thing impenetrable, and he
had no resource but to wait till some further circumstance
should give form and direction to his
undefined misgivings. Nor was he long without
one. The closing of a window above roused him
from his reverie. He looked up and saw a light
in his wife's chamber, and a female figure passing
from the window. Rosalia and Fialto now met in
his thoughts.

There is no act of the mind more abhorrent to
a delicate man than that of admitting a criminating

thought against an object once held sacred; and
should a hundred circumstances arise to disturb,
and excite him to suspicion, it will at first be general,
and fall anywhere, rather than on her he
loves; for though it is the connection of these circumstances
with her — which the mind feels, without
acknowledging — that makes his misery; it is
only when their direction is too plain to be mistaken
that he suffers himself to perceive its object.
So was it with Monaldi: the devotedness of his
love had invested his wife with a charm which had
hitherto kept her name and her image far from the
troubled circle of his thoughts. But Fialto's manner
— the finding him so near his house — the
hour — the light in his own bed-chamber — the female
at the window — were all too distinctly joined
in his mind, not to mark the object of suspicion.
The agony which followed was unutterable; — but
it could not continue long; for Monaldi was naturally
confiding; then he revolted at injustice; and
to whom, if so, should he be unjust? The question
drove him from self, to one infinitely dearer;
and his generous nature now pleaded for her with
all its energy. “Did he not know her? — as well
— yes, as well as himself. Her whole heart had
been open to him; he had seen it daily, from the
day of their union — and he had found it pure;
he was no dotard — intensely as he loved — and
he must have seen the stain had there been one —
no artifice, no hypocrisy could have hidden it so
long. And on what did he ground his suspicion?
On a coincidence which a hundred accidents might
innocently occasion.” He almost hated himself
as the word occurred to him. He then remembered
that he had left his wife unwell; and it was
very natural that she should retire to rest early;
indeed it would have been more strange if she
had waited his return. This last thought reassured
him, and he entered the house. His confidence,
however, was hardly restored when a contradictory
circumstance again staggered it; he
found his wife sitting in the very room where he
had left her. “What, here! Has she then heard
me enter? — and comes she down now to make
me believe that she has passed the whole evening
here?”

“You are home early,” observed Rosalia, “I
hope you have been entertained.”

“Perhaps too early,” replied Monaldi, hesitating,
and almost shuddering at the strangeness of
his own voice; “you seem surprised. What if I
should be so at finding you here?”

“Me? Why so? Oh, I suppose you thought
my head-ache would have sent me to bed. But it
is quite gone off.”

“Indeed! and pray — who has cured it?”

The question seemed forced from him by torture,
and his utterance was so thick that Rosalia
asked what he said.

“Your head ache. I asked who has cured it.”

“Oh, my old doctor — nature.”

“Rosalia!” said Monaldi.

“What? but what disturbs you?”

“Nay, what should?”

“I am sure I know not.”

“If you know not — but I'm afraid you have
passed but a dull evening alone.”

“Oh, no, I have been amusing myself — if it
may be called amusement to have one's flesh
creep — with Dante. I had just finished the Inferno
as you came in.”

“As I came in? The Inferno, I must own,
seems hardly a book of entertainment for a lady's
bed-chamber.”

“I don't understand you.”

“Or will not.”

“Dear husband!” said Rosalia, looking up with
surprise, and a feeling as yet new to her, “you
talk in riddles.”

“Is it a riddle to ask why you should choose to
read in your chamber? For there you were when
I entered.”

“Who, I? No — I have not been up stairs this
evening.”

“A lie!” groaned Monaldi, turning from her
with an agony that would not be suppressed.

“Oh, misery! 't is then too — too — ”

A maid servant at that instant came in to tell
her mistress that, as the night was damp, she had
shut her chamber windows, though without orders.

“You have done well,” said Rosalia.

“Thank God!” said Monaldi, as he heard
this explanation. “Away — away forever, infernal
thoughts!”

Monaldi's emotion had not escaped his wife, but
the entrance of the servant prevented her hearing
his words. His altered expression now struck her.

“Surely I have been dreaming,” said Rosalia.

“Of nothing bad, I hope, my love,” said Monaldi,
now like another being, and gently drawing
her towards him; “for your dreams — if that
dreams are pictures of the mind — should be like
those of angels.”

“I know not of what,” answered Rosalia, “but
it was something very painful. I thought you
seemed unhappy. Was it so?”

“Never was I less so than now. Less so! that's
a poor negative. No, my Rosalia, I feel a present,
a positive, tangible happiness, which gives the lie

to all who hold that we enjoy it only in the past
and future. My heart is full; so full, that I ask
nothing of time — of anything but thee — and to
hear thee, to look upon thee.”

“Oh, Monaldi, I am blest above women!”

“And dost thou think so?”

“At least I know not how I could be happier.
For what more could I ask, with such a husband?”

“Or I, with such a wife? Amen! with my
whole soul.”

“I have sometimes thought,” said Rosalia, “and
I hope without pride, that the very bad could not
know such bliss; nay, a love, like mine. For,
could I love thee so, pure and exalted as thou art,
did I love evil? I could not: I should then love
myself, and thee only as ministering to my selfishness.
No! the love I bear thee is but the effluence
of thy virtues given back to thyself; and it
seems to elevate me; to refine my heart for the love
of Him who is purest, best — who is Goodness.”