 | CHAPTER XIII. Monaldi |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Monaldi's fears were now allayed; for though
some of their causes were still unexplained, he
studiously drove them from his mind, as too light
to outweigh the evidence which his former experience
and Rosalia's whole manner had opposed to
them.
This respite was not a little favored by Fialto's
absence, almost a month having passed since Monaldi
had seen him. But the Count was not idle;
he was only waiting till chance should furnish him
with means to strike the last blow. With this
view he had contrived to make himself acquainted
with all Monaldi's movements, which he effected
by means of a domestic who had formerly been one
of his creatures. Antonio, the name of the man,
had imposed on Monaldi by an artful tale of distress,
and been taken into his service from motives
of charity. But Antonio was not of a nature to be
turned from his course by any act of kindness; he
seldom troubled himself about any motives but his
was strong enough to keep him faithful to
his employer.
It was not long after this, that Monaldi received
a letter from the steward of one of his estates near
Genezzano, requiring his presence on some urgent
business; and mentioning the circumstance, together
with his intention of setting out on his journey
the next day, while Antonio was waiting at
dinner, it was accordingly made known to Fialto
without loss of time.”
Nothing could have suited the Count better.
Genezzano was more than thirty miles from Rome.
Monaldi must calculate on being absent at least
two days.
What use Fialto made of these circumstances
will appear by the following letter, written as if in
answer to one from Rosalia.
“A thousand, thousand, thousand thanks, dearest
Rosalia, for your precious letter. The rapture
— but a truce with raptures till we meet — for I
have only time to say, that I shall be punctual to
the hour you have appointed — at twelve to a
minute. Oh, that tomorrow were come! Could
anything be more fortunate than this journey to
Genezzano! I could almost worship your easy
a most obliging husband — perhaps 't is to
make up for not leaving us longer together the
other night, when he went to the theatre. You
desire me not to reply to your note, “because 't is
unnecessary — and you fear needless risks.” But
for once I must disobey you; and do so that you
might learn to rely more in future on the prudence
of your devoted
Fialto.”
The letter being prepared, the next step was to
have it seen by the husband. But chance again
made that easy, for it was now the very evening
on which he was accustomed to make his weekly
visit to St. Luke's. Fialto knowing this, had
therefore only to take his former station at the
gate, and, pretending to mistake Monaldi for a
servant, put the letter into his hand. The night
was as dark as could have been wished for so evil
a purpose. He accordingly took his station at the
proper time, when a loud coughing by Antonio
gave notice of his master's approach. Immediately
after, Monaldi's footstep was heard in the
gateway. “So, you are come at last,” said Fialto,
speaking low and rapidly; “but not a word, good
Gieuseppe, we may be overheard. There, take
that to your mistress; and there's postage.” So
into Monaldi's hand, and in another moment he
was gone.
The rapidity with which this was said and done,
left no time for reply, had Monaldi attempted it;
but the words “Gieuseppe” and “mistress” were
enough; he did not even hear the rest, for they
seemed to stun him, and he stood for a while passing
the letter from one hand to the other in a kind
of vacant distress, till the sharp sound of the gold
as it fell and rang on the pavement, again brought
him to his senses. It was then he began to feel
that he was possessed at last of what would decide
his fate. He returned to the house, and, shutting
himself up in his library, placed the letter on the
table before him. Its superscription was plain —
to his wife; yet he hesitated for a moment whether
he should open it. But his mind was not in a
state for refining; he could perceive only one
alternative — complete conviction or interminable
suspicion; and he broke the seal. The letter
dropt from his hand, and his head sunk on the
table in agony. But this blow, though surer, could
not have the same effect with the first; for his
mind had been prepared by previous suffering, had
been warned, as it were, of the probable evil, and
been tempered by that warning to bear what might
indeed a nearer and more certain cause for wretchedness,
but it was what had once been expected,
and wanted the force of newness; besides, it was
now distinct, had a positive shape; and the power
of enduring calamity is generally proportioned to
its reality; as the mind can oppose its strength to
what is real, as substance resisting substance, but
has no strength, no power to repel the intangible
and ever-multiplying phantoms of the imagination.
Monaldi felt that his doom was now sealed, and
he rose from his seat with a desperate calmness;
for his last doubt was gone, and with it seemed to
have fled every conflicting emotion. In this state
he continued for almost half an hour, his arms
folded, and his eyes wandering without object,
when a glance at the letter gave a fiercer impulse
to his thoughts. He took it up, and again attempted
to read it; but he had scarcely finished
the first sentence, when, dashing it with fury to
the floor, he stamped upon it with a violence that
shook the very walls. “Witch, sorceress, devil!”
he cried, half choked with rage — “thus, thus will
I crush thee!” At that moment the door opened
and Gieuseppe entered. “Wretch!” cried Monaldi,
seizing him by the throat. “I beg pardon,”
said the man, trembling. “I did not know you
something had fallen.”
This speech gave Monaldi time to recover himself.
“True,” said he, “it was that bust; it must
have been carelessly put up; but you need not
stay to replace it now, — I am engaged.”
“Yes,” said Monaldi, as the servant withdrew,
“and I too will play the hypocrite. Truth is no
match for falsehood; 't is only hypocrisy can circumvent
treachery. I will still appear the easy
man, the obliging husband — and the pander Gieuseppe
shall still think his master the blind gull.
Yes, I will seem to go this journey — still seem to
make amends for returning so soon from the theatre.
Oh, my true Genius, how clearly didst thou
note to me that polluted hour! Yet how she bore
herself — with what a face she looked when I told
the tale that painted it! Oh, woman, could your
heart be seen in your face, we should love toads
sooner. But thou, painted toad! like a scorpion
will I meet thee. The appointment, it seems, was
made by her; and she forbids an answer. Yes,
she knew he was not the man to fail. This
letter then is not expected — of course its miscarriage
will not be discovered. Nothing could have
fallen out better — better! for what? For the
sealing of my misery! Then be it so — ha! ha!
now be his wrath! what would be the gall of ten
thousand deadly hearts now poured upon mine —
mine, that is filled with it? that already sweats it?
But I will not keep it long there; it shall soon
out like a flood — shall drench, shall drown this
hot bird of paradise — ay, even in her very nest!
Yes, I will go this journey, and she, Gieuseppe,
and all, shall see me go with a cheerful face, and
a light heart — yes, light of the world; for nothing
here can again touch it, it moves now in
an element of its own. And when they think
me at Genezzano — ha! ha! I shall then reach
my zenith.”
So saying, he rang the bell, and left Gieuseppe
to clear away the fragments of the bust. Then
quitting the house, he proceeded to the Academy.
It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true,
that with some natures there is a point in misery
where they will sport with their sufferings, and appear
to take a kind of dreadful pleasure in magnifying
them, nay, even task the future, and fly to it
with the hope for something more, some deeper
woe, to keep their minds in action — which solves
the mystery.
Monaldi needed no additional proof of his wife's
infidelity; his conviction was complete; yet he
of all draughts.
But the part of a dissembler was still new to
him, and difficult, and had always been revolting
to his nature; it was now become more so that
it seemed to be forced upon him by her in whom,
of all on earth, he had most confided. Yet he
went through it: that he did so was not a little
owing to the shortness of his trial, it being near
midnight before he returned home; perhaps, however,
more owing to the trusting temper of his
wife, who, seeing only his apparent cheerfulness,
could hardly have suspected an opposite feeling
without a change in her character; for, except in
very glaring cases, the senses may be said to live
in an atmosphere of the mind.
Had Monaldi's suffering been unmixed with the
hope of vengeance, he might have found disguise
impossible; but falsehood is of the family of revenge,
and a snare and a mask are never wanted
when needed; it was this prepared him for the
meeting, and he entered the house with a smile.
Rosalia looked up, and gave it back from her
heart; for the smile of one we love cannot be seen
unanswered.
“How beautiful,” thought Monaldi, “may even
a lie look! — Oh, Sin, take always this form, and
pomp of reason, is yours. But I know its hollowness,
its — ” The thought was too revolting; yet
still the smile remained — but it was the smile
which misery gives as her last token, the mark,
which she sets upon her own.
Before Monaldi returned home, he had worked
himself up to this interview by desperately recalling
every past endearment, every audible and
silent manifestation of tenderness; in short, all
that he was wont to go to and brood over in secret;
but they came not now as once, like definite
and luminous points in his life; for now every
word, and look, and delicate caress brought with
them the hateful image of Fialto. “They are no
longer mine,” said he; “they never were! And
I can hear them, see them — do all, but feel them
again. Can she touch again the heart that loves
only purity? The fictitious life which her false
spirit gave to it is gone — forever. 'T is now
dead. Could it feel this stony stillness were it not
so? Let her talk and look then — she will talk to
ears that hear not, look to eyes that are glazed.
But yet — yes, I will mock her; mock her with a
phantom of the love she has murdered — murdered
while she smiled; she shall still think it lives, and
lives for her!”
Morally his heart was dead. But what must
have been the agony with which a heart so gentle,
so generous and noble, stiffened into death!
Let no one marvel at this change, sudden as it
may seem; for there is no limit to human inconsistency.
A single circumstance has often transformed
the firmest nature, making the same being
his own strongest contrast; many things — injury,
ingratitude, disappointment — may do it; in a
word, anything which robs a man of that which
gives a charm to his existence; and chiefly and
most rapid will the change be with those of deep
and social feelings, who live in others. Such is
man when left to himself; and there is but one
thing which can make him consistent — Religion;
the only unchanging source of moral harmony.
But Monaldi, unhappily, knew little of this. Not
that he was wholly without religion; on the contrary,
his understanding having assented to its
truths, he believed himself a good christian; but
he wanted that vital faith which mingles with every
thought and foreruns every action, ever looking
through time to their fruits in eternity. The kindness
and generosity of his disposition had hitherto
stood in its stead; he had delighted in making
others happy, and thought nothing a task which
could add to their consolation or welfare. But
to him like one of fresher ages; like the first
stream that wandered through Eden, sweet and
pure in itself, and bearing on its bosom the bright
and lovely images of a thousand flowers. Would
one so full not sometimes overflow? or would one
so filled often thirst for what is spiritual, for what
belongs to the dim and distant future? preparing
in the hour of peace for the hour of temptation?
Then he had met with no adversity, with no crosses
to wean him gradually from this delightful paradise;
no sorrow to lift his soul to that where trouble
cannot enter. But though the present world
seemed enough, and more than enough for him, in
reality it was nothing; it was only through one of
earth that he saw and loved all else; she alone
filled his heart, modified his perceptions, and shed
her own beauty over every vision of his mind.
Now she was lost to him; torn away by a single
wrench: And could this have been without leaving
a fearful void? To Monaldi's heart she was
all; and his all was now gone, leaving it empty.
An empty human heart! — an abyss the earth's
depths cannot match. And how was it now to be
filled? His story will show.
The further operations of Fialto depending on
the success of his letter, he had instructed Antonio
It was possible, he thought, that Monaldi
might escape the snare by openly accusing his
wife, and examining Gieuseppe; in which case the
conspiracy would end at once; a result, however,
but barely possible. It was more probable that
Monaldi would set out on his journey without
coming to an explanation; if he did so, only one
conclusion could follow — that he would return
secretly, and at the hour of the assignation;
whether to satisfy his doubts or revenge was immaterial;
and for this event Fialto was provided,
having ordered Antonio to engage a person to
watch his master and follow him back to the city,
in order to give notice of his return, the signal
agreed upon being a little Venetian air, which
the man was to play as soon as Monaldi should
have entered his house.
At an early hour the next morning Antonio
made his report, and Fialto found his hopes confirmed.
Monaldi had set out on the journey apparently
in good spirits, and unattended. The
spy was also gone; and a truer hound was never
put on the trail.
It was now again night, and it only remained
for Fialto to gain admittance into the house. To
make this easy, Antonio had purposely lost a bet
While the servants were engaged with the wine,
Antonio stole out, and admitted the Count secretly,
in the disguise of a friar.
Antonio having locked the door of his master's
dressing-room, had secured the key early in the
morning, in order that Rosalia might suppose he
had taken it with him; of course she would not
think of going to it now. In this room, or rather
closet, Fialto took his station; he then threw off
his disguise, and locked the door. The closet
opened into Rosalia's bed-chamber, and the chamber
was up only one flight of stairs, and looked
upon the street; a circumstance which the Count
had considered with a view to his escape, to facilitate
which he had provided a ladder of ropes, for,
bold as he was, he had little taste for perils that
promised nothing.
The clock struck eleven, and Fialto heard the
chamber door open, and a light step pass the closet;
this was followed by a slight movement as of
one undressing. “'T is she,” he thought. Then
it was still again. He looked through the keyhole
to see if she was in bed, and saw her kneeling
before a crucifix. “How like my poor nun! —
Pshaw — that's past. What eyes! But what's
her beauty to me — at least now? The yellow
Yes, Maldura's gold has made me a match for St.
Antony. There,” added he, withdrawing his eyes,
“go to bed in peace; I doubt 't is the last time.
But there are millions who never taste it — and
why should she? she may find a substitute, as I
do, in pleasure.”
A few minutes after, he heard her rise and get
into bed. “She has left the lamp burning. So
much the better; there will be no mistake as to
my person. 'T is a foolish business though; but —
Ha! what's that?” It was only the faint sigh
that usually precedes sleep. He put his ear to the
key-hole, and heard a low, regular breathing. “So
soon gone? And she sleeps like an infant. Would
that I — but that's folly.”
Fialto's thoughts now took a rapid flight to long
past and almost forgotten scenes; and Rosalia,
Monaldi, and his purpose, all seemed to have vanished
from his mind, when the chiming of the last
quarter brought him back to the present.
“Dare I trust myself now,” thought he, after a
pause; “dare I venture to look at her? And why
not? Are not all my passions bagged in Maldura's
purse? — I will look at her.”
There is a majesty in innocence which will
sometimes awe the most reprobate. As Fialto
him, and something like compunction crossed his
brain; but it sunk not deeper — for nothing of
like nature had reached his heart for many years;
and the feeling, whatever it was, passed off in
words.
“How like death,” said he, “to all around her;
and yet how living in herself. And her thoughts —
how they play over her face; to her, perhaps, they
are the parts of a world — a world all her own.
Pity she should ever wake to another. That smile,
I never saw but one like it.” Some early recollection
here probably crossed his mind, and he turned
away. “Curse thee, Maldura, for a villain in essence!
Wert thou starving, like me, there might
be some excuse. But I — I am starving; and
that's enough. Nay, suppose I were weak enough
to forego this exaction of my necessities, would
those eyes ever deign to drop a tear for me after I
am gone? No, her precious morality would bid
her rejoice. Yes; and the most moral world too
would all join her; ay, all.” Fialto's evil genius
here touched the right chord; for nothing makes
vengeance so indiscriminate as the consciousness
of being generally hated. “Yes, they would trample
on my grave, and make a jest of the dead
libertine. But I'll spoil their sport for the present.
was heard from the street. Fialto immediately
raised the window, and, throwing out his disguise,
let down the ladder of ropes. This was hardly
done when he heard a cautious step ascending the
staircase. He then slipped off his coat, and took
his station beside the bed, till hearing the step approach
the door, he awoke Rosalia. In the same
instant Monaldi burst into the room. Rosalia
shrieked, and Fialto, springing to the window, in
the next moment was in the street.
“Mercy! oh, mercy!” cried Rosalia, throwing
herself at Monaldi's feet, whom the confusion of
her terror made her mistake for a robber.
“Ay, strumpet!” said he, in a voice scarcely
articulate, “more than you have shown to me.”
So saying, with a frantic laugh, he plunged his
dagger into her bosom. She fell back with a
groan, and her blood, spirting up, covered his
hands. A horrible silence now followed, and Monaldi
stood over her, as if a sudden frost had stiffened
his face and figure in the very expression
and attitude with which he gave the blow.
Rosalia had been stunned by the fall; but the
flowing from her wound soon brought back her
senses; she looked up, and for the first time recognised
her husband. “Merciful heaven! you —
she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Monaldi
— why have you done this?”
“Repent — repent,” said he, moving away.
“Stay, oh stay!” cried Rosalia, with a piercing
energy.
“What would you?”
“Much. But look at me — I am your wife,
Monaldi.”
“Wife! Never. But I have forgiven it. You
are nothing to any one now but — to Him who
made you. Look to it, then — waste not your
limited hour on one you never loved.”
“Never loved — whom?”
“Oh, woman, cannot death make thee honest?
Me!”
“You! — oh, Monaldi. But, ha! there must
be something — yet my brain is so confused — that
man — it was not a dream; no, I was awake.
Tell me — who siezed me just now in the bed? it
could not have been you.”
“Oh, hardened to the core! Rosalia, know you
that you are dying?”
“Too well — I feel 't is my last hour.”
“Repent then.”
“Oh, tell me,” said Rosalia — “'t is too late —
I am very faint;” and she sunk back exhausted.
Monaldi now looked on her with a compassion
that made him shudder; for, base as he thought
her, he felt as if he could give his heart's blood to
save her soul. “No,” said he, “she must not die
so.” Then, hastily making a bandage with his
handkerchief, he succeeded, with some difficulty,
in stanching the wound. In a few minutes her
strength returned.
“Thank God! there may yet be time; I'll for
a surgeon;” and he made a movement as if to
leave the room.
But Rosalia perceiving it, with a violent effort
threw herself forward, and, clasping his knees,
locked them with an agony that shook his whole
frame.
“Why is this?” said Monaldi; “why trifle
thus? Make your peace with heaven.”
“Heaven is merciful; be thou so too. No,
my husband, you are not cruel; this last act shows
it — you have bound up the wound, and bless you
for it. Then deny me not — but tell me — why
was this deed? Oh, speak.”
“And you do not know?”
“As I have hope of heaven.”
“Woman!” said Monaldi, shaking her off with
horror, “thou standest even now in presence of the
Eternal; darest thou then lie?”
“I do not lie — before heaven, I do not.”
“Horrible! And you know not perhaps him I
found here?”
“As God is my judge. I was asleep when he
seized me, and that seemed at the very instant you
entered.”
“Yet you asked for mercy — ”
“My terror confounded me, and I supposed you
both robbers.”
“Know you then that writing?” It was Fialto's
letter.
Rosalia took the letter, and, glancing at the signature,
for a moment seemed convulsed with emotion;
but it was only for a moment, and she read
it through with steadiness. She then calmly placed
it beside her, and attemped to kneel, but her
strength failing her, she could only clasp her hands
and raise her eyes to heaven.
“I murmur not,” she said — “I murmur not,
oh, Father, that thou hast been pleased to permit
this work of darkness against me; for thou art allwise
as thou art good. And not for myself do I
now call on thy name — thou knowest that I am
guiltness — but for him I leave. Spare him, merciful
Being; impute not this blow to him; for
even now he repents it; and, oh spare him, in thy
great mercy, when he shall know my truth, when
only thee for its sharer — that, but for thy grace,
it had been idolatry. Oh, spare him then, for he
will need thy mercy.”
Monaldi listened as she spoke, like one in a
trance; he lost not a word, and they fell on his
heart like arrows of fire; for so comes truth when
it comes too late; yet he neither spoke nor moved,
as if the agony of conviction had brought with it
a doubt whether the falsehood he had believed
were not less intolerable.
Rosalia now turned to him, and in a feebler,
though still unbroken, voice continued. “Monaldi,
hear me, for the hand of death is upon me. I
die innocent — innocent of all but too much loving
thee. Your deed — 't is my last prayer — may
God, as I do, forgive it. You were greatly tempted;
for the seeming proof of my guilt could not
be stronger. Why it was contrived, only the
Searcher of hearts can tell; for I know not an
enemy that we have. Yet that you or I have —
and a deadly one — is sure. But him, too, I forgive.”
“No!” said Monaldi, in a voice of anguish,
“never could a wanton so speak!”
“Now, oh, now,” said Rosalia, “I die in peace;
you believe me.”
“I do,” he cried, straining her to his bosom,
“with my whole soul! Oh, Rosalia, my wife — ”
but he could not go on; for though his eyes were
dry, a convulsive sobbing choked his utterance.
“Nay, my husband, do not take it so to heart.
Think of my hopes — of my blessed change. Oh,
no — death has no sting for a christian.”
“Death!” cried Monaldi, starting up —
“death!” The word seemed, as it were, to
explode in his brain, and his head whirled. Then
came fearful imaginings, and with them a confused
rush of the past, mingling with the present.
Rosalia now felt her strength fast ebbing; but
her heart still clung to her husband, and she begged
that she might die in his arms. He made no
answer; she called to him again — but he was
talking to the air.
“Dead! dead, did you say? No, she lives. —
But what's here? These accursed hands — look,
Rosalia — see the heart they tore from you. Red,
red — it beats; look, look, how it leaps! No;
you shall not go — speak to me — ha, gone! now
now I have you again.”
“His brain wanders!”
“Ha! it speaks — strange! strange!”
“Save him, oh, save him!” cried Rosalia. She
shoulder, and her eyes closed.
“Who brought it here?” said Monaldi, shrinking
from the body; “ 't is cold. Let the bones be
buried, though Fialto's; they should not lie on the
ground. Landi, why are you here? Oh, 't is you,
Rosalia — so you stabbed him! Well! — ha! ha!
very well. How he bleeds! Blood! blood! Give
me your hand. Nay, that's bloody too. But
hark! those bloody daggers — don't you hear
them?” look; there are a thousand. Monstrous!
they fight in the air — they follow us! Oh, save
her! save her!” he cried, with a piercing shriek,
and rushed from the chamber.
| CHAPTER XIII. Monaldi | |