The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851

"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter, let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."

Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter. This man was Monte-Leone.

IV.—TWO RIVALS

Much had passed since Count Barberini had told Monte-Leone of the love of Maulear for Aminta Rovero. Monte-Leone felt all the furies of hell glide into his heart at this revelation. The idea that Aminta could love any one had never entered his mind. Whether from confidence in her, or from that error so common to lovers that they are entitled to love because they love themselves, Monte-Leone flattered himself that he had left a pleasant recollection in Aminta's mind. We may therefore imagine how painfully the Count was disturbed by the half-confidence of Barberini. Yet Taddeo, his friend, whom, he loved as a brother, could not have deceived him, and have concealed what had taken place at Sorrento, when he had received so cordially the hand of his sister. Taddeo, then, was ignorant of it. Monte-Leone, a prey to a thousand thoughts, left his box, forgetful of the opera, his friends and companions, with but one object and wish. He was determined to see Taddeo, to question him and find out who was the rival that menaced his happiness, and whom Aminta probably loved. The Count went to that part of the theatre in which he had seen Aminta. The second act, however, was about to begin; and the efforts of Monte-Leone to get near his friend created such murmurs, complaints, and anger, that he was obliged to wait for a more favorable opportunity. La Griselda was singing the andante of her cavatina, and the artist's magnificent, powerful, and tender voice, echoing through the vastness of the hall, fell in pearly notes like a shower of diamonds on the ears of the spectators. After the andante came the caballeta, and then the coda-finale. For a while one might have thought the four thousand spectators had but one breath, and were animated by a single heart, that they restrained the first to prevent the pulsations of the other from being disturbed. This gem of the opera was at last concluded, and mad applause rose from every part of the room. We are constrained, however, to say, that from this time the accents of La Felina were less passionate and brilliant, and that a veil, as it were, was extended over all the rest of the representation, so that a person who had heard only the second act of La Griselda would have asked with surprise, if it was really the wonderful prima donna, the songs of whom were purchased with gold, and the wonderful talent of whom, had enslaved the audiences of the great Italian theatres. The reason was, that, after the second act, the star which shone on La Felina had become eclipsed. Monte-Leone had left his box—the box which had been the source of Griselda's inspiration from the commencement of the first act. Hope had sustained the singer during the cavatina, at the beginning of the second act. She fancied that he whom she loved possibly heard her from the recess of some other box. When, however, she was satisfied that he was gone, despair took possession of her. "Nothing touches his heart," said she, with pain. "Neither my love nor my talent are able to captivate him—to attach him to me for a time." Thenceforth, as she sang for him alone, she sang for no one. The holy fire was extinguished. Genius unfurled its wings and flew to the unknown regions of art, whence passion had won it. La Felina finished the opera, as a prima donna should, rendering the music precisely and distinctly, note for note, and as her score required. She neither added a single fioritura nor a single ornament which had not been noted by the composer. In one word, the audience at San Carlo on that day heard the opera of the Maestro Paër and not La Felina. During this, Monte-Leone, who had given up all hopes of reaching Taddeo, and whom Taddeo, paying attention only to the artiste, had neither heard nor seen, Monte-Leone walked in front of the opera-house, a prey to the greatest agitation, impatiently waiting for the conclusion of the representation, to see his friend and hear from him what he had to hope or fear at Sorrento.

The opera ended. The crowd slowly dispersed, and Monte-Leone, wrapped up in his cloak, watched with anxiety every spectator who left the theatre. Taddeo did not come. The doors of the theatre were closed, and the Count still waited. Surprised and impatient he went to his hotel, where Taddeo also lived, but he was not there. Night passed away, and he did not come. About three in the morning a stranger was shown in, and gave Monte-Leone three letters. One of them was addressed to the Count: he opened it anxiously.

"Excuse me, my dear friend, at quitting you thus. Excuse me, especially the uneasiness I have created in your mind"—wrote Taddeo—"I have learned that she left Naples to-night, and if I leave her I shall die. I will follow her by post and on horseback, without stopping, until I shall learn whither she has gone. What will I do then! I do not know,—but at least I will know where she is, and I will not fancy that she is lost to me for ever. 'To-morrow,' said she, when she left us, 'you will love me less.' She was mistaken, my friend, or she has deceived me; for to-day I love her better than I did yesterday. My heart suffers too much for me not to sympathize with yours, and I understand how impatient you are to go to Sorrento. I send a letter to my good mother—give it yourself to her. I beg her to receive you as a friend, and as she would receive a brother of mine. Stay with her until I come back. Say that in three days I will come back to ask her to give you Aminta's hand."

"Has the person who gave you these letters gone?" asked Monte-Leone of the messenger.

"He went an hour since from the post-house, on one of our best horses," said the messenger.

Monte-Leone gave him a piece of gold and dismissed him.

"Poor Taddeo!" said he, "to suffer as well as I do—no no, not so much as I do; for earthly love cannot be compared with heavenly passion. Jealousy such as I suffer can be compared to nothing; and all is derived from the serpent's stings, with which Barberini pricked my heart."

The time until day seemed interminable to Monte-Leone. It came at last. The Count rang for Giacomo and dressed himself elegantly. The old man on this occasion assisted him cheerfully and zealously, as he had previously shown repugnance on the night of the terrible expedition at Torre-del-Greco. Monte-Leone ordered his handsomest equipage. A few minutes afterwards the horses pawed impatiently in the court-yard, so that the driver could with difficulty restrain them. When the Count came down, he found Giacomo standing in the door of the saloon so as to bar his egress. Pale and agitated, the old man restrained the Count, and in a stern, quarrelsome voice said:

"What is the matter now? what new folly are you about to commit?"

"What the devil do you mean?" asked the Count, taking hold of the intendant's hand.

"No, Monsignore, you shall not go," said Giacomo, extending his arms so as completely to shut the door, "unless you serve me as you did Stenio Salvatori. Is it not a shame that the noblest of the gentlemen of Naples, that the son of my master, should walk abroad armed like the bravo of Venice—with a sword, poniard and pistol in his bosom? What, if you please, was that box of pistols, placed by little Jack, your groom, as those animals are called in England, in your carriage?"

"What is it to you?" said the Count, impatiently.

"What is it to me?" asked the old man with tears in his eyes. "Are you not again about to risk your life against I know not whom nor why? What is it to me? That you may live, that my last days may not be passed in uneasiness and despair, like those which have gone by—for I love you. Count," said the old man, kneeling before his master, "I love you as a father loves his son. I held you in my arms when you were a child. For heaven's sake renounce your dangerous plans, renounce the acquaintance of those rascally mysterious looking men who come so often to see you. Have nothing to say to that rascally Signor Pignana, whom I would so gladly see hung. Be again happy, gay, and joyous, as you used to he. True, we were ruining ourselves, but we were not conspirators."

The Count gave his hand to Giacomo.

"Giacomo, my good fellow," said he, "I am about to engage in no conspiracy."

"What then?"

"I am about to marry," said Monte-Leone, with a smile.

"Marry! with a case of pistols as a wedding present?"

"Why!" said the Count, moodily, "I may perhaps meet enemies on the road. Now I have more than life to protect: I have my honor."

Monte-Leone, making an affectionate gesture to the old man, descended gayly and sprang into the coach, which bore him rapidly towards Sorrento, and stopped at the door of Signora Rovero's house, as we have previously said.

When she saw Monte-Leone, instead of Taddeo, Signora Rovero trembled.

"Signor," said she to the Count, "for heaven's sake tell me what evil tidings you bear. What misfortune has befallen Taddeo?"

"In two days, Signora, Taddeo will be here, and I have the difficult duty to excuse his absence. He has, however, asked me to deliver you his letter, which explains all."

Signora Rovero took the letter and opened it with eagerness.

"Excuse me, Signor," said she to the Count, "but you must make allowance for a mother's anxiety."

"So be it," she observed, after having read it. "Taddeo is in no danger if we except that his fortune may be bad. A hunting party in the mountains will detain him for two days from us."

"Count," said Signora Rovero, "my son speaks so affectionately of you that I am led to offer you my own love."

"I have the advantage in that respect, Signora, for the kindness with which you treated me while here, and the memories I bore away, have ever since inspired the deepest affection for you."

They entered the saloon, and Signora Rovero introduced Maulear to Monte-Leone. They saluted each other with the most exquisite politeness, but without exchanging a glance.

Between love and hate there is this in common: it sees without the eye; it hears without the ear. Love has a presentiment of love, and hatred of hatred.

Monte-Leone approached Aminta. All his power and energy were insufficient to triumph over the violent agitation which took possession of him when he spoke to the young girl. His loving heart offered but faint opposition to the torrent of passion, which had been so long repressed that it was ready to bear away every obstacle. Aminta blushed and became troubled when she recognized in the vibration of his voice all the emotion Monte-Leone experienced. The conversation became general. Signora Rovero spoke to the Count of his trial, the incidents of which the Marquis had been kind enough to read. The Count bowed to the Marquis as if to acknowledge a favor. Maulear looked away to avoid the necessity of acknowledging it. The Count seemed not to perceive it. Aminta became aware that if he kept silent longer the circumstance would be remarked.

"During your imprisonment, Count, in the Castle Del Uovo, I have heard that a terrible episode occurred, the details of which the Diaro does not give."

"The reason was the Diario did not know them. True, like other journalists he might have invented them, but he did not do so; and, perhaps, acted well, for his fancies could not have equalled the truth."

The Count then simply, without exaggeration, and especially without that petition for pity which is so frequently met with, told the story of the terrible scene in the prison.

Aminta listened to every word. She suffered with the prisoner, hoped with him, and followed all the details of the story, exhibiting the most profound pity for the occurrence. Signora Rovero sympathized with her daughter, and, for the time, Monte-Leone was the hero of the villa. All the prejudices of Aminta disappeared in a moment in the presence of Monte-Leone, as the morning vapors are dispersed by the first rays of the sun.

Maulear, in icy silence, listened to the Count and looked at Aminta. As he did so, his brow became covered with clouds precisely as that of Aminta began to grow bright. The latter, perceiving the painful impressions of the Marquis, extended every attention to him, so that Monte-Leone began to grow moody. The two rivals passed the whole day in alternations of hope and fear, happiness and suffering. The state of things, however, was too tense to be of long duration. These few hours seemed centuries to the adorers of Aminta, and if any one had been able to look into the depths of their ulcerated hearts, he would have seen that a spark would have produced an explosion. Many of the neighbors of Signora Rovero, who had not visited her since the ball, ventured to return. Among others present was Gaetano Brignoli. All loved him for his frank and pleasant off-hand speeches, and all received him with good humor and confidence. Maulear, who had laid aside his dislike, received him kindly, as he had previously done distantly. The Rose of Sorrento reproached Gaetano with having forgotten his promise.

"You should yourself on the next day," said she, "have given me news of Taddeo and of Monte-Leone's trial. You, however, only wrote. Friends like you, and brothers like mine, are unworthy of the affection bestowed on them." Then, like a child making friends with a playmate, she took Gaetano into the embrasure of a meadow, and began to talk with him in a low tone. The night promised to be brilliant and serene, and the air to be soft and pleasant. The evening breeze penetrated into the saloon, refreshing the atmosphere with the respiration of the sea. "What a magnificent evening, Marquis," said Monte-Leone to Maulear, as he approached him, and looked at the stars which had begun to dot the sky.

It was the first time the Count had spoken to the Marquis directly. The latter trembled as a soldier who hears the sound of the first battle signal. His emotion was short, and saluting the Count affably as possible, he replied:

"It, is a winter evening in Italy, Count, but in France it would be one of summer."

"Do you not think," said Monte-Leone, "that this is the proper hour for exercise, in this country? The complete repose of nature, the eloquent silence of night, all invite us to confidence, and make us wish for isolation and solitude—"

"Count," said Maulear, "do you wish for a half solitude; a desert inhabited by two persons?"

"Certainly, that is what I mean."

"So do I, and would participate in yours."

"Come, then, I never saw a more beautiful night, and I shall be charmed to enjoy it with you."

These two men, with rage in their hearts, each being an impregnable barrier to the happiness of the other, loving the same woman in the same way, resolved to contend for her, to their last breath;—these two men left the saloon, with smiles on their lips, like friends about to listen to the secret thoughts of each other beneath the shadow of some beautiful landscape, in happiness and pleasure.

Aminta saw them go out. She grew pale, and suffered so that she leaned against the window-case.

V. THREE RIVALS

Count Monte-Leone and the Marquis de Maulear entered together a vast and beautiful avenue, silvered over by a brilliant moon.

"Signor," said the Count to Maulear, "do you ever have waking dreams? Can you, by the power of your imagination, transport yourself into the future, and, as it were, read your destiny, with all its prosperous and unfortunate incidents, its pleasures and chagrins? This often happens to me, especially by day and when I am unhappy. For a long time, too, I have been unhappy. For instance, not long ago, when shut up in a dark prison, with no prospect before me but that of an unjust death, and the headsman's axe bringing to a close my sad and eventful career, my good angel certainly, for I believe in such beings, sent, two hundred feet below the surface of the earth, a vision of dazzling light and beauty. I was transported beneath the green shadows of myrtles and orange-trees; I breathed an atmosphere impregnated with intoxicating and balsamic perfumes, while near me, with her hand in mine, and her heart beating on my bosom, was a young girl, destined to be my guide through this life of misery; the angel, in fact, of whom I spoke just now. Sorrows, suffering, injustice, the dungeon, and the executioner, all disappeared, and I enjoyed all the luxury of this heavenly revelation; and I said, for the realization of this heavenly revelation, the heart's blood would not be too dear a price. Do you not think so, Marquis?"

"I do, Count," said Maulear, "and especially so, because what your rich imagination has created for you, chance, or my good genius—for I too have faith in them—has displayed before me, not in the delirium of a dream, but in reality. I have seen the myrtle groves of which you dreamed: I have breathed the perfumes you describe so well: I have found the woman your imagination has shadowed to me. I found her one day when I did not expect to do so. I found one more beautiful than I had fancied woman could be, gifted with such charms, grace, and virtue, that I ask myself frequently whether such a being can belong to earth."

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, and as he spoke he led the Count towards a darker alley, lighted up only by a few rays of the moon, which penetrated the interstices of the branches, "would it not be best to conclude this conversation rather in the dark than in the light? Our words need not any light, and neither you nor I pay any attention to the expression of our faces."

"So be it," said Maulear, and they entered the dark alley.

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, "the divinity of my dream and the object of your passion are so alike, that I am sure we worship the same idol, and kneel before the same altar. Fortune has led two men of soul and honor into the same route. We both struggle for an object which one only can reach. One of us must tread on a carcass, which must be either yours or mine."

"Count," said Maulear, "we understand each other. We adore the same idol, but you are not ignorant that our rights to offer it homage are different; that I have rights which you have not."

The Count trembled. A word might crush all his hopes. For a few moments he hesitated, and then in a calm voice said,

"Does she love you?"

Without replying to the question, the Marquis said,

"Signora Rovero, for her name is too deeply engraven on our hearts for it not to spring to our lips, is aware of my sentiments, of which I have already told her."

"And has accepted them?" said Monte-Leone, in yet greater trouble.

"No," said the Marquis, honorably; "but bade me hope that some day she would."

"Then," said the Count, with joy, "nothing is lost. Marquis, the past is yours, but the future is mine. Had I the mind and grace of a French nobleman, I would, perhaps, propose to you a contest of courtesy, and might rely on my hope, my love, my attention, to triumph. But the contest must be of a different kind; for I will expose myself to no risks." Lowering his voice, he continued: "Not one and the other can present his love to the Signorina Rovero, but one without the other. You or I alone; and, as I told you just now, there is a life too many."

"Very well, signor,—you wage your life against mine. I consent,—but must observe that this duel should, at least, accrue to the interest of one or the other of us; and yet I do not think that Signorina Rovero would touch a blood-stained hand."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "from the moment you accept my challenge, the mystery and secrecy with which it must be shrouded shall be my affair; and, if you please, I will tell you of my plans."

"Do so, signor," said Maulear, coldly.

"Let us leave this alley, and go towards that group of trees in that direction."

He led Maulear towards the sea. When they stood on the shore, he said, "Below there is a kind of cove, and in it a gondola like those of Venice—a pleasure-skiff—built formerly by the minister Rovero for his family. At this hour to-morrow, we will meet in this wood and go to the boat-house. We will then put to sea, and with no witness but the sea and sky, we will settle our affair. Two men will steer the bark to sea, and one wilt guide it back–"

In spite of his courage, Maulear could not but shudder at one who detailed with such coolness so horrible a plan. The manner of death frequently enhances our terror, and he who in a forest would bare his bosom to his adversary's ball, would shrink from it on the immensity of the ocean.

"But," said Maulear, "is all this romantic preparation, is this naval drama in which you insist on appearing, necessary to our purpose? Any other secret encounter would have the same effect, and would eventuate equally satisfactorily. At the distance of a few days' travel, would we not be able to fight more safely than here?"

"No, Marquis, I must remain in this villa until Taddeo de Sorrento shall have returned. Neither I nor you can leave it without arousing suspicions, and in two days hence, we would no longer be equals; for honor compels me to say that Taddeo has promised me his sister's hand, and that the influence he exerts over his mother will without doubt induce her to decide in my favor. If, however, you prefer to run that risk, I will not oppose you."

"No no," said Maulear, who remembered what Taddeo had said to him in relation to his sister, "I will fight for her I love at the very foot of the altar—"

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "let us avoid all scandal. The death of him who falls may be easily accounted for; and as you said, we must never suffer her we love to think that the happiness of one of us has cost the other his life."

"So be it," said Maulear, "I accept your offer."

"To-morrow we will meet," said the Count.

The two enemies returned to the villa calm, and apparently undisturbed, as if they had been the best friends possible. When they came into the room again, Aminta sat by her mother. The eyes of the young girl, however, turning constantly towards the door, seemed to expect the return of the two young men with anxiety. Her cheeks became slightly flushed when they entered. The Count approached her and besought her to sing as he had often heard her. Aminta sat at the piano. Scarcely, however, had she sung the first bar, than the door of the saloon opened and Scorpione glided in and sat at the feet of the young girl, where he laid down as he used to do; not, however, daring to look at her. Since the scandal he had caused, he had been in disgrace with all the family, and his mistress did not speak to him. The Count, who had become acquainted with Tonio during his first visit to Sorrento, could not repress a movement of horror at the appearance of the wretch. Far, however, from being angry, Tonio seemed glad to see him, and testified his pleasure by various affectionate signs. Gaetano, who was absent from the room, just then returned, and at the request of Signora Rovero sang several duets with Aminta. An extraordinary feeling seemed to influence the young man, and only with the greatest difficulty could he get through his part. When the evening was over, all retired. The next day rolled by in embarrassing constraint to all the inhabitants of the villa. An atmosphere of sadness surrounded them, like the dark clouds which seem at the approach of a storm to overhang the earth. Count Monte-Leone alone seemed master of himself, and sought to cure the general atony in which even Maulear was involved. A sensible difference was remarked between the two men, each of whom loved the same woman, while one of them must lose her forever. The Count did not take his eyes from her, and seemed thus to lay in a provision of pleasure for eternity, which seemed ready to open before him. Maulear, on the other hand, was sad and pensive, and scarcely dared to lift his eyes to Aminta, fearing, beyond doubt, that he would thus increase his sorrow and distress, and diminish his courage when the crisis came. As the day wore on. Aminta, feeling unwell, retired to her room. Signora Rovero, accustomed to see her daughter have similar attacks, sat to play reversis with Count Brignoli and two other persons. Monte-Leone and Maulear exchanged a mysterious sign and left the room nearly at the same time. The night was not so beautiful as the preceding one had been. The disk of the moon sometimes was clouded, and the wind whistled among the trees of the park; all nature, deeply agitated, seemed to sympathize with the thoughts which agitated the minds of the two enemies. The dark and cloudy sky was a meet back-ground for such a picture.