University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Beautifully broke the day upon the stern old
palace on the morning when the body of the poor
marquis had been conveyed to the tomb of his
fathers. The illness of Torrini had in some measure
diverted the attention of Norman from his own
singular situation. He had found himself in this
foreign land, apparently remote from any thing connected
with his interests. The years which had
rolled over his head had half healed his wounds.
His mind had been made up never to revisit his
country, unless at a distant period, and then in disguise.
The hope of clearing his fame—of discovering

the secret of Rosalie Romain's fate, had been
completely extinguished. Even his early love had
melted into a dream, and no more mingled in his
thoughts among the realities of the future. He had
formed plans of resuming again his travels into
those oriental lands whose languages and people
were most disjoined from his own; and now he
found himself, by a mere chance, fallen accidentally
upon a vein of the most extraordinary casualties
and coincidences, which, however they sometimes
appeared unimportant, at others stretched to their
most painful tension his curiosity, suspense, and
suspicion. He seemed passed into a magic circle,
where, under the wand of some enchanter, viewless
phantoms of his own fate attended on his steps,
whispering ever in his ear words connected with
the mightiest secret of his soul, brushing by his elbow,
darting over his sleep, disappointing him when
most excited, exciting him when most hopeless.
Vainly he had striven to grasp these shifting shadows.
It seemed that the more he exerted himself,
the farther he wandered from their aid; that only
when he sat down passively, or abandoned the pursuit,
their fantastic and capricious influences again
rose around him.

The possibility, however, of piercing the secret
which hung so darkly over him, had returned
upon his mind, and the spark of hope had been
fanned into a blaze. The feelings he had imagined
long since extinct, recurred to him with redoubled
force. His old impressions were once more upper-most
in his heart. His suspicion of Clairmont
grew blacker and deeper; with his suspicion, his
hate—and with his hate, his hope of crossing him.
The Countess D— he had resolved to watch;
but she had left town, and he had not been able to
learn the place of her destination. The child, of

course, he was anxious to find; and the priest,
with his mysteries, he had determined to unravel.
All these plans were interrupted by the illness and
death of Torrini.

The situation of Antonia divided his attention.
He saw her the victim of an infernal design. Her
scheme of entering a convent he had endeavoured
to controvert, but without apparent success. He
had, however, once told her his suspicions; and also,
that if ever in any dilemma she should need a
friend, she must apply to him, as to a brother, or a
father, for advice or aid: and when he spoke, truth
and honour were legibly written on his face and
actions.

He sat alone in his apartment the morning after
the death of the old noble, revolving in his mind
what course he should pursue. Propriety dictated
the impossibility of remaining longer in the
house as a guest, with only this beautiful young female
and her aged gouvernante. Yet, in the palace
were the priest and the child, one of whom was
now so intimately connected with his own fate, and,
by consequence, the other also. By remaining,
might he not protect this defenceless and lovely girl
from the insidious plans of the priest? As he
considered these things, a domestic brought him a
note. It was written in a hasty hand, and signed
Antonia.

“Oh, Signore Montfort!”—thus it ran—“you
once told me, should I ever require the aid of a
brother, or a father, to apply to you. Little did I
think it would so soon be the case. Alas! I am
already in need—inexperienced, alone; and, but for
yourself, fiendless. Father Ambrose has told me
you are to leave the palace, and has hinted dark and
dreadful things of you. Oh! come to me—come
to me!”

Astonished and alarmed at the import of these
agitated lines, he hastened at once to her boudoir.
It was a lovely spot, overlooking the spacious and
magnificent garden, quite secluded from the nauseous
streets. It seemed a new world of foliage
and light, the music of birds, and the liquid murmurs
of bright waters as they leaped into the air,
and fell back into their marble fountains. Trees of
the orange and lemon, ranged in enormous vases,
shaded the narrow winding walks. The bending
willow, the tall dark cypress, the silver olive, and
the silky locust, mingled together in piles of verdure;
and high smooth walls bounded the luxuriant
and summer Eden, along whose sides and angles
vines and roses clung in odorous loads. Birds
were gathered here by hundreds, and lived the year
round, ever undisturbed, straining their little throats
as if their hearts would burst for joy. Graceful
statues of white marble shone through the green—
nymphs and fauns, naiads and goddesses; and in
a large fountain in the centre sat father Neptune
on his car, glittering amid the ever-falling spray.
The outward world of beggars and troops—of
monks and friars—of filth and gloom—of poverty
and pomp—of hollow-eyed despair and supercilious
wealth—the lean and starved cripple, the fat and
bloated monk—were utterly shut out from this sylvan
scene.

As Leslie entered, he cast his eyes through the tall
windows, open even at this late season for the waftings
of the sweets that floated over the balcony.
He could not help thinking that this bright and perfumed
retreat was an appropriate abode for its
young charming mistress, whose heart was just so
pure and secluded from the outward world. The
boudoir itself was impregnated with her spirit. Her
taste and refinement were visible in the choice and

disposition of its furniture, which was simple, but
costly and magnificent. A rich carpet covered
the glassy floor. The walls were delicately draped.
Two magnificent marble vases stood on the balcony,
breathing in their balmy odours. A harp and
a piano, and piles of music; large mirrors; tables
of rarest marbles; several exquisite pictures,—a
Madona, by Guido—Saint Cecilia—a Magdalen
—the Crucifixion—and a St. Sebastian. Among
them was only one not of a pious character—a
Cupid, by Albano. The arch boy, amid wreaths
of flowers, watched some viewless victim; his bow
bent, his arrow drawn to the head, apparently waiting
a moment for the most sure and fatal aim. He
had scarcely seated himself, when Antonia entered.
Partly with the half-unrestrained familiarity of an
ardent and affectionate child, partly with the dignity
of a passionate woman, she advanced hastily
to his side, and was about to speak, when the door
opened.

The intruder, who had so inopportunely interrupted
the interview, was tall, strikingly tall—an
accident which, according to the mood of his mind,
conveyed an impression of awkwardness or grandeur.
His frame was bony and muscular, but
gaunt and thin; his hair peculiarly black and
abundant, parted low over his forehead, and shaded
thick and bushy brows. Beneath glanced a pair
of eyes not without beauty, but the beauty was
continually counteracted by a fixed ferocity, that
pained and disconcerted him they looked on. They
were of intense blackness, and full of the vivid fire
which, in this wonderful clime, warms and nurses
the soil, flames in the mountains, glows in the sky,
and burns in the bosoms and along the features of
her children. His complexion was olive, nearly
sallow; his nose aquiline, almost to deformity; his

mouth, half concealed by two ample curls of raven
hair, was bold, large, and stern, though, when he
smiled, a light came over his features from the
white handsome teeth. It resembled a gleam of
sunset over a rocky and steril landscape, and for
the moment the fierceness of his eyes was softened.
When he spoke, his lips assumed an expression
which implied the heart of a scoffer. His voice
was deep and rich; the low tones, when he wished
to conciliate, sweet and mellow. Altogether, he
presented that strange mixture of good and bad
which enters, more or less, into almost every thing
human, but seldom in such prominent and unblended
proportions.

As Leslie regarded him, his first thought was a
brigand; his next, a poet; his third, what could
bring so extraordinary an individual, at so early an
hour, with so little ceremony, to the private boudoir
of the young Antonia? As he flung open the door,
the two gentlemen mutually started, and a species
of surprise appeared so far to arrest them as to afford
each time to complete his observations. Leslie
arose; the other paused on beholding him,
started one step back, gazed around a moment as
if to assure himself that he had not entered a
wrong chamber, cast an angry glance on Antonia,
and, knitting together his dark and ample brows,
measured the form of Leslie from head to foot with
a coolness almost insolent. The young man lifted
his stature with an air of surprise as cool and firm;
and a gathering shade upon his face boded no
willingness to undergo such a critical examination.

“So proud, too!” muttered the stranger.

He shot forth another keen glance, with more
fiery freedom and disdain, upon the now stern and
erect form of Leslie, and withdrew, closing after
him the door with passionate emphasis. It was

the very face which Leslie had seen in the cathedral,
in conversation with the priest.

“Upon my soul!” cried he, with a half smile, for
he could scarcely doubt of some strange error, “I
should like to renew my acquaintance with that
brigand-looking gentleman in some more appropriate
place.”

“Oh, hush, for Heaven's sake!” murmured Antonia,
trembling with alarm. “It is he—my fear—
my abhorrence! It is Alezzi!”

As she spoke, footsteps were heard returning.

“By the saints!” cried a deep voice, in Italian.

“Hist—hist!” said another, in a low, anxious
tone.

“But I tell you—” cried the first.

“Convince yourself, then,” replied the other.

Again the door opened, and the bending form
and smiling face of Father Ambrose entered, leading
in the haughty figure of his patron.

“My lord,” cried Ambrose, “this is the kind
gentleman to whose friendship the deceased marquis,
as well as the fair Antonia, owed so much.
Signore Montfort, this is the Marquis Alezzi.”

The angry noble scarcely bent his head. Norman
did not move.

“The guardian of the young marchioness and
her amiable friend should be better acquainted,”
said the priest.

“We shall be,” replied Alezzi.

“Not with my permission,” said Leslie, sternly,
darting back, flash for flash, the fierce glances of
the marquis. “I am accustomed to select friends
for myself, priest.”

“So high!” murmured Alezzi, as if to himself.
“We'll try if we cannot find means to put this
eagle down.”

The priest, a little behind, made vehement gestures

to Leslie, deprecating his attitude and anger,
and begging him to yield and conciliate.

“Why do you sign to me, priest?” exclaimed
he, calmly, “I have no secrets with you.”

“It is the Marquis Alezzi,” rejoined the priest.

“Be it so. And what follows?”

Ambrose raised his hands and eyes, as if the
youth were mad in still daring to speak like a man,
even before the Marquis Alezzi.

“Who are you?” demanded Alezzi, with unrepressed
contempt.

“When I know by what authority I am questioned,”
said Leslie, “I shall be better able to
determine whether the questioner be a knave or a
fool.”

“Your words, young man,” said Alezzi, trembling
with rage, for he was accustomed to see men
abashed before his searching eyes—“your words
are registered where they will not be forgotten;
but I cannot stoop to quarrel. Is it fitting that I,
the guardian of a young and beautiful girl, in demanding
to know the name and character of a
gentleman in her boudoir—her guide—and, for
what I know, her lover—”

“I assure you—” said the priest.

“Silence!” cried the marquis.

Ambrose withdrew from his flashing look.

Leslie began to reflect that he had been premature.
He even commenced to speak, but the marquis
interrupted him,—

“Is it proper that I, in the palace of my near
relative—I, a noble of rank and fortune, the guardian
of Antonia, should be insulted for demanding
at least an acquaintance with those who frequent
her society?”

“Oh, Montfort,” said Antonia, in an under tone
of alarm, “speak him kindly!”

“I might confess that I had been premature,”
said Leslie, “had I been acquainted with your
person; but your method of seeking information
is somewhat singular and unprepossessing. I
must be bold to add, that even supposing you had
the right to demand it, a more courteous manner
would better become you and the young lady of
whom you are, I believe, the self-constituted guardian.”

“He saved my life,” said Antonia.

“And has been improving your mind, my young
mistress,” said Alezzi, sarcastically—“teaching you
English. Hey, priest, went it not so?—philosophy
and nature. My good young folks, I trust I
have come in time. You know, Antonia, your
father's wish, which I am bound to see executed.
I cannot suspect you of stooping in your thoughts
to a nameless adventurer.”

“My good lord,” said Leslie, calmly, but haughtily,
“I despise and defy you! Your insult take
back in full! I speak to you, and your tool yonder,
without disguise. The world already know you
for an adventurer and a beggar. It is for me to
swell your list of names with that of villain!”

The marquis leaped towards him, as if to crush
him to the earth. Antonia rushed between, and
Ambrose held his arm.

“'Tis well,” said Alezzi, recovering himself, after
a momentary glance of ungovernable fury; “to a
priest and a woman you owe your life. The transient
impulse which could make me stoop to one
like you” (he laughed scornfully) “has passed. I
am calm again, young man. But, if you would
brave Jove, try the bolt.”

Striding close to Leslie, folding his arms, and
leaning his sallow face towards that of his foe,
while a malignant smile lighted his features, he
said, in a deliberate and low voice,—

“Hark in your ear!”

Leslie stood high and stern, expecting a personal
attack; but at Alezzi's words, inaudible to others,
for a moment he grew pale, and started with signs
of anguish.

“You understand me, then,” said Alezzi, triumphantly
and maliciously. “You know why I
bear your impotent slanders. I may not even shed
your blood without stooping; and, being what you
are, you can no more receive chastisement from
the hand of an Italian noble, than favour from that
of a high-born maiden.”

But Leslie's confusion was only momentary.

“My lord marquis,” he said, recovering immediately
his cold and lofty calmness, “thank my
moderation, and my resolve never to reply to that
name with violence, for your life.”

“Murderer!” cried the marquis, “begone! I will
see that every door in Florence is closed against
you; and if once more you dare address, even with
a word, this innocent and unsuspecting girl, your
life shall answer it.”

A scowl of fearful hate gleamed from his dark
eyes.

The priest, with a meek and supplicating face,
raised his eyes and hands to heaven; then hastened
to the support of the affrighted Antonia, who faintly
murmured,—

“Go, Montfort—oh, go at once!

Norman stood a moment, erect, calm, and even
gentle; and his gentleness, when extended to his
foes, had they better known him, would have made
them shrink.

“My good friend,” said he, “let me show you
as a serpent crushed, which even when alive was
fangless. I have no friend in the world unacquainted
with the history of my life, except this

same youthful girl, who remained ignorant of it at
the suggestion of her father. Himself knew my
misfortune and my innocence. Your brutal slanders
could inflict upon my reputation not the slightest
wound, except among strangers with whom I
never mingle. Should circumstances, however,
induce me to leave Florence, as perhaps they may,
let me before I go acquit myself of a debt which I
owe you and your sanctified tool yonder.”

“Insolent knave!”

“It was my intention to place this fair girl in
possession of a fact which, for purposes of my own,
I have hitherto been induced to conceal. This
scoundrel priest may thank me that I stood so quietly
to behold him, with your name familiarly on
his lips, kneeling at midnight, like a common thief,
in my apartments, and over my opened trunks
You, my haughty lord, are also indebted to me for
having substituted, on the priest's table, a certain
useless paper, which somewhat disappointed, I believe,
your lordship's honourable plans of wealth.
What! both dumb? I leave you, worthy pair. I
am armed equally against the intrigues of the one
and the violence of the other. Antonia, beware of
them. They are both hypocrites and villains, and
both your foes. If I can ever aid or advise you,
Antonia, seek me without reserve. Should you
desire further explanation with me, my lord marquis,
you shall never want ample opportunity of
meeting me at your pleasure.”

With a look upon Antonia, and a smile that rivalled
the priest's for coolness, he bent his eyes a
moment upon the astounded marquis, and slowly
withdrew.