 | CHAPTER XII. The prima donna |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
I did so, and found the Prima Donna alone. I was this time
sufficiently calm myself, to see that she was terribly agitated.
Her dress and whole appearance were disordered. Her hair
had found partial freedom from restraint,—her eyes were red with
weeping,—and the traces of recent tears were apparent upon her
pallid cheeks. She met me with a look full of equal intelligence
and alarm.
“Oh! why, why have you come hither? Leave me, leave me,
I implore you, sir—it is not well—it is not right; and he will believe
every thing that is wrong. Leave me, sir, leave me if
you —”
How would she have finished that sentence had her tongue
not failed in its office? I had barely time to form a pleasing conjecture
on the subject—not to answer—when the little old Italian
burst into the room, with the fiery, fearful, malignant aspect of a
Sirocco. The poor woman sank upon a settee at his appearance,
and covered her face with both her hands. The big tears oozed
through her fingers, and her sobs were almost convulsions.
“Ha! ha! what for you come to my house. You lov' music,
but I break up de music—look you, I break up de music—
so! so!—”
And with the action of a madman, seizing upon a guitar
which lay upon one of the tables, he dashed it into a thousand
fragments by repeated blows against the elbow of the sofa.
Then turning to me, he exclaimed—
“You is villain, sare. I is turn out, tree, five villain from my
house dis day, and break up de music. You is great villain, and
you is come to my house,—dere is no more music in my house,
—what for you is come, eh?”
I had risen on his entrance. I could scarcely contain myself
during his proceedings. The tears of the girl had awakened my
indignation—his brutality scarcely left me prudence to forbear
violence, which seemed to be almost the duty of a gentleman
under existing circumstances. Nothing but a consideration of
her claims, and the wretched relation in which she stood to this
miserable tyrant, kept my hands from his throat. For her sake,
I subdued my tiger,—for her sake, I strove to answer mildly. I
contented myself with saying that I came to explain my conduct
in the previous interview when he was so much offended. But
the violent old wretch did not allow me to finish what I was
saying. He gave me the lie direct.
“You come for make my wife lef' me, and go wid you. You
tell lie—you is one villain, dat I shall make lef' my house for
evare.”
My blood was getting the better of my judgment, when the
Prima Donna interposed. She rose from her seat with the
manner of one who has conquered, but after a violent effort, and
about whom still remain all the traces of the conflict.
“Oblige me, sir, if you please, by leaving the house; oblige
me still more by avoiding it, and me, for ever. To acquire a
friend is with me a misfortune—I need one, how much, Heaven
only knows—but I wish for none. Leave me, sir; and, in
going, believe me, that I at least suspect you of no evil, and am
as grateful to you as if you meant nothing but good. If you
fancy that you leave me unhappy, at least be satisfied that
nothing which you could do or say would have the effect of
making me otherwise.”
“Ha! you speaks to him in dis manner. You will have me
kill you to death, you —”
I forbear to repeat the horrible epithet which the monster used
on this occasion. His words provoked me to fury, but when he
coupled them with a blow—a blow by his vile hands upon that
pure, sweet, imploring and noble face,—my fury became violence.
I grasped him in my arms. I lifted him as if he had
been an infant, in spite of all his struggles. I hurried with him
to the window, the sash of which was raised, and a moment
longer would have sufficed me to pitch him into the street. But
my better angel, in the aspect of the wretched woman, his victim,
came to keep me from a deed which I might have repented
in suffering and shame. She recovered from the blow which had
staggered her against the wall, and grasped my arm in season.
I put the reptile down unharmed upon the floor, and he seized
the first moment of his liberty to hurry from the apartment, not
without giving a glance at the woman, which spoke volumes of
treasured bitterness and revenge.
| CHAPTER XII. The prima donna | |