Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
An arch smile played upon her
lips, as she rose from the magnificent cushions—a smile which seemed to say, “I
have kept my word, I have raised thee to the highest dignity, save one in the
Ottoman Empire—and I will now crown thine happiness by giving thee my hand.”
And, oh, so beauteous, so
ravishingly lovely did she appear, as that smile revealed teeth whiter than the
Oriental pearls, which she wore, and as a slight flush on her damask cheek and
the bright flashing of her eyes betrayed the joy and triumph which filled her
heart—so elegant and graceful was her faultless
form, which the gorgeous Ottoman
garb so admirably became, that Ibrahim forgot all his recent compunction—lost
sight of home and friends—remembered not the awful apostasy of which he had
been guilty—but fell upon his knees in adoration of that charming creature,
while the sultan with a smile which showed that he was no stranger to the
mysteries of the past, exclaimed in a benignant tone, “Vizier Azem! receive the
hand of my well-beloved sister Aischa!”
THE COUNT OF ARESTINO—THE PLOT
THICKENS
Return
we now to the fair city of
flowers—to thee, delightful Florence—vine crowned queen of Tuscany! The summer
has come, and the gardens are brilliant with dyes and hues of infinite variety;
the hills and the valleys are clothed in their brightest emerald garment—and
the Arno winds its peaceful way between banks blushing with choicest fruits of
the earth.
But, though gay that July
scene—though glorious in its splendor that unclouded summer sun, though
gorgeous the balconies filled with flowers, and brilliant the parterres of
Tuscan roses, yet gloomy was the countenance and dark were the thoughts of the
Count of Arestino, as he paced with agitated steps one of the splendid
apartments of his palace. The old man was actually endowed with a good, a
generous, a kind and forgiving disposition; but the infidelity of his wife, the
being on whom he had so doted, and who was once his joy and his pride—that
infidelity had warped his best feelings, soured his temper, and aroused the
dark spirit of vengeance.
“She lives! she lives!” he
murmured to himself, pausing for a moment to press his feverish hand to his
heated brow; “she lives! and doubtless under the protection of her paramour!
But I shall know more presently. Antonio is faithful—he will not deceive me!”
And the count resumed his
agitated walk up and down the room. A few minutes elapsed, when the door opened
slowly, and Antonio, whom the reader may remember to have been a valet in the
service of the Riverola family, made his appearance.
The count hastened toward him,
exclaiming: “What news, Antonio? Speak—hast thou learnt aught more of—of
her
?”
“My lord,” answered the valet,
closing the door behind him, “I have ascertained everything. The individual who
spoke darkly and mysteriously to me last evening, has within this hour made me
acquainted with many strange things.”
“But the countess?—I mean the
guilty, fallen creature who once bore my name?” ejaculated the old nobleman,
his voice trembling with impatience.
“There is no doubt, my lord, that
her ladyship lives, and that she is still in Florence,” answered Antonio.
“The shameless woman,” cried the
Count of Arestino, his usually pale face becoming perfectly death-like through
the violence of his inward emotions. “But how know you all this?” demanded his
lordship, suddenly turning toward the dependent;
“who is your informant—and can
he be relied on? Remember I took thee into my service at thine own
solicitation—I have no guarantee for thy fidelity, and I am influential to
punish as well as rich to reward!”
“Your lordship has bound me to
you by ties of gratitude,” responded Antonio, “for when discarded suddenly by
the young Count of Riverola, I found an asylum and employment in your
lordship’s palace. It is your lordship’s bounty which has enabled me to give
bread to my aged mother; and I should be a villain were I to deceive you.”
“I believe you, Antonio,” said
the count: “and now tell me how you are assured that the countess escaped from
the conflagration and ruin of the institution to which my just vengeance had
consigned her—how, too, you have learnt that she is still in Florence.”
“I have ascertained, my lord,
beyond all possibility of doubt,” answered the valet, “that the assailants of
the convent were a terrible horde of banditti, at that time headed by Stephano
Verrina, who has since disappeared no one knows whither; that the Marquis of
Orsini was one of the leaders in the awful deed of sacrilege, and that her
ladyship the countess, and a young maiden named Flora Francatelli, were rescued
by the robbers from their cells in the establishment. These ladies and the
marquis quitted the stronghold of the banditti together, blindfolded and guided
forth by that same Stephano Verrina whom I mentioned just now, Lomellino (the
present captain of the horde), and another bandit.”
“And who is your informant? how
learned you all this?” demanded the count, trembling with the excitement of
painful reminiscences reawakened, and with the hope of speedy vengeance on the
guilty pair, his wife and the marquis.
“My lord,” said Antonio, “pardon
me if I remain silent; but I dare not compromise the man——”
“Antonio,” exclaimed the count,
wrathfully, “you are deceiving me! Tell me who was your informant—I command
you—hesitate not——”
“My lord! my lord!” cried the
valet, “is it not enough that I prove my assertions—that I——”
“No!” cried the nobleman; “I have
seen so much duplicity where all appeared to be innocence—so much deceit where
all wore the aspect of integrity, that I can trust man no more. How know I for
certain that all this may not be some idle tale which you yourself have forged,
to induce me to put confidence in you, to intrust you with gold to bribe your
pretended informant, but which will really remain in your own pocket? Speak,
Antonio—tell me all, or I shall listen to you no more, and your servitude in
this mansion then ceases.”
“I will speak frankly, my lord,”
replied the valet; “but in the course you may adopt——”
“Fear not for yourself, nor for
your informant, Antonio,” interrupted the count, impatiently. “Be ye both
leagued with the banditti yourselves, or be ye allied to the fiends of hell,”
he
added, with fiercer
emphasis, “I care not so long as I can render ye the instruments of my
vengeance!”
“Good, my lord!” exclaimed
Antonio, delighted with this assurance; “and now I can speak fearlessly and
frankly. My informant is that
other
bandit who accompanied Stephano
Verrina and Lomellino when the countess, Flora, and the marquis were conducted
blindfold from the robbers’ stronghold. But while they were yet all inmates of
that stronghold, this same bandit, whose name is Venturo, overheard the marquis
inform Stephano Verrina that he intended to remain in Florence to obtain the
liberation of a Jew who was imprisoned in the dungeons of the inquisition: and
this Jew, Venturo also learnt by subsequent inquiry from Verrina, is a certain
Isaachar ben Solomon.”
“Isaachar ben Solomon!”
ejaculated the count, the whole incident of the diamonds returning with all its
painful details to his mind. “Oh! no wonder,” he added, bitterly, “that the
marquis has so much kindness for him! I But, proceed—proceed, Antonio.”
“I was about to inform your
lordship,” continued the valet, “that Venturo, of whom I have spoken, happened
the next day to overhear the marquis inform the countess that he should be
compelled to stay for that purpose in Florence; whereupon Flora Francatelli offered
her ladyship a home at her aunt’s residence, whither she herself should return
on her liberation from the stronghold. Then it was that the maiden mentioned to
the countess the name of her family, and when Venturo represented all these
facts to me just now, I at once knew who this same Flora Francatelli is and
where she dwells.”
“You know where she dwells!”
cried the count, joyfully. “Then, Giulia, the false, the faithless, the
perjured Giulia is in my power! Unless, indeed,” he added, more slowly—“unless
she may have removed to another place of abode——”
“That, my lord, shall be speedily
ascertained,” said Antonio. “I will instruct my mother to call, on some
pretext, at the cottage inhabited by Dame Francatelli: and she will soon learn
whether there be another female resident there besides the aunt and the niece
Flora.”
“Do so, Antonio,” exclaimed the
count. “Let no unnecessary delay take place. Here is gold—much gold, for thee
to divide between thyself and the bandit informant. See that thou art faithful
to my interests, and that sum shall prove but a small earnest of what thy
reward will be.”
The valet secured about his
person the well-filled purse that was handed to him, and retired.
The Count of Arestino remained
alone to brood over his plans of vengeance. It was horrible—horrible to behold
that aged and venerable man, trembling as he was on the verge of eternity, now
meditating schemes of dark and dire revenge. But his wrongs were great—wrongs
which, though common enough in that voluptuous Italian clime, and especially in
that age and city of licentiousness and debauchery, were not the less sure to
be
followed by a fearful
retribution, where retribution was within the reach of him who was outraged.
“Ha! ha!” he chuckled fearfully
to himself, as he now paced the room with a lighter step—as if joy filled his
heart; “all those who have injured me are within the reach of my vengeance. The
Jew in the inquisition; the marquis open to a charge of diabolical
sacrilege—and Giulia assuredly in Florence! I dealt too leniently with that
Jew—I sent to pay for the redemption of jewels which were my own property! All
my life have I been a just—a humane—a merciful man; I will be so no more. The
world’s doings are adverse to generosity and fair-dealing. In my old age have I
learnt this! Oh! the perfidy of women toward a doting—a confiding—a fond heart,
works strange alterations in the heart of the deceived one! I, who but a
year—nay, six months ago—would not harm the meanest reptile that crawls, now
thirst for vengeance—vengeance,” repeated the old man, in a shrieking,
hysterical tone, “upon those who have wronged me! I will exterminate them at
one fell swoop—exterminate them all—all!” And his voice rang screechingly and
wildly through the lofty room of that splendid mansion.
On
the bank of the Arno, in a
somewhat retired situation, stood a neat cottage in the midst of a little
garden, surrounded by no formal pile of bricks to constitute a wall, but
protected only by its own sweet hedge or fragrant shrubs and blooming plants.
Over the portico of the humble but comfortable tenement twined the honeysuckle
and the clematis; and the sides of the building were almost completely veiled
by the vines amidst the verdant foliage of which appeared large hunches of
purple grapes.
At an open casement on the ground
floor, an elderly female, very plainly but very neatly attired, and wearing a
placid smile and a good-natured expression upon a countenance which had once
been handsome, sat watching the glorious spectacle of the setting sun. The orb
of day went down in a flood of purple and gold, behind the western hills; and
now the dame began suddenly to cast uneasy glances toward the path that led
along the bank of the river.
But the maiden for whose return
the good aunt felt anxious, was not far distant; indeed Flora Francatelli,
wearing a thick veil over her head, was already proceeding homeward after a
short ramble by the margin of the stream, when the reverie in which she was
plunged was interrupted by the sounds of hasty footsteps behind. Ever fearful
of treachery since the terrible incident of her imprisonment in the Carmelite
Convent, she redoubled her speed, blaming herself for having been beguiled by
the beauty of the evening to prolong her walk farther than she intended on
setting out—when the increasing haste of the footsteps behind her excited the
keenest alarms within her bosom—for she now felt convinced that she was
pursued.
The cottage was already in
sight, and a hundred paces only separated her from its door, when a well-known
voice—a voice which caused every fiber in her heart to thrill with surprise and
joy—exclaimed: “Flora! beloved one; fly not! Oh! I could not be deceived in the
symmetry of thy form—the graciousness of thy gait—I knew it was thou.”
And in another moment the maiden
was clasped in the arms of Francisco, Count of Riverola. Impossible were it to
describe the ecstatic bliss of this meeting—a meeting so unexpected on either
side: for a minute before, Flora had deemed the young nobleman to be far away,
fighting in the cause of the cross, while Francisco was proceeding to make
inquiries at the cottage concerning his beloved, but with a heart that scarcely
dared nourish a hope of her reappearance.
“Oh! my well-beloved Flora!”
exclaimed Francisco; “and are we indeed thus blest, or is it a delusive dream?
But tell me, sweet maiden, tell me whether thou hast ceased to think of one,
from whose memory thine image has never been absent since the date of thy
sudden and mysterious disappearance.”
Flora could not reply in
words—her heart was too full for the utterance of her feelings; but as she
raised the veil from her charming countenance, the tears of joy which stood
upon her long lashes, and the heavenly smile which played upon her lips, and
the deep blushes which overspread her cheeks spoke far more eloquently of
unaltered affection than all the vows and pledges which might have flowed from
the tongue.
“Thou lovest me—lovest me—lovest
me still!” exclaimed the enraptured count, again clasping her in his arms, and
now imprinting innumerable kisses on her lips, her cheeks, and her fair brow.
Hasty explanations speedily ensued, and Francisco now learnt for the first time
the cause of Flora’s disappearance—her incarceration in the convent—and the
particulars of her release.
“But who could have been the
author of that outrage?” exclaimed the count, his cheeks flushing with
indignation, and his hand instinctively grasping his sword; “whom could you,
sweet maiden, have offended? what fiend thus vented his malignity on thee?”
“Hold, my lord!” cried Flora, in
a beseeching tone; “perhaps you——”
And she checked herself abruptly.
“Call me not ‘
my lord
,’ dearest maiden,” said
the count; “to thee I am Francisco, as thou to me art Flora—my own beloved
Flora! But wherefore didst thou stop short thus? wherefore not conclude the
sentence that was half uttered? Oh, Flora—a terrible suspicion strikes me!
Speak—relieve me from the cruel suspicion under which I now labor; was it my
sister—my much lamented sister, who did thee that foul wrong?”
“I know not,” replied Flora,
weeping; “but—alas! pardon me, dear Francisco—if I suspect aught so bad of any
one connected with thee—and yet Heaven knows how freely, how sincerely I
forgive my enemy——” Her voice was lost in sobs; and her head drooped on her
lover’s breast.
“Weep not, dearest one!”
exclaimed Francisco. “Let not our meeting be rendered mournful with tears. Thou
knowest, perhaps, that Nisida disappeared as suddenly and as mysteriously as
thou didst; but could she also have become the victim of the Carmelites? And
did she, alas! perish in the ruins of the convent?”
“I am well assured that the Lady
Nisida was not doomed to that fate,” answered Flora; “for had she been
consigned to the convent, as a punishment for some real offense, or on some
groundless charge, she must have passed the ordeal of the chamber of penitence,
where I should have seen her. Yes, Francisco—I have heard of her mysterious
disappearance, and I have shed many, many tears when I have thought of her,
poor lady! although,” added the maiden in a low and plaintive tone, “I fear,
Francisco, that it was indeed she who doomed me to that monastic dungeon.
Doubtless, her keen perception—far more keen than in those who are blessed with
the faculties which were lost to her—enabled her to penetrate the secret of
that affection with which you had honored me, and in which I felt so much
happiness.”
“I confessed my love to Nisida,”
interrupted Francisco; “but it was not until your disappearance I was driven to
despair, Flora. I was mad with grief, and I could not, neither did I, attempt
to conceal my emotion. I told Nisida all: and well—oh! well—do I recollect the
reply which she gave me, giving fond assurance that my happiness would alone be
consulted.”
“Alas! Was there no double
meaning in that assurance?” asked Flora, gently. “The Lady Nisida knew well how
inconsistent with your high rank—your proud fortunes—your great name, was that
love which you bore for a humble and obscure girl——”
“A love which I shall not be
ashamed to own in the sight of all Florence,” exclaimed Francisco in an
impassioned tone. “But if Nisida were the cause of that cruel outrage on thee,
my Flora, we will forgive her—for she could have acted only through
conscientious, though most mistaken, motives. Mistaken, indeed! for never could
I have known happiness again hadst thou not been restored to me. It was to wean
my mind from pondering on afflictions that goaded me to despair that I embarked
in the cause of Christendom against the encroachments of Moslem power. Thinking
that thou wast forever lost to me—that my sister also had become the victim of
some murderous hand,—harassed by doubts the most cruel—an uncertainty the most
agonizing,—I sought death on the walls of Rhodes; but the destroying angel’s arrow
rebounded from my corselet—his sword was broken against my shield!
“During my voyage back to
Italy—after beholding the crescent planted on the walls where the Christian
standard had floated for so many, many years—a storm overtook the ship; and yet
the destroying angel gave me not the death I courted. This evening I once more
set foot in Florence. From my own mansion Nisida is still absent: and no
tidings have been received of her. Alas! is she then lost to me forever?
Without tarrying
even to
change my travel-soiled clothes, I set out to make inquiries concerning another
whom I love—and that other is thyself! Here, thanks to a merciful Heaven, my
heart has not been doomed to experience a second and equally cruel
disappointment; for I have found thee at last, my Flora—and henceforth my arm
shall protect thee from peril.”
“How have I deserved so much
kindness at thine hands?” murmured the maiden, again drooping her blushing
head. “And oh! what will you think, Francisco—what will you say, when you learn
that I was there—there in that cottage—with my aunt—when you called the last
time to inquire if any tidings had been received of me——”
“You were there!” exclaimed
Francisco, starting back in surprise not unmingled with anger; “you were there,
Flora—and you knew that I was in despair concerning thee—that I would have
given worlds to have heard of thy safety,—I, who thought that some fiend in
human shape had sent thee to an early grave?”
“Forgive me, Francisco: forgive
me!” cried Flora, bursting into tears; “but it was not my fault! On the night
following the one in which the banditti stormed the convent, as I ere now
detailed to your ears, I returned home to my aunt. When the excitement of our
meeting was past, and when we were alone together, I threw myself at her feet,
confessed all that had passed between thee and me, and implored her advice.
“‘Flora,’ she said, while her
tears fell upon me as I knelt, ‘no happiness will come to thee, my child, from
this attachment which has already plunged thee into so much misery. It is
beyond all doubt certain that the relations of the count were the authors of
thy imprisonment; and their persecutions would only be renewed, were they to
learn that the count was made aware of your reappearance in Florence. For thy
sake, then, my child, I shall suffer the impression of thy continued absence
and loss to remain on the minds of those who may inquire concerning thee; and
should his lordship call here again, most especially to him shall I appear
stricken with grief on account of thee. His passion, my child, is one of
boyhood—evanescent, though ardent while it endures. He will soon forget thee;
and when he shall have learnt to love another there will no longer be any
necessity for thee to live an existence of concealment.’
“Thus spoke my aunt, dear
Francisco, and I dared not gainsay her. When you came the last time. I heard
your voice; I listened from my chamber door to all you said to my aunt, and I
longed to fly into your arms. You went away and my heart was nearly broken.
Some days afterward we learnt the strange disappearance of the Lady Nisida and
then knew that you must have received a severe blow, for I was well aware how
much you loved her. Two or three weeks elapsed, and then we heard that you were
about to depart to the wars. Oh! how bitter were the tears that I shed, how
fervent were the prayers that I offered up for your safety.”
“And those prayers have been
heard on high, beloved one,
exclaimed
Francisco, who had listened with melting heart and returning tenderness to the narrative
which the maiden told so simply but so sincerely, and in the most plaintive
tones of her musical voice.
“Can you forgive me now?” asked
the blushing maiden, her swimming eyes bending on her lover glances eloquently
expressive of hope.
“I have nothing to forgive, sweet
girl,” replied Francisco. “Your aunt behaved with a prudence which in justice I
cannot condemn; and you acted with an obedience and submission to your
venerable relative which I could not be arbitrary enough to blame. We have both
endured much for each other, my Flora; but the days of our trials are passed;
and your good aunt will be convinced that in giving your young heart to me, you
have not confided in one who is undeserving of so much love. Let us hasten into
her presence. But one question have I yet to ask you,” he added, suddenly
recollecting an idea which had ere now made some impression on his mind. “You
informed me how you were liberated from the convent, and you mentioned the name
of the Countess of Arestino, whom circumstances had made your companion in that
establishment, and to whom your aunt gave an asylum. Know you not, dearest
Flora, that fame reports not well of that same Giulia of Arestino—and that a
woman of tarnished reputation is no fitting associate for an innocent and
artless maiden such as thou?”
“During the period that the Lady
of Arestino and myself were companions in captivity,” responded Flora, with a
frankness as amiable as it was convincing, “she never in the most distant
manner alluded to her love for the Marquis of Orsini. When the marquis appeared
in the convent, in company with the robbers, I was far too much bewildered with
the passing events, to devote a thought to what might be the nature of their
connection; and even when I had more leisure for reflection, during the entire
day which I passed in the stronghold of the banditti, I saw naught in it save
what I conceived to be the bond of close relationship. I offered her ladyship
an asylum at the abode of my aunt, as I should have given a home, under such
circumstances, to the veriest wretch crawling on the face of the earth. But in
that cottage the countess and myself have not continued in close companionship;
for my aunt accidentally learnt that fame reported not well of the Lady of
Arestino, and in a gentle manner she begged her to seek another home at her
earliest leisure. The countess implored my venerable relative to permit her to
retrain at the cottage, as her life would be in danger were she not afforded a
sure and safe asylum. Moved by her earnest entreaties, my aunt assented; and
the countess has almost constantly remained in her own chamber. Sometimes—but
very rarely—she goes forth after dusk, and in a deep disguise; the marquis has
not, however, visited the cottage since my aunt made this discovery relative to
the reputation of the Lady of Arestino.”