University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Two of the letters, from which are selected the
following passages, were dated somewhat anterior
to this period of our story, the others nearly at the
present time.

Letter from the Priest to the Marquis Alezzi, in Rome.

“Neither do I know who he is, nor whence he
came, as well as I hope one day to do. Rich he is,
as may be seen from all his actions. He has taken
into peculiar favour the artist Angelo—he who did
the Psyche your lordship admired so. Of him he
has made many purchases, and paid for them well,
too. They say the poor chiseller of marble was
almost starving, till this same Signore Montfort relieved
him. I have not written to you before, because
I desired first to know whether the blind god
had any thing to do with his coming to the palace.
I certainly know he is far from such thoughts. He
spends most of his hours in the library. When
alone with her, I can answer for it, he never touches
on the theme. Still, the girl is ardent and susceptible,
and it were much better that she saw him not.
I spoke of it to the marquis, but he frowned as I
have not seen him do for twenty years, and bade

me silence. He has at least fascinated him. I
should suspect him almost, by his attentive kindness
to Torrini, of a design upon the piasters, only
there is in the man an open and complete contradiction
to the thought, a disinterested recklessness
of self, which some would call nobleness, and others
folly. He has Angelo with him often in his
rooms, not as a slave, but a companion; and the
young sir has even dared, though I really smile
while I write, to look with no icy eyes upon Antonia.
You will have a penniless sculptor, mayhap,
for your rival, but not this Signore Montfort.
It is the most unfortunate thing, his coming here,
with his silver voice and gallant bearing. I had
already won from Antonia a consent, which she formally
gave her father, to receive you as her future
husband. But she is now more coy and shy. She
will not yield up to me her heart and soul, as of
wont, and I espy in her new thoughts and new
schemes. I will set on foot inquiry about Montfort,
and revolve certain means of rendering you
the old man's successor, either with the pretty sylph
or without. She inherits her father's devotional
zeal, and has a dream of a convent, which I have
taken care to strengthen, knowing we might one
day wish to be rid of her. Angelo, too, has revealed
to me his love. His love! Why, the prating
fool thinks our golden revolution is to be
brought about solely by his genius, and that it will
reward him with all he can ask of wealth and honour.
I have found this love for Antonia a tempting
bait, did the fiery boy need urging to the crisis;
but, truly, he is as hot for war, and as full of bitter
hatred against — and —, as yourself. I do
think, so inflamed is he with hopes of liberty, that
he fancies all Italy will suddenly turn into a Sparta,
or that the best days of the old city will come back
again by the cutting of a few foolish cardinals'
throats. He believes that he may hereafter claim
the hand of Antonia, and that she will be more willing
to receive him as a lover, when she finds in
him the deliverer of his country. The deliverer of
his country! He moulds under my touch like the
softest wax. His fiery and fearless nature will be
useful to us on the great day.”

From the Priest to —.

“And with your assistance here,” so ran on the
letter, “much might be done.

“Alezzi is now full of money, and only needs a
wary friend to beggar him. The sturdy bully
trusts me altogether, and I have so woven around
him my meshes, that he shows to me like a bullock
drawn up to the ring, and patiently waiting to be
knocked on the head. Come, and you may glut
yourself with his possessions. Never lamb at the
altar bled more unresistingly. Only yesterday he
lost three thousand piasters to B—, who, as you
are aware, is but a tyro at the business. Under
your skilful treatment he will yield his all, and you
may walk on gold. Other plans there are too.
You know his cousin the Marquis Torrini, and the
pretty little dark-eyed child Antonia—time has
done wondrous work on both. The former has
dwindled into a trembling dotard, who can scarcely
sleep at night without me by his beside, so completely
have I mastered his mind; and the infant,
Jesu Maria! has budded into the very loveliest
blossom of girlhood that ever fired the veins of
prince or priest. Even I, the holy Father Ambrose,
even I burn—but, of course, in secret. I am in the
family as a son, and but for the watchfulness of

Alezzi, I know not what would come of it. The
fire that flashes in your veins burns also in mine.
It was but yesterday that this exquisite creature, as I
was alone with her, giving a lesson in English,
which language she speaks quite well, ran hastily
across the room, from some wandering impulse of
tenderness, to caress her favourite bird. Her foot
being entangled in a garland of riband, she would
have fallen had I not caught her in my arms. I
could not help—no, though my whole plans depended
upon it—pressing her with a most paternal
ardour to my bosom. But the little dark-eyed
minion did not, or would not, understand, and neither
chided nor blushed, but only thanked me!
The glow of a ripened woman already overspreads
her with the charms of heaven, and—I am to educate
her! Educate her! Envyme. You do, for I
know you. You and I are none the colder for having
drawn our first breath beneath those fiery skies
of Naples.”

From the Priest to the same.

“The boy is gone. Take care of yourself. I
kept him tenderly for years, and lately, from several
necessary causes, brought him to Florence, where
he was guarded, like a stolen treasure, in my own
most private rooms. The very devil must have had
a hand in it. Who could have abducted him else,
I know not; and as for flying of his own accord,
the innocent young thing could never dream of it.
Gone he is! How and when, I am utterly at a loss
to conjecture.

“Never mind the boy, I shall have him again
soon. I cannot think but he has strayed by chance.
— and — are both right. I am locked in your
interests as ever.”

From the same to the same.

“What! again? with an immense fortune—and
thrown in her way, say you, by chance? Lucky
dog! Never will you want three hundred thousand
piasters more than now. The whole field is up.
The carnival will be the most memorable of carnivals.
By the Virgin! with many it will be a farewell
to other things than meat. Be on the spot at
least by then. All you have told me I will endeavour
to do, but hush your alarms. He is yet here;
but fear nothing, all is right—thick walls and iron
locks.”