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Title: The Charterhouse of Parma, Volume 2

Author: Stendhal

Translator: C. K. Scott-Moncrieff

Release date: September 25, 2021 [eBook #66375]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHARTERHOUSE OF PARMA, VOLUME 2 ***

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE

[DE STENDHAL]




THE CHARTERHOUSE
OF PARMA





_Translated from the French by_

C. K. SCOTT MONCRIEFF




VOLUME TWO




BONI & LIVERIGHT

NEW YORK MCMXXV




_The Works of Stendhal_




I



THE CHARTERHOUSE
OF PARMA




VOLUME TWO




CONTENTS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
APPENDIX
FRAGMENT I--_BIRAGUE'S NARRATIVE_
FRAGMENT II--_CONTE ZORAFI, THE PRINCE'S "PRESS"_




CHAPTER FOURTEEN


While Fabrizio was in pursuit of love, in a village near Parma, the
Fiscal General Rassi, who did not know that he was so near, continued to
treat his case as though he had been a Liberal: he pretended to be
unable to find--or, rather, he intimidated--the witnesses for the
defence; and finally, after the most ingenious operations, carried on
for nearly a year, and about two months after Fabrizio's final return to
Bologna, on a certain Friday, the Marchesa Raversi, mad with joy,
announced publicly in her drawing-room that next day the sentence which
had just been pronounced, in the last hour, on young del Dongo would be
presented to the Prince for his signature and approved by him. A few
minutes later the Duchessa was informed of this utterance by her enemy.

"The Conte must be extremely ill served by his agents!" she said to
herself; "only this morning he thought that the sentence could not be
passed for another week. Perhaps he would not be sorry to see my young
Grand Vicar kept out of Parma; but," she added, breaking into song, "we
shall see him come again; and one day he will be our Archbishop." The
Duchessa rang:

"Collect all the servants in the waiting-room," she told her footman,
"including the kitchen staff; go to the town commandant and get the
necessary permit to procure four post horses, and have those horses
harnessed to my landau within half an hour." All the women of the
household were set to work packing trunks: the Duchessa hastily chose a
travelling dress, all without sending any word to the Conte; the idea of
playing a little joke on him sent her into a transport of joy.

"My friends," she said to the assembled servants, "I learn that my poor
nephew is to be condemned in his absence for having had the audacity to
defend his life against a raging madman; I mean Giletti, who was trying
to kill him. You have all of you had opportunities of seeing how mild
and inoffensive Fabrizio's nature is. Rightly indignant at this
atrocious outrage, I am going to Florence; I leave for each of you ten
years' wages; if you are in distress, write to me, and, so long as I
have a sequin, there will be something for you."

The Duchessa meant exactly what she said, and, at her closing words, the
servants dissolved in tears; her eyes too were moist: she added in a
voice faint with emotion: "Pray to God for me and for Monsignor Fabrizio
del Dongo, First Grand Vicar of the Diocese, who to-morrow morning is
going to be condemned to the galleys, or, which would be less stupid, to
the penalty of death."

The tears of the servants flowed in double volume, and gradually changed
into cries that were almost seditious; the Duchessa stepped into her
carriage and drove to the Prince's Palace. Despite the unusual hour, she
sent in a request for an audience by General Fontana, the Aide-de-Camp
in waiting; she was by no means in court dress, a fact which threw this
Aide-de-Camp into a profound stupor. As for the Prince, he was not at
all surprised, still less annoyed by this request for an audience. "We
shall see tears flowing from fine eyes," he said to himself, rubbing his
hands. "She comes to sue for pardon; at last that proud beauty is going
to humble herself! She was, really, too insupportable with her little
airs of independence! Those speaking eyes seemed always to be saying to
me, when the slightest thing offended her: 'Naples or Milan would have
very different attractions as a residence from your little town of
Parma.' In truth, I do not reign over Naples, nor over Milan; but now at
last this great lady is coming to ask me for something which depends
upon me alone, and which she is burning to obtain; I always thought that
nephew's coming here would bring me some advantage."




_THE FAREWELL AUDIENCE_


While the Prince was smiling at these thoughts, and giving himself up to
all these agreeable anticipations, he walked up and down his cabinet, at
the door of which General Fontana remained standing stiff and erect like
a soldier presenting arms. Seeing the sparkling eyes of the Prince, and
remembering the Duchessa's travelling dress, he imagined a dissolution
of the Monarchy. His bewilderment knew no bounds when he heard the
Prince say: "Ask the Signora Duchessa to wait for a quarter of an hour."
The General Aide-de-Camp made his half-turn, like a soldier on parade;
the Prince was still smiling: "Fontana is not accustomed," he said to
himself, "to see that proud Duchessa kept waiting. The face of
astonishment with which he is going to tell her about the _quarter of an
hour to wait_ will pave the way for the touching tears which this
cabinet is going to see her shed." This quarter of an hour was exquisite
for the Prince; he walked up and down with a firm and steady pace; he
reigned. "It will not do at this point to say anything that is not
perfectly correct; whatever my feelings for the Duchessa may be, I must
never forget that she is one of the greatest ladies of my court. How
used Louis XIV to speak to the Princesses his daughters, when he had
occasion to be displeased with them?" And his eyes came to rest on the
portrait of the Great King.

The amusing thing was that the Prince never thought of asking himself
whether he should shew clemency to Fabrizio, or what form that clemency
should take. Finally, at the end of twenty minutes, the faithful Fontana
presented himself again at the door, but without saying a word. "The
Duchessa Sanseverina may enter," cried the Prince, with a theatrical
air. "Now for the tears," he added inwardly, and, as though to prepare
himself for such a spectacle, took out his handkerchief.

Never had the Duchessa been so gay or so pretty; she did not seem
five-and-twenty. Seeing her light and rapid little step scarcely brush
the carpet, the poor Aide-de-Camp was on the point of losing his reason
altogether.

"I have a thousand pardons to ask of Your Serene Highness," said the
Duchessa in her light and gay little voice; "I have taken the liberty of
presenting myself before him in a costume which is not exactly
conventional, but Your Highness has so accustomed me to his kindnesses
that I have ventured to hope that he will be pleased to accord me this
pardon also."

The Duchessa spoke quite slowly so as to give herself time to enjoy the
spectacle of the Prince's face; it was delicious, by reason of the
profound astonishment and of the traces of the grand manner which the
position of his head and arms still betrayed. The Prince sat as though
struck by a thunderbolt; in a shrill and troubled little voice he
exclaimed from time to time, barely articulating the words: "_What's
that! What's that_!" The Duchessa, as though out of respect, having
ended her compliment, left him ample time to reply; then went on:

"I venture to hope that Your Serene Highness deigns to pardon me the
incongruity of my costume"; but, as she said the words, her mocking eyes
shone with so bright a sparkle that the Prince could not endure it; he
studied the ceiling, an act which with him was the final sign of the
most extreme embarrassment.

"_What's that! What's that_!" he said again; then he had the good
fortune to hit upon a phrase:--"Signora Duchessa, pray be seated"; he
himself drew forward a chair for her, not ungraciously. The Duchessa was
by no means insensible to this courtesy, she moderated the petulance of
her gaze.

"_What's that! What's that_!" the Prince once more repeated, moving
uneasily in his chair, in which one would have said that he could find
no solid support.

"I am going to take advantage of the cool night air to travel by post,"
went on the Duchessa, "and as my absence may be of some duration, I have
not wished to leave the States of His Serene Highness without thanking
him for all the kindnesses which, in the last five years, he has deigned
to shew me." At these words the Prince at last understood; he grew pale;
he was the one man in the world who really suffered when he saw himself
proved wrong in his calculations. Then he assumed an air of grandeur
quite worthy of the portrait of Louis XIV which hung before his eyes.
"Very good," thought the Duchessa, "there is a man."

"And what is the reason for this sudden departure?" said the Prince in a
fairly firm tone.

"I have long had the plan in my mind," replied the Duchessa, "and a
little insult which has been offered to _Monsignor_ Del Dongo, whom
to-morrow they are going to sentence to death or to the galleys, makes
me hasten my departure."

"And to what town are you going?"

"To Naples, I think." She added as she rose to her feet: "It only
remains for me to take leave of Your Serene Highness and to thank him
most humbly for his _former_ kindnesses." She, in turn, spoke with so
firm an air that the Prince saw that in two minutes all would be over;
once the sensation of her departure had occurred, he knew that no
further arrangement was possible; she was not a woman to retrace her
steps. He ran after her.

"But you know well, Signora Duchessa," he said, taking her hand, "that I
have always felt a regard for you, a regard to which it rested only with
you to give another name. A murder has been committed; that is a fact
which no one can deny; I have entrusted the sifting of the evidence to
my best judges. . . ."

At these words the Duchessa rose to her full height; every sign of
respect and even of urbanity disappeared in the twinkling of an eye; the
outraged woman became clearly apparent, and the outraged woman
addressing a creature whom she knew to have broken faith with her. It
was with an expression of the most violent anger, and indeed of contempt
that she said to the Prince, dwelling on every word:

"I am leaving the States of Your Serene Highness for ever, so as never
to hear the names of the Fiscal Rassi and of the other infamous
assassins who have condemned my nephew and so many others to death; if
Your Serene Highness does not wish to introduce a feeling of bitterness
into the last moments that I shall pass in the presence of a Prince who
is courteous and intelligent when he is not led astray, I beg him most
humbly not to recall to me the thought of those infamous judges who sell
themselves for a thousand scudi or a Cross."

The admirable--and, above all, genuine--accent in which these words were
uttered made the Prince shudder; he feared for a moment to see his
dignity compromised by an accusation even more direct, but on the whole
his sensation soon became one of pleasure; he admired the Duchessa; her
face and figure attained at that moment to a sublime beauty. "Great God!
How beautiful she is!" the Prince said to himself; "one ought to make
some concessions to a woman who is so unique, when there probably is not
another like her in the whole of Italy. Oh well, with a little policy it
might not be impossible one day to make her my mistress: there is a wide
gulf between a creature like this and that doll of a Marchesa Balbi, who
moreover robs my poor subjects of at least three hundred thousand francs
every year. . . . But did I hear aright?" he thought suddenly; "she
said: 'Condemned my nephew and so many others.'" Then his anger boiled
over, and it was with a stiffness worthy of his supreme rank that the
Prince said, after an interval of silence: "And what would one have to
do to make the Signora not leave us?"

"Something of which you are not capable," replied the Duchessa in an
accent of the most bitter irony and the most unconcealed contempt.

The Prince was beside himself, but his professional training as an
Absolute Sovereign gave him the strength to overcome his first impulse.
"I must have this woman," he said to himself; "so much I owe to myself,
then she must be made to die of shame. . . . If she leaves this cabinet,
I shall never see her again." But, mad with rage and hatred as he was at
this moment, where was he to find an answer that would at once satisfy
the requirements of what he owed to himself and induce the Duchessa not
to abandon his court immediately? "She cannot," he said to himself,
"repeat or turn to ridicule a gesture," and he placed himself between
the Duchessa and the door of his cabinet. Presently he heard a tap at
this door.

"Who is the creature," he cried, shouting with the full force of his
lungs, "who is the creature who comes here to thrust his fatuous
presence upon me?" Poor General Fontana shewed a pallid face of complete
discomfiture, and it was with the air of a man in his last agony that he
stammered these inarticulate words: "His Excellency the Conte Mosca
solicits the honour of being introduced."

"Let him come in," said, or rather shouted the Prince, and, as Mosca
bowed:

"Well," he said to him, "here is the Signora Duchessa Sanseverina, who
informs me that she is leaving Parma immediately to go and settle at
Naples, and who, incidentally, is being most impertinent to me."

"What!" said Mosca turning pale.

"Oh! So you did not know of this plan of departure?"

"Not a word; I left the Signora at six o'clock, happy and content."

This statement had an incredible effect on the Prince. First of all he
looked at Mosca; his increasing pallor shewed the Prince that he was
telling the truth and was in no way an accomplice of the Duchessa's
desperate action. "In that case," he said to himself, "I lose her for
ever; pleasure and vengeance, all goes in a flash. At Naples she will
make epigrams with her nephew Fabrizio about the great fury of the
little Prince of Parma." He looked at the Duchessa: the most violent
scorn and anger were disputing the possession of her heart; her eyes
were fixed at that moment on Conte Mosca, and the exquisite curves of
that lovely mouth expressed the bitterest disdain. The whole face seemed
to be saying: "Vile courtier!" "So," thought the Prince after he had
examined her, "I lose this means of bringing her back to my country. At
this moment again, if she leaves this cabinet, she is lost to me; God
knows the things she will say about my judges at Naples. . . . And with
that spirit, and that divine power of persuasion which heaven has
bestowed on her, she will make everyone believe her. I shall be obliged
to her for the reputation of a ridiculous tyrant, who gets up in the
middle of the night to look under his bed. . . ." Then, by an adroit
move and as though he were intending to walk up and down the room to
reduce his agitation, the Prince took his stand once again in front of
the door of the cabinet; the Conte was on his right, at a distance of
three paces, pale, shattered, and trembling so that he was obliged to
seek support from the back of the armchair in which the Duchessa had
been sitting during the earlier part of the audience, and which the
Prince in a moment of anger had pushed across the floor. The Conte was
in love. "If the Duchessa goes, I follow her," he said to himself; "but
will she want me in her train? That is the question."

On the Prince's left, the Duchessa, erect, her arms folded and pressed
to her bosom, was looking at him with an admirable impatience: a
complete and intense pallor had taken the place of the vivid colours
which a moment earlier animated that sublime face.

The Prince, in contrast to the other two occupants of the room, had a
red face and a troubled air; his left hand played convulsively with the
Cross attached to the Grand Cordon of his Order which he wore under his
coat: with his right hand he caressed his chin.

"What is to be done?" he asked the Conte, without knowing quite what he
himself was doing, and carried away by the habit of consulting this
other in everything.

"I can think of nothing, truly, Serene Highness," replied the Conte with
the air of a man yielding up his last breath. It was all he could do to
pronounce the words of his answer. The tone of his voice gave the Prince
the first consolation that his wounded pride had received during this
audience, and this grain of happiness furnished him with a speech that
gratified his vanity.

"Very well," he said, "I am the most reasonable of the three; I choose
to make a complete elimination of my position in the world. I am going
to speak _as a friend_"; and he added, with a fine smile of
condescension, beautifully copied from the brave days of Louis XIV,
"_like a friend speaking to friends_. Signora Duchessa," he went on,
"what is to be done to make you forget an untimely resolution?"

"Truly, I can think of nothing," replied the Duchessa with a deep sigh,
"truly, I can think of nothing, I have such a horror of Parma." There
was no epigrammatic intention in this speech; one could see that
sincerity itself spoke through her lips.

The Conte turned sharply towards her; his courtier's soul was
scandalised; then he addressed a suppliant gaze to the Prince. With
great dignity and coolness the Prince allowed a moment to pass; then,
addressing the Conte:

"I see," he said, "that your charming friend is altogether beside
herself; it is quite simple, she _adores_ her nephew." And, turning
towards the Duchessa, he went on with a glance of the utmost gallantry
and at the same time with the air which one adopts when quoting a line
from a play: "_What must one do to please those lovely eyes_?"

The Duchessa had had time for reflexion; in a firm and measured tone,
and as though she were dictating her _ultimatum_, she replied:

"His Highness might write me a gracious letter, as he knows so well how
to do; he might say to me that, not being at all convinced of the guilt
of Fabrizio del Dongo, First Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, he will not
sign the sentence when it is laid before him, and that these unjust
proceedings shall have no consequences in the future."

"What, _unjust_!" cried the Prince, colouring to the whites of his eyes,
and recovering his anger.

"That is not all," replied the Duchessa, with a Roman pride, "_this very
evening_, and," she added, looking at the clock, "it is already a
quarter past eleven,--this very evening His Serene Highness will send
word to the Marchesa Raversi that he advises her to retire to the
country to recover from the fatigue which must have been caused her by a
certain prosecution of which she was speaking in her drawing-room in the
early hours of the evening." The Prince was pacing the floor of his
cabinet like a madman.

"Did anyone ever see such a woman?" he cried. "She is wanting in respect
for me!"

The Duchessa replied with inimitable grace:

"Never in my life have I had a thought of shewing want of respect for
His Serene Highness; His Highness has had the extreme condescension to
say that he was speaking _as a friend to friends_. I have, moreover, no
desire to remain at Parma," she added, looking at the Conte with the
utmost contempt. This look decided the Prince, hitherto highly
uncertain, though his words had seemed to promise a pledge; he paid
little attention to words.

There was still some further discussion; but at length Conte Mosca
received the order to write the gracious note solicited by the Duchessa.
He omitted the phrase: _these unjust proceedings shall have no
consequences in the future_. "It is enough," the Conte said to himself,
"that the Prince shall promise not to sign the sentence which will be
laid before him." The Prince thanked him with a quick glance as he
signed.

The Conte was greatly mistaken; the Prince was tired and would have
signed anything. He thought that he was getting well out of the
difficulty, and the whole affair was coloured in his eyes by the
thought: "If the Duchessa goes, I shall find my court become boring
within a week." The Conte noticed that his master altered the date to
that of the following day. He looked at the clock: it pointed almost to
midnight. The Minister saw nothing more in this correction of the date
than a pedantic desire to show a proof of exactitude and good
government. As for the banishment of the Marchesa Raversi, he made no
objection; the Prince took a particular delight in banishing people.

"General Fontana!" he cried, opening the door a little way.

The General appeared with a face shewing so much astonishment and
curiosity, that a merry glance was exchanged by the Duchessa and Conte,
and this glance made peace between them.

"General Fontana," said the Prince, "you will get into my carriage,
which is waiting under the colonnade; you will go to the Marchesa
Raversi's, you will send in your name; if she is in bed, you will add
that you come from me, and, on entering her room, you will say these
precise words and no others: 'Signora Marchesa Raversi, His Serene
Highness requests you to leave to-morrow morning, before eight o'clock,
for your _castello_ at Velleja; His Highness will let you know when you
may return to Parma.'"

The Prince's eyes sought those of the Duchessa, who, without giving him
the thanks he expected, made him an extremely respectful curtsey, and
swiftly left the room.

"What a woman!" said the Prince, turning to Conte Mosca.

The latter, delighted at the banishment of the Marchesa Raversi, which
simplified all his ministerial activities, talked for a full half-hour
like a consummate courtier; he sought to console his Sovereign's injured
vanity, and did not take his leave until he saw him fully convinced that
the historical anecdotes of Louis XIV included no fairer page than that
with which he had just provided his own future historians.

On reaching home the Duchessa shut her doors, and gave orders that no
one was to be admitted, not even the Conte. She wished to be left alone
with herself, and to consider for a little what idea she ought to form
of the scene that had just occurred. She had acted at random and for her
own immediate pleasure; but to whatever course she might have let
herself be induced to take she would have clung with tenacity. She had
not blamed herself in the least on recovering her coolness, still less
had she repented; such was the character to which she owed the position
of being still, in her thirty-seventh year, the best looking woman at
court.




_THE SERVANTS_


She was thinking at this moment of what Parma might have to offer in the
way of attractions, as she might have done on returning after a long
journey, so fully, between nine o'clock and eleven, had she believed
that she was leaving the place for ever.

"That poor Conte did cut a ludicrous figure when he learned of my
departure in the Prince's presence. . . . After all, he is a pleasant
man, and has a very rare warmth of heart. He would have given up his
Ministries to follow me. . . . But on the other hand, during five whole
years, he has not had to find fault with me for a single aberration. How
many women married before the altar could say as much to their lords and
masters? It must be admitted that he is not self-important, he is no
pedant; he gives one no desire to be unfaithful to him; when he is with
me, he seems always to be ashamed of his power. . . . He cut a funny
figure in the presence of his lord and master; if he was in the room
now, I should kiss him. . . . But not for anything in the world would I
undertake to amuse a Minister who had lost his portfolio; that is a
malady which only death can cure, and . . . one which kills. What a
misfortune it would be to become Minister when one was young! I must
write to him; it is one of the things that he ought to know officially
before he quarrels with his Prince. . . . But I am forgetting my good
servants."

The Duchessa rang. Her women were still at work packing trunks, the
carriage had drawn up under the portico, and was being loaded; all the
servants who had nothing else to do were gathered round this carriage,
with tears in their eyes. Cecchina, who on great occasions, had the sole
right to enter the Duchessa's room, told her all these details.

"Call them upstairs," said the Duchessa.

A moment later she passed into the waiting-room.

"I have been promised," she told them, "that the sentence passed on my
nephew will not be signed by the Sovereign" (such is the term used in
Italy), "and I am postponing my departure. We shall see whether my
enemies have enough influence to alter this decision."

After a brief silence, the servants began to shout: "_Evviva la Signora
Duchessa_!" and to applaud furiously. The Duchessa, who had gone into
the next room, reappeared like an actress taking a _call_, made a little
curtsey, full of grace, to her people, and said to them: "_My friends, I
thank you_." Had she said the word, all of them at that moment would
have marched on the Palace to attack it. She beckoned to a postilion, an
old smuggler and a devoted servant, who followed her.

"You will disguise yourself as a _contadino_ in easy circumstances, you
will get out of Parma as best you can, hire a _sediola_ and proceed as
quickly as possible to Bologna. You will enter Bologna as a casual
visitor and by the Florence gate, and you will deliver to Fabrizio, who
is at the Pellegrino, a packet which Cecchina will give you. Fabrizio is
in hiding, and is known there as Signor Giuseppe Bossi; do not give him
away by any stupid action, do not appear to know him; my enemies will
perhaps set spies on your track. Fabrizio will send you back here after
a few hours or a few days: and it is on your return journey especially
that you must use every precaution not to give him away."

"Ah! Marchesa Raversi's people!" cried the postilion. "We are on the
look-out for them, and if the Signora wished, they would soon be
exterminated."




_THE ARCHBISHOP_


"Some other day, perhaps; but don't, as you value your life, do anything
without orders from me."

It was a copy of the Prince's note which the Duchessa wished to send to
Fabrizio; she could not resist the pleasure of making him amused, and
added a word about the scene which had led up to the note; this word
became a letter of ten pages. She had the postilion called back.

"You cannot start," she told him, "before four o'clock, when the gates
are opened."

"I was thinking of going out by the big conduit; I should be up to my
neck in water, but I should get through. . . ."

"No," said the Duchessa, "I do not wish to expose one of my most
faithful servants to the risk of fever. Do you know anyone in the
Archbishop's household?"

"The second coachman is a friend of mine."

"Here is a letter for that saintly prelate; make your way quietly into
his Palace, get them to take you to his valet; I do not wish Monsignore
to be awakened. If he has retired to his room, spend the night in the
Palace, and, as he is in the habit of rising at dawn, to-morrow morning,
at four o'clock, have yourself announced as coming from me, ask the holy
Archbishop for his blessing, hand him the packet you see here, and take
the letters that he will perhaps give you for Bologna."

The Duchessa addressed to the Archbishop the actual original of the
Prince's note; as this note concerned his First Grand Vicar, she begged
him to deposit it among the archives of the Palace, where she hoped that
their Reverences the Grand Vicars and Canons, her nephew's colleagues,
would be so good as to acquaint themselves with its contents; the whole
transaction to be kept in the most profound secrecy.

The Duchessa wrote to Monsignor Landriani with a familiarity which could
not fail to charm that honest plebeian; the signature alone filled three
lines; the letter, couched in the most friendly tone, was followed by
the words: _Angelina-Cornelia-Isotta Valserra del Dongo, duchessa
Sanseverina_.

"I don't believe I have signed all that," the Duchessa said to herself,
"since my marriage contract with the poor Duca; but one only gets hold
of those people with that sort of thing, and in the eyes of the middle
classes the caricature looks like beauty." She could not bring the
evening to an end without yielding to the temptation to write to the
poor Conte; she announced to him officially, for his _guidance_, she said,
_in his relations with crowned heads_, that she did not feel herself to
be capable of amusing a Minister in disgrace. "The Prince frightens you;
when you are no longer in a position to see him, will it be my business
to frighten you?" She had this letter taken to him at once.

For his part, that morning at seven o'clock, the Prince sent for Conte
Zurla, the Minister of the Interior.

"Repeat," he told him, "the strictest orders to every _podestà_ to have
Signor Fabrizio del Dongo arrested. We are informed that possibly he may
dare to reappear in our States. This fugitive being now at Bologna,
where he seems to defy the judgment of our tribunals, post the _sbirri_
who know him by sight: (1) in the villages on the road from Bologna to
Parma; (2) in the neighbourhood of Duchessa Sanseverina's _castello_ at
Sacca, and of her house at Castelnuovo; (3) round Conte Mosca's
_castello_. I venture to hope from your great sagacity, Signor Conte,
that you will manage to keep all knowledge of these, your Sovereign's
orders, from the curiosity of Conte Mosca. Understand that I wish Signor
Fabrizio del Dongo to be arrested."




_RASSI_


As soon as the Minister had left him, a secret door introduced into the
Prince's presence the Fiscal General Rassi, who came towards him bent
double, and bowing at every step. The face of this rascal was a picture;
it did full justice to the infamy of the part he had to play, and, while
the rapid and extravagant movements of his eyes betrayed his
consciousness of his own merits, the arrogant and grimacing assurance of
his mouth showed that he knew how to fight against contempt.

As this personage is going to acquire a considerable influence over
Fabrizio's destiny, we may say a word here about him. He was tall, he
had fine eyes that shewed great intelligence, but a face ruined by
smallpox; as for brains, he had them in plenty, and of the finest
quality; it was admitted that he had an exhaustive knowledge of the law,
but it was in the quality of resource that he specially shone. Whatever
the aspect in which a case might be laid before him, he easily and in a
few moments discovered the way, thoroughly well founded in law, to
arrive at a conviction or an acquittal; he was above all a past-master
of the hair-splittings of a prosecutor.

In this man, whom great Monarchs might have envied the Prince of Parma,
one passion only was known to exist: he loved to converse with eminent
personages and to please them by buffooneries. It mattered little to him
whether the powerful personage laughed at what he said or at his person,
or uttered revolting pleasantries at the expense of Signora Rassi;
provided that he saw the great man laugh and was himself treated as a
familiar, he was content. Sometimes the Prince, at a loss how further to
insult the dignity of this Chief Justice, would actually kick him; if
the kicks hurt him, he would begin to cry. But the instinct of
buffoonery was so strong in him that he might be seen every day
frequenting the drawing-room of a Minister who scoffed at him, in
preference to his own drawing-room where he exercised a despotic rule
over all the stuff gowns of the place. This Rassi had above all created
for himself a place apart, in that it was impossible for the most
insolent noble to humiliate him; his method of avenging himself for the
insults which he had to endure all day long was to relate them to the
Prince, in whose presence he had acquired the privilege of saying
anything; it is true that the reply often took the form of a
well-directed cuff, which hurt him, but he stood on no ceremony about
that. The presence of this Chief Justice used to distract the Prince in
his moments of ill humour; then he amused himself by outraging him. It
can be seen that Rassi was almost the perfect courtier: a man without
honour and without humour.

"Secrecy is essential above all things," the Prince shouted to him
without greeting him, treating him, in fact, exactly as he would have
treated a scullion, he who was so polite to everybody. "From when is
your sentence dated?"

"Serene Highness, from yesterday morning."

"By how many judges is it signed?"

"By all five."

"And the penalty?"

"Twenty years in a fortress, as Your Serene Highness told me."

"The death penalty would have given offence," said the Prince, as though
speaking to himself; "it is a pity! What an effect on that woman! But he
is a del Dongo, and that name is revered in Parma, on account of the
three Archbishops, almost in direct sequence. . . . You say twenty years
in a fortress?"

"Yes, Serene Highness," replied the Fiscal, still on his feet and bent
double; "with, as a preliminary, a public apology before His Serene
Highness's portrait; and, in addition, a diet of bread and water every
Friday and on the Vigils of the principal Feasts, _the accused being
notorious for his impiety_. This is with an eye to the future and to put
a stop to his career."




_THE MARCHESA RAVERSI_


"Write," said the Prince: "'His Serene Highness having deigned to turn a
considerate ear to the most humble supplications of the Marchesa del
Dongo, the culprit's mother, and of the Duchessa Sanseverina, his aunt,
which ladies have represented to him that at the date of the crime their
son and nephew was extremely young, and in addition led astray by an
insensate passion conceived for the wife of the unfortunate Giletti, has
been graciously pleased, notwithstanding the horror inspired by such a
murder, to commute the penalty to which Fabrizio del Dongo has been
sentenced to that of twelve years in a fortress."

"Give it to me to sign."

The Prince signed and dated the sentence from the previous day; then,
handing it back to Rassi, said to him: "Write immediately beneath my
signature: 'The Duchessa Sanseverina having once again thrown herself
before the knees of His Highness, the Prince has given permission that
every Thursday the prisoner may take exercise for one hour on the
platform of the square tower, commonly called Torre Farnese.'"

"Sign that," said the Prince, "and, don't forget, keep your mouth shut,
whatever you may hear said in the town. You will tell Councillor De'
Capitani, who voted for two years in a fortress, and even made a speech
upholding so ridiculous a sentence, that I expect him to refresh his
memory of the laws and regulations. Once again silence, and good night."
Fiscal Rassi performed with great deliberation three profound reverences
to which the Prince paid no attention.

This happened at seven o'clock in the morning. A few hours later, the
news of the Marchesa Raversi's banishment spread through the town and
among the _caffè_: everyone was talking at once of this great event.
The Marchesa's banishment drove away for some time from Parma that
implacable enemy of small towns and small courts, boredom. General Fabio
Conti, who had regarded himself as a Minister already, feigned an attack
of gout, and for several days did not emerge from his fortress. The
middle classes, and consequently the populace, concluded from what was
happening that it was clear that the Prince had decided to confer the
Archbishopric of Parma on Monsignor del Dongo. The shrewd politicians of
the _caffè_ went so far as to assert that Father Landriani, the
reigning Archbishop, had been ordered to plead ill health and to send in
his resignation; he was to be awarded a fat pension from the tobacco
duty, they were positive about it; this report reached the Archbishop
himself, who was greatly alarmed, and for several days his zeal for our
hero was considerably paralysed. Two months later, this fine piece of
news found its way into the Paris newspapers, with the slight alteration
that it was Conte Mosca, nephew of the Duchessa Sanseverina, who was to
be made Archbishop.

The Marchesa Raversi meanwhile was raging in her Castello di Velleja;
she was by no means one of those little feather-pated women who think
that they are avenging themselves when they say damaging things about
their enemies. On the day following her disgrace, Cavaliere Riscara and
three more of her friends presented themselves before the Prince by her
order, and asked him for permission to go to visit her at her
_castello_. His Highness received these gentlemen with perfect grace,
and their arrival at Velleja was a great consolation to the Marchesa.
Before the end of the second week, she had thirty people in her
_castello_, all those whom the Liberal Ministry was going to bring into
power. Every evening, the Marchesa held a regular council with the
better informed of her friends. One day, on which she had received a
number of letters from Parma and Bologna, she retired to bed early: her
maid let into the room, first of all the reigning lover, Conte Baldi, a
young man of admirable appearance and complete insignificance, and,
later on, Cavaliere Riscara, his predecessor: this was a small man dark
in complexion and in character, who, having begun by being instructor in
geometry at the College of Nobles at Parma, now found himself a
Councillor of State and a Knight of several Orders.




_CAVALIERE RISCARA_


"I have the good habit," the Marchesa said to these two men, "of never
destroying any paper; and well it has served me; here are nine letters
which the Sanseverina has written me on different occasions. You will
both of you proceed to Genoa, you will look among the gaol-birds there
for an ex-lawyer named Burati, like the great Venetian poet, or else
Durati. You, Conte Baldi, sit down at my desk and write what I am going
to dictate to you."


"'An idea has occurred to me, and I write you a line. I am going to my
cottage, by Castelnuovo; if you care to come over and spend a day with
me, I shall be most delighted; there is, it seems to me, no great danger
after what has just happened; the clouds are lifting. However, stop
before you come to Castelnuovo; you will find one of my people on the
road; they are all madly devoted to you. You will, of course, keep the
name Bossi for this little expedition. They tell me that you have grown
a beard like the most perfect Capuchin, and nobody has seen you at Parma
except with the decent countenance of a Grand Vicar.'"


"Do you follow me, Riscara?"

"Perfectly; but the journey to Genoa is an unnecessary extravagance; I
know a man in Parma who, to be accurate, is not yet in the galleys, but
cannot fail to get there in the end. He will counterfeit the
Sanseverina's hand to perfection."

At these words, Conte Baldi opened those fine eyes of his to their full
extent; he had only just understood.

"If you know this worthy personage of Parma, who, you hope, will obtain
advancement," said the Marchesa to Riscara, "presumably he knows you
also: his mistress, his confessor, his bosom friend may have been bought
by the Sanseverina: I should prefer to postpone this little joke for a
few days and not to expose myself to any risk. Start in a couple of
hours like good little lambs, don't see a living soul at Genoa, and
return quickly." Cavaliere Riscara fled from the room laughing, and
squeaking through his nose like Punchinello. "_We must pack up our
traps!_" he said as he ran in a burlesque fashion. He wished to leave
Baldi alone with the lady. Five days later, Riscara brought the Marchesa
back her Conte Baldi, flayed alive; to cut off six leagues, they had
made him cross a mountain on mule-back; he vowed that nothing would ever
induce him again to take _long journeys_. Baldi handed the Marchesa
three copies of the letter which she had dictated to him, and five or
six other letters in the same hand, composed by Riscara, which might
perhaps be put to some use later on. One of these letters contained some
very pretty witticisms with regard to the fears from which the Prince
suffered at night, and to the deplorable thinness of the Marchesa Balbi,
his mistress, who left a dint in the sofa-cushions, it was said, like
the mark made by a pair of tongs, after she had sat on them for a
moment. Anyone would have sworn that all these letters came from the
hand of Signora Sanseverina.

"Now I know, beyond any doubt," said the Marchesa, "that the favoured
lover, Fabrizio, is at Bologna or in the immediate neighbourhood. . . ."

"I am too unwell," cried Conte Baldi, interrupting her; "I ask as a
favour to be excused this second journey, or at least I should like to
have a few days' rest to recover my health."

"I shall go and plead your cause," said Riscara.

He rose and spoke in an undertone to the Marchesa.

"Oh, very well, then, I consent," she replied with a smile. "Reassure
yourself, you shall not go at all," she told Baldi, with a certain air
of contempt.

"Thank you," he cried in heart-felt accents. In the end, Riscara got
into a post-chaise by himself. He had scarcely been a couple of days in
Bologna when he saw, in an open carriage, Fabrizio and little Marietta.
"The devil!" he said to himself, "it seems, our future Archbishop
doesn't let the time hang on his hands; we must let the Duchessa know
about this, she will be charmed." Riscara had only to follow Fabrizio to
discover his address; next morning our hero received from a courier the
letter forged at Genoa; he thought it a trifle short, but apart from
that suspected nothing. The thought of seeing the Duchessa and Conte
again made him wild with joy, and in spite of anything Lodovico might
say he took a post-horse and went off at a gallop. Without knowing it,
he was followed at a short distance by Cavaliere Riscara, who on coming
to a point six leagues from Parma, at the stage before Castelnuovo, had
the satisfaction of seeing a crowd on the _piazza_ outside the local
prison; they had just led in our hero, recognised at the post-house, as
he was changing horses, by two _sbirri_ who had been selected and sent
there by Conte Zurla.

Cavaliere Riscara's little eyes sparkled with joy; he informed himself,
with exemplary patience, of everything that had occurred in this little
village, then sent a courier to the Marchesa Raversi. After which,
roaming the streets as though to visit the church, which was of great
interest, and then to look for a picture by the Parmigianino which, he
had been told, was to be found in the place, he finally ran into the
_podestà_, who was obsequious in paying his respects to a Councillor of
State. Riscara appeared surprised that he had not immediately dispatched
to the citadel of Parma the conspirator whose arrest he had had the good
fortune to secure.

"There is reason to fear," Riscara added in an indifferent tone, "that
his many friends, who were endeavouring, the day before yesterday, to
facilitate his passage through the States of His Highness, may come into
conflict with the police; there were at least twelve or fifteen of these
rebels, mounted."

"_Intelligenti pauca_!" cried the _podestà_ with a cunning air.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN


A couple of hours later, the unfortunate Fabrizio, fitted with handcuffs
and actually attached by a long chain to the _sediola_ into which he had
been made to climb, started for the citadel of Parma, escorted by eight
constables. These had orders to take with them all the constables
stationed in the villages through which the procession had to pass; the
_podestà_ in person followed this important prisoner. About seven
o'clock in the evening the _sediola_, escorted by all the little boys in
Parma and by thirty constables, came down the fine avenue of trees,
passed in front of the little _palazzo_ in which Fausta had been living
a few months earlier, and finally presented itself at the outer gate of
the citadel just as General Fabio Conti and his daughter were coming
out. The governor's carriage stopped before reaching the drawbridge to
make way for the _sediola_ to which Fabrizio was attached; the General
instantly shouted for the gates to be shut, and hastened down to the
turnkey's office to see what was the matter; he was not a little
surprised when he recognised the prisoner, who had grown quite stiff
after being fastened to his _sediola_ throughout such a long journey;
four constables had lifted him down and were carrying him into the
turnkey's office. "So I have in my power," thought the feather-pated
governor, "that famous Fabrizio del Dongo, with whom anyone would say
that for the last year the high society of Parma had taken a vow to
occupy themselves exclusively!"

The General had met him a score of times at court, at the Duchessa's and
elsewhere; but he took good care not to shew any sign that he knew him;
he was afraid of compromising himself.

"Have a report made out," he called to the prison clerk, "in full detail
of the surrender made to me of the prisoner by his worship the
_podestà_ of Castelnuovo."

Barbone, the clerk, a terrifying personage owing to the volume of his
beard and his martial bearing, assumed an air of even greater importance
than usual; one would have called him a German gaoler. Thinking he knew
that it was chiefly the Duchessa Sanseverina who had prevented his
master from becoming Minister of War, he was behaving with more than his
ordinary insolence towards the prisoner; in speaking to him he used the
pronoun _voi_, which in Italy is the formula used in addressing
servants.

"I am a prelate of the Holy Roman Church," Fabrizio said to him firmly,
"and Grand Vicar of this Diocese; my birth alone entitles me to
respect."

"I know nothing about that!" replied the clerk pertly; "prove your
assertions by shewing the brevets which give you a right to those highly
respectable titles."

Fabrizio had no such documents and did not answer. General Fabio Conti,
standing by the side of his clerk, watched him write without raising his
eyes to the prisoner, so as not to be obliged to admit that he was
really Fabrizio del Dongo.

Suddenly Clelia Conti, who was waiting in the carriage, heard a
tremendous racket in the guard-room. The clerk Barbone, in making an
insolent and extremely long description of the prisoner's person,
ordered him to undo his clothing in order to verify and put on record
the number and condition of the scars received by him in his fight with
Giletti.

"I cannot," said Fabrizio, smiling bitterly; "I am not in a position to
obey the gentleman's orders, these handcuffs make it impossible."




_PRISON_


"What!" cried the General with an innocent air, "the prisoner is
handcuffed! Inside the fortress! That is against the rules, it requires
an order _ad hoc_; take the handcuffs off him."

Fabrizio looked at him: "There's a nice Jesuit," he thought; "for the
last hour he has seen me with these handcuffs, which have been hurting
me horribly, and he pretends to be surprised!"

The handcuffs were taken off by the constables; they had just learned
that Fabrizio was the nephew of the Duchessa Sanseverina, and made haste
to shew him a honeyed politeness which formed a sharp contrast to the
rudeness of the clerk; the latter seemed annoyed by this and said to
Fabrizio, who stood there without moving:

"Come along, there! Hurry up, shew us those scratches you got from poor
Giletti, the time he was murdered." With a bound, Fabrizio sprang upon
the clerk, and dealt him such a blow that Barbone fell from his chair
against the General's legs. The constables seized hold of the arms of
Fabrizio, who made no attempt to resist them; the General himself and
two constables who were standing by him hastened to pick up the clerk,
whose face was bleeding copiously. Two subordinates who stood farther
off ran to shut the door of the office, in the idea that the prisoner
was trying to escape. The _brigadiere_ who was in command of them
thought that young del Dongo could not make a serious attempt at flight,
since after all he was in the interior of the citadel; at the same time,
he went to the window to put a stop to any disorder, and by a
professional instinct. Opposite this open window and within a few feet
of it the General's carriage was drawn up: Clelia had shrunk back inside
it, so as not to be a witness of the painful scene that was being
enacted in the office; when she heard all this noise, she looked out.

"What is happening?" she asked the _brigadiere_.

"Signorina, it is young Fabrizio del Dongo who has just given that
insolent Barbone a proper smack!"

"What! It is Signor del Dongo that they are taking to prison?"

"Eh! No doubt about that," said the _brigadiere_; "it is because of the
poor young man's high birth that they are making all this fuss; I
thought the Signorina knew all about it." Clelia remained at the window:
when the constables who were standing round the table moved away a
little she caught a glimpse of the prisoner. "Who would ever have said,"
she thought, "that I should see him again for the first time in this sad
plight, when I met him on the road from the Lake of Como? . . . He gave
me his hand to help me into his mother's carriage. . . . He had the
Duchessa with him even then! Had they begun to love each other as long
ago as that?"

It should be explained to the reader that the members of the Liberal
Party swayed by the Marchesa Raversi and General Conti affected to
entertain no doubt as to the tender intimacy that must exist between
Fabrizio and the Duchessa. Conte Mosca, whom they abhorred, was the
object of endless pleasantries for the way in which he was being
deceived.

"So," thought Clelia, "there he is a prisoner, and a prisoner in the
hands of his enemies. For after all, Conte Mosca, angel as one would
like to think him, will be delighted when he hears of this capture."

A loud burst of laughter sounded from the guard-room.

"Jacopo," she said to the _brigadiere_ in a voice that quivered with
emotion, "what in the world is happening?"

"The General asked the prisoner sharply why he had struck Barbone:
Monsignor Fabrizio answered calmly: 'He called me _assassino_; let him
produce the titles and brevets which authorise him to give me that
title'; and they all laughed."

A gaoler who could write took Barbone's place; Clelia saw the latter
emerge mopping with his handkerchief the blood that streamed in
abundance from his hideous face; he was swearing like a heathen: "That
f---- Fabrizio," he shouted at the top of his voice, "I'll have his
life, I will, if I have to steal the hangman's rope." He had stopped
between the office window and the General's carriage, and his oaths
redoubled.

"Move along there," the _brigadiere_ told him; "you mustn't swear in
front of the Signorina."

Barbone raised his head to look at the carriage, his eyes met those of
Clelia who could not repress a cry of horror; never had she seen at such
close range so atrocious an expression upon any human face. "He will
kill Fabrizio!" she said to herself, "I shall have to warn Don Cesare."
This was her uncle, one of the most respected priests in the town;
General Conti, his brother, had procured for him the post of _economo_
and principal chaplain in the prison.

The General got into the carriage.

"Would you rather stay at home," he said to his daughter, "or wait for
me, perhaps for some time, in the courtyard of the Palace? I must go and
report all this to the Sovereign."

Fabrizio came out of the office escorted by three constables; they were
taking him to the room which had been allotted to him. Clelia looked out
of the window, the prisoner was quite close to her. At that moment she
answered her father's question in the words: "_I will go with you_."
Fabrizio, hearing these words uttered close to his ear, raised his eyes
and met the girl's gaze. He was struck, especially, by the expression of
melancholy on her face. "How she has improved," he thought, "since our
meeting near Como! What an air of profound thought! . . . They are quite
right to compare her with the Duchessa; what angelic features!" Barbone,
the bloodstained clerk, who had not taken his stand beside the carriage
without a purpose, held up his hand to stop the three constables who
were leading Fabrizio away, and, moving round behind the carriage until
he reached the window next which the General was sitting:

"As the prisoner has committed an act of violence in the interior of the
citadel," he said to him, "in consideration of Article 157 of the
regulations, would it not be as well to put the handcuffs on him for
three days?"

"Go to the devil!" cried the General, still considerably embarrassed by
this arrest. It was important for him that he should not drive either
the Duchessa or Conte Mosca to extremes; and besides, what attitude was
the Conte going to adopt towards this affair? After all, the murder of a
Giletti was a mere trifle, and only intrigue had succeeded in magnifying
it into anything of importance.

During this brief dialogue, Fabrizio stood superb among the group of
constables, his expression was certainly the proudest and most noble
that one could imagine; his fine and delicate features, and the
contemptuous smile that strayed over his lips made a charming contrast
with the coarse appearance of the constables who stood round him. But
all this formed, so to speak, only the external part of his physiognomy;
he was enraptured by the heavenly beauty of Clelia, and his eyes betrayed
his surprise to the full. She, profoundly pensive, had never thought of
drawing back her head from the window; he bowed to her with a half-smile
of the utmost respect; then, after a moment's silence:

"It seems to me, Signorina," he said to her, "that, once before, near a
lake, I had the honour of meeting you, in the company of the police."

Clelia blushed, and was so taken aback that she could find no words in
which to reply. "What a noble air among all those coarse creatures," she
had been saying to herself at the moment when Fabrizio spoke to her. The
profound pity, we might almost say the tender emotion in which she was
plunged deprived her of the presence of mind necessary to find words, no
matter what; she became conscious of her silence and blushed all the
deeper. At this moment the bolts of the great gate of the citadel were
drawn back with a clang; had not His Excellency's carriage been waiting
for at least a minute? The echo was so loud in this vaulted passage that
even if Clelia had found something to say in reply Fabrizio could not
have caught her words.

Borne away by the horses which had broken into a gallop immediately
after crossing the drawbridge, Clelia said to herself: "He must have
thought me very silly!" Then suddenly she added: "Not only silly; he
must have felt that I had a base nature, he must have thought that I did
not respond to his greeting because he is a prisoner and I am the
governor's daughter."

The thought of such a thing was terrible to this girl of naturally lofty
soul. "What makes my behaviour absolutely degrading," she went on, "is
that before, when we met for the first time, also _in the company of the
police_, as he said just now, it was I who was the prisoner, and he did
me a service, and helped me out of a very awkward position. . . . Yes, I
am bound to admit, my behaviour was quite complete, it combined rudeness
and ingratitude. Alas, poor young man! Now that he is in trouble,
everybody is going to behave disgracefully to him. Even if he did say to
me then: 'You will remember my name, I hope, at Parma?' how he must be
despising me at this moment! It would have been so easy to say a civil
word! Yes, I must admit, my conduct towards him has been atrocious. The
other time, but for the generous offer of his mother's carriage, I
should have had to follow the constables on foot through the dust, or,
what would have been far worse, ride pillion behind one of them; it was
my father then who was under arrest, and I defenceless! Yes, my
behaviour is complete. And how keenly a nature like his must have felt
it! What a contrast between his noble features and my behaviour! What
nobility! What serenity! How like a hero he looked, surrounded by his
vile enemies! Now I understand the Duchessa's passion: if he looks like
that in distressing circumstances which may end in frightful disaster,
what must he be like when his heart is happy!"

The governor's carriage waited for more than an hour and a half in the
courtyard of the Palace, and yet, when the General returned from his
interview with the Prince, Clelia by no means felt that he had stayed
there too long.

"What is His Highness's will?" asked Clelia.

"His tongue said: Prison! His eyes: Death!"

"Death! Great God!" exclaimed Clelia.

"There now, be quiet!" said the General crossly; "what a fool I am to
answer a child's questions."

Meanwhile Fabrizio was climbing the three hundred and eighty steps which
led to the Torre Farnese, a new prison built on the platform of the
great tower, at a prodigious height from the ground. He never once
thought, distinctly that is to say, of the great change that had just
occurred in his fortunes. "What eyes!" he said to himself: "What a
wealth of expression in them! What profound pity! She looked as though
she were saying: 'Life is such a tangled skein of misfortunes! Do not
distress yourself too much about what is happening to you! Are we not
sent here below to be unhappy?' How those fine eyes of hers remained
fastened on me, even when the horses were moving forward with such a
clatter under the arch!"




_CLELIA CONTI_


Fabrizio completely forgot to feel wretched.

Clelia accompanied her father to various houses; in the early part of
the evening no one had yet heard the news of the arrest of the _great
culprit_, for such was the name which the courtiers bestowed a couple of
hours later on this poor, rash young man.

It was noticed that evening that there was more animation than usual in
Clelia's face; whereas animation, the air of taking part in what was
going on round her, was just what was chiefly lacking in that charming
young person. When you compared her beauty with that of the Duchessa, it
was precisely that air of not being moved by anything, that manner as
though of a person superior to everything, which weighed down the
balance in her rival's favour. In England, in France, lands of vanity,
the general opinion would probably have been just the opposite. Clelia
Conti was a young girl still a trifle too slim, who might be compared to
the beautiful models of Guido Reni. We make no attempt to conceal the
fact that, according to Greek ideas of beauty, the objection might have
been made that her head had certain features a trifle too strongly
marked; the lips, for instance, though full of the most touching charm,
were a little too substantial.

The admirable peculiarity of this face in which shone the artless graces
and the heavenly imprint of the most noble soul was that, albeit of the
rarest and most singular beauty, it did not in any way resemble the
heads of Greek sculpture. The Duchessa had, on the other hand, a little
too much of the _recognised_ beauty of the ideal type, and her truly
Lombard head recalled the voluptuous smile and tender melancholy of
Leonardo's lovely paintings of Herodias. Just as the Duchessa shone,
sparkled with wit and irony, attaching herself passionately, if one may
use the expression, to all the subjects which the course of the
conversation brought before her mind's eye, so Clelia showed herself
calm and slow to move, whether from contempt for her natural
surroundings or from regret for some unfulfilled dream. It had long been
thought that she would end by embracing the religious life. At twenty
she was observed to show a repugnance towards going to balls, and if she
accompanied her father to these entertainments it was only out of
obedience to him and in order not to jeopardise the interests of his
career.

"It is apparently going to be impossible for me," the General in his
vulgarity of spirit was too prone to repeat, "heaven having given me as
a daughter the most beautiful person in the States of our Sovereign, and
the most virtuous, to derive any benefit from her for the advancement of
my fortune! I live in too great isolation, I have only her in the world,
and what I must absolutely have is a family that will support me
socially, and will procure for me a certain number of houses where my
merit, and especially my aptitude for ministerial office shall be laid
down as unchallengeable postulates in any political discussion. And
there is my daughter, so beautiful, so sensible, so religious, taking
offence whenever a young man well established at court attempts to find
favour in her sight. If the suitor is dismissed, her character becomes
less sombre, and I see her appear almost gay, until another champion
enters the lists. The handsomest man at court, Conte Baldi, presented
himself and failed to please; the richest man in His Highness's States,
the Marchese Crescenzi, has now followed him; she insists that he would
make her miserable.

"Decidedly," the General would say at other times, "my daughter's eyes
are finer than the Duchessa's, particularly as, on rare occasions, they
are capable of assuming a more profound expression; but that magnificent
expression, when does anyone ever see it? Never in a drawing-room where
she might do justice to it; but simply out driving alone with me, when
she lets herself be moved, for instance, by the miserable state of some
hideous rustic. 'Keep some reflexion of that sublime gaze,' I tell her
at times, 'for the drawing-rooms in which we shall be appearing this
evening.' Not a bit of it: should she condescend to accompany me into
society, her pure and noble features present the somewhat haughty and
scarcely encouraging expression of passive obedience." The General
spared himself no trouble, as we can see, in his search for a suitable
son-in-law, but what he said was true.

Courtiers, who have nothing to contemplate in their own hearts, notice
every little thing that goes on round about them; they had observed that
it was particularly on those days when Clelia could not succeed in
making herself emerge from her precious musings and feign an interest in
anything that the Duchessa chose to stop beside her and tried to make
her talk. Clelia had hair of an ashen fairness, which stood out with a
charming effect against cheeks that were delicately tinted but, as a
rule, rather too pale. The mere shape of her brow might have told an
attentive observer that air, so instinct with nobility, that
manner, so far superior to vulgar charms, sprang from a profound
indifference to everything that was vulgar. It was the absence and not
the impossibility of interest in anything. Since her father had become
governor of the citadel, Clelia had found happiness, or at least freedom
from vexations in her lofty abode. The appalling number of steps that
had to be climbed in order to reach this official residence of the
governor, situated on the platform of the main tower, kept away tedious
visitors, and Clelia, for this material reason, enjoyed the liberty of
the convent; she found there almost all the ideal of happiness which at
one time she had thought of seeking from the religious life. She was
seized by a sort of horror at the mere thought of putting her beloved
solitude and her secret thoughts at the disposal of a young man whom the
title of husband would authorise to disturb all this inner life. If, by
her solitude, she did not attain to happiness, at least she had
succeeded in avoiding sensations that were too painful.

On the evening after Fabrizio had been taken to the fortress, the
Duchessa met Clelia at the party given by the Minister of the Interior,
Conte Zurla; everyone gathered round them; that evening, Clelia's beauty
outshone the Duchessa's. The beautiful eyes of the girl wore an
expression so singular and so profound as to be almost indiscreet; there
was pity, there were indignation also and anger in her gaze. The gaiety
and brilliant ideas of the Duchessa seemed to plunge Clelia into spells
of grief that bordered on horror. "What will be the cries and groans of
this poor woman," she said to herself, "when she learns that her lover,
that young man with so great a heart and so noble a countenance, has
just been flung into prison? And that look in the Sovereign's eyes which
condemns him to death! O Absolute Power, when wilt thou cease to crush
down Italy! O base and venal souls! And I am the daughter of a gaoler!
And I have done nothing to deny that noble station, for I did not deign
to answer Fabrizio! And once before he was my benefactor! What can he be
thinking of me at this moment, alone in his room with his little lamp
for sole companion?" Revolted by this idea, Clelia cast a look of horror
at the magnificent illumination of the drawing-rooms of the Minister of
the Interior.




_THE COURT_


"Never," the word went round the circle of courtiers who had gathered
round the two reigning beauties, and were seeking to join in their
conversation, "never have they talked to one another with so animated
and at the same time so intimate an air. Can the Duchessa, who is always
so careful to smooth away the animosities aroused by the Prime Minister,
can she have thought of some great marriage for Clelia?" This conjecture
was founded upon a circumstance which until then had never presented
itself to the observation of the court: the girl's eyes shewed more
fire, and indeed, if one may use the term, more passion than those of
the beautiful Duchessa. The latter, for her part, was astonished, and,
one may say it to her credit, delighted by the discovery of charms so
novel in the young recluse; for an hour she had been gazing at her with
a pleasure by no means commonly felt in the sight of a rival. "Why, what
can have happened?" the Duchessa asked herself; "never has Clelia looked
so beautiful, or, one might say, so touching: can her heart have spoken?
. . . But in that case, certainly, it is an unhappy love, there is a
dark grief at the root of this strange animation. . . . But unhappy love
keeps silent. Can it be a question of recalling a faithless lover by
shining in society?" And the Duchessa gazed with attention at all the
young men who stood round them. Nowhere could she see any unusual
expression, every face shone with a more or less pleased fatuity. "But a
miracle must have happened," the Duchessa told herself, vexed by her
inability to solve the mystery. "Where is Conte Mosca, that man of
discernment? No, I am not mistaken, Clelia is looking at me attentively,
and as if I was for her the object of a quite novel interest. Is it the
effect of some order received from her father, that vile courtier? I
supposed that young and noble mind to be incapable of lowering itself to
any pecuniary consideration. Can General Fabio Conti have some decisive
request to make of the Conte?"

About ten o'clock, a friend of the Duchessa came up to her and murmured
a few words; she turned extremely pale: Clelia took her hand and
ventured to press it.

"I thank you, and I understand you now . . . you have a noble heart,"
said the Duchessa, making an effort to control herself; she had barely
the strength to utter these few words. She smiled profusely at the lady
of the house, who rose to escort her to the door of the outermost
drawing-room: such honours were due only to Princesses of the Blood, and
were for the Duchessa an ironical comment on her position at the moment.
And so she continued to smile at Contessa Zurla, but in spite of untold
efforts did not succeed in uttering a single word.

Clelia's eyes filled with tears as she watched the Duchessa pass through
these rooms, thronged at the moment with all the most brilliant figures
in society. "What is going to happen to that poor woman," she wondered,
"when she finds herself alone in her carriage? It would be an
indiscretion on my part to offer to accompany her, I dare not. . . . And
yet, what a consolation it would be to the poor prisoner, sitting in
some wretched cell, if he knew that he was loved to such a point! What a
frightful solitude that must be in which they have plunged him! And we,
we are here in these brilliant rooms, how horrible! Can there be any way
of conveying a message to him? Great God! That would be treachery to my
father; his position is so delicate between the two parties! What will
become of him if he exposes himself to the passionate hatred of the
Duchessa, who controls the will of the Prime Minister, who in three out
of every four things here is the master? On the other hand, the Prince
takes an unceasing interest in everything that goes on at the fortress,
and will not listen to any jest on that subject; fear makes him
cruel. . . . In any case, Fabrizio" (Clelia no longer thought of him as
Signor del Dongo) "is greatly to be pitied. . . . It is a very different
thing for him from the risk of losing a lucrative post! . . . And the
Duchessa! . . . What a terrible passion love is! . . . And yet all those
liars in society speak of it as a source of happiness! One is sorry for
elderly women because they can no longer feel or inspire love. . . .
Never shall I forget what I have just seen; what a sudden change! How
those beautiful, radiant eyes of the Duchessa turned dull and dead after
the fatal word which Marchese N---- came up and said to her! . . .
Fabrizio must indeed be worthy of love!"




_REMORSE_


Breaking in upon these highly serious reflexions, which were absorbing
the whole of Clelia's mind, the complimentary speeches which always
surrounded her seemed to her even more distasteful than usual. To escape
from them she went across to an open window, half-screened by a taffeta
curtain; she hoped that no one would be so bold as to follow her into
this sort of sanctuary. This window opened upon a little grove of
orange trees planted in the ground: as a matter of fact, every winter
they had to be protected by a covering, Clelia inhaled with rapture the
scent of their blossom, and this pleasure seemed to restore a little
calm to her spirit. "I felt that he had a very noble air," she thought,
"but to inspire such passion in so distinguished a woman! She has had
the glory of refusing the Prince's homage, and if she had deigned to
consent, she would have reigned as queen over his States. . . . My
father says that the Sovereign's passion went so far as to promise to
marry her if ever he became free to do so. . . . And this love for
Fabrizio has lasted so long! For it is quite five years since we met
them by the Lake of Como. . . . Yes, it is quite five years," she said
to herself after a moment's reflexion. "I was struck by it even then,
when so many things passed unnoticed before my childish eyes. How those
two ladies seemed to admire Fabrizio! . . ."

Clelia remarked with joy that none of the young men who had been
speaking to her with such earnestness had ventured to approach her
balcony. One of them, the Marchese Crescenzi, had taken a few steps in
that direction, but had then stopped by a card-table. "If only," she
said to herself, "under my window in our _palazzo_ in the fortress, the
only one that has any shade, I had some pretty orange trees like these
to look at, my thoughts would be less sad: but to have as one's sole
outlook the huge blocks of stone of the Torre Farnese. . . . Ah!" she
cried with a convulsive movement, "perhaps that is where they have put
him. I must speak about it at once to Don Cesare! He will be less severe
than the General. My father is certain to tell me nothing on our way back
to the fortress, but I shall find out everything from Don Cesare. . . . I
have money, I could buy a few orange trees, which, placed under
the window of my aviary, would prevent me from seeing that great wall of
the Torre Farnese. How infinitely more hateful still it will be to me
now that I know one of the people whom it hides from the light of
day! . . . Yes, it is just the third time I have seen him. Once at court,
at the ball on the Princess's birthday; to-day, hemmed in by three
constables, while that horrible Barbone was begging for handcuffs to be
put on him, and the other time by the Lake of Como. That is quite five
years ago. What a hang-dog air he had then! How he stared at the
constables, and what curious looks his mother and his aunt kept giving
him. Certainly there must have been some secret that day, some special
knowledge which they were keeping to themselves; at the time, I had an
idea that he too was afraid of the police. . . ." Clelia shuddered; "But
how ignorant I was! No doubt at that time the Duchessa had already begun
to take an interest in him. How he made us laugh after the first few
minutes, when the ladies, in spite of their obvious anxiety, had begun
to grow more accustomed to the presence of a stranger! . . . And this
evening I had not a word to say in reply when he spoke to me. . . . O
ignorance and timidity! How often you have the appearance of the blackest
cowardice! And I am like this at twenty, yes and past twenty! . . . I
was well-advised to think of the cloister; really I am good for
nothing but retirement. 'Worthy daughter of a gaoler!' he will have been
saying to himself. He despises me, and, as soon as he is able to write
to the Duchessa, he will tell her of my want of consideration, and the
Duchessa will think me a very deceitful little girl; for, after all,
this evening she must have thought me full of sympathy with her in her
trouble."

Clelia noticed that someone was approaching, apparently with the
intention of taking his place by her side on the iron balcony of this
window; she could not help feeling annoyed, although she blamed herself
for being so; the meditations in which she was disturbed were by no
means without their pleasant side. "Here comes some troublesome fellow
to whom I shall give a warm welcome!" she thought. She was turning her
head with a haughty stare, when she caught sight of the timid face of
the Archbishop who was approaching the balcony by a series of almost
imperceptible little movements. "This saintly man has no manners,"
thought Clelia. "Why come and disturb a poor girl like me? My
tranquillity is the only thing I possess." She was greeting him with
respect, but at the same time with a haughty air, when the prelate said
to her:

"Signorina, have you heard the terrible news?"

The girl's eyes had at once assumed a totally different expression; but,
following the instructions repeated to her a hundred times over by her
father, she replied with an air of ignorance which the language of her
eyes loudly contradicted:

"I have heard nothing, Monsignore."

"My First Grand Vicar, poor Fabrizio del Dongo, who is no more guilty
than I am of the death of that brigand Giletti, has been arrested at
Bologna where he was living under the assumed name of Giuseppe Bossi;
they have shut him up in your citadel; he arrived there actually
_chained_ to the carriage that brought him. A sort of gaoler, named
Barbone, who was pardoned some time ago after murdering one of his own
brothers, chose to attempt an act of personal violence against Fabrizio,
but my young friend is not the man to take an insult quietly. He flung
his infamous adversary to the ground, whereupon they cast him into a
dungeon, twenty feet underground, after first putting handcuffs on his
wrists."

"Not handcuffs, no!"

"Ah! Then you do know something," cried the Archbishop. And the old
man's features lost their intense expression of discouragement. "But,
before we go any farther, someone may come out on to this balcony and
interrupt us: would you be so charitable as to convey personally to Don
Cesare my pastoral ring here?"

The girl took the ring, but did not know where to put it for fear of
losing it.

"Put it on your thumb," said the Archbishop; and he himself slipped the
ring into position. "Can I count upon you to deliver this ring?"

"Yes, Monsignore."

"Will you promise me to keep secret what I am going to say, even if
circumstances should arise in which you may find it inconvenient to
agree to my request?"

"Why, yes, Monsignore," replied the girl, trembling all over as she
observed the sombre and serious air which the old man had suddenly
assumed. . . .

"Our estimable Archbishop," she went on, "can give me no orders that are
not worthy of himself and me."




_DISTRESS_


"Say to Don Cesare that I commend to him my adopted son; I know that the
_sbirri_ who carried him off did not give him time to take his breviary
with him, I therefore request Don Cesare to let him have his own, and if
your uncle will send to-morrow to my Palace, I promise to replace the
book given by him to Fabrizio. I request Don Cesare also to convey the
ring which this pretty hand is now wearing to Signor del Dongo." The
Archbishop was interrupted by General Fabio Conti, who came in search of
his daughter to take her to the carriage; there was a brief interval of
conversation in which the prelate shewed a certain adroitness. Without
making any reference to the latest prisoner, he so arranged matters that
the course of the conversation led naturally to the utterance of certain
moral and political maxims by himself; for instance: "There are moments
of crisis in the life of a court which decide for long periods the
existence of the most exalted personages; it would be distinctly
imprudent to change into _personal hatred_ the state of political
aloofness which is often the quite simple result of diametrically
opposite positions." The Archbishop, letting himself be carried away to
some extent by the profound grief which he felt at so unexpected an
arrest, went so far as to say that one must undoubtedly strive to retain
the position one holds, but that it would be a quite gratuitous
imprudence to attract to oneself furious hatreds in consequence of
lending oneself to certain actions which are never forgotten.

When the General was in the carriage with his daughter: "Those might be
described as threats," he said to her. . . . "Threats, to a man of my
sort!"

No other words passed between father and daughter for the next twenty
minutes.

On receiving the Archbishop's pastoral ring, Clelia had indeed promised
herself that she would inform her father, as soon as she was in the
carriage, of the little service which the prelate had asked of her; but
after the word threats, uttered with anger, she took it for granted that
her father would intercept the token; she covered the ring with her left
hand and pressed it passionately. During the whole of the time that it
took them to drive from the Ministry of the Interior to the citadel, she
was asking herself whether it would be criminal on her part not to speak
of the matter to her father. She was extremely pious, extremely
timorous, and her heart, usually so tranquil, beat with an unaccustomed
violence; but in the end the _chi va là_ of the sentry posted on the
rampart above the gate rang out on the approach of the carriage before
Clelia had found a form of words calculated to incline her father not to
refuse, so much afraid was she of his refusing. As they climbed the
three hundred and sixty steps which led to the governor's residence,
Clelia could think of nothing.

She hastened to speak to her uncle, who rebuked her and refused to lend
himself to anything.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN


"Well," cried the General, when he caught sight of his brother Don
Cesare, "here is the Duchessa going to spend a hundred thousand scudi to
make a fool of me and help the prisoner to escape!"

But, for the moment, we are obliged to leave Fabrizio in his prison, at
the very summit of the citadel of Parma; he is well guarded and we shall
perhaps find him a little altered when we return to him. We must now
concern ourselves first of all with the court, where certain highly
complicated intrigues, and in particular the passions of an unhappy
woman are going to decide his fate. As he climbed the three hundred and
ninety steps to his prison in the Torre Farnese, beneath the eyes of the
governor, Fabrizio, who had so greatly dreaded this moment, found that
he had no time to think of his misfortunes.

On returning home after the party at Conte Zurla's, the Duchessa
dismissed her women with a wave of the hand; then, letting herself fall,
fully dressed, on to her bed, "_Fabrizio_," she cried aloud, "_is in the
power of his enemies, and perhaps to spite me they will give him
poison_!" How is one to depict the moment of despair that followed this
statement of the situation in a woman so far from reasonable, so much
the slave of every passing sensation, and, without admitting it to
herself, desperately in love with the young prisoner? There were
inarticulate cries, paroxysms of rage, convulsive movements, but never a
tear. She had sent her women away to conceal her tears; she thought that
she was going to break into sobs as soon as she found herself alone; but
tears, those first comforters in hours of great sorrow, completely
failed her. Anger, indignation, the sense of her own inferiority when
matched with the Prince, had too firm a mastery of this proud soul.

"Am I not humiliated enough?" she kept on exclaiming; "I am outraged,
and, worse still, Fabrizio's life is in danger; and I have no means of
vengeance! Wait a moment, my Prince; you kill me, well and good, you
have the power to do so; but afterwards I shall have your life. Alas!
Poor Fabrizio, how will that help you? What a difference from the day
when I was proposing to leave Parma, and yet even then I thought I was
unhappy . . . what blindness! I was going to break with all the habits
and customs of a pleasant life; alas! without knowing it, I was on the
edge of an event which was to decide my fate for ever. Had not the
Conte, with the miserable fawning instinct of a courtier, omitted the
words _unjust proceedings_ from that fatal note which the Prince's
vanity allowed me to secure, we should have been saved. I had had the
good fortune (rather than the skill, I must admit) to bring into play
his personal vanity on the subject of his beloved town of Parma. Then I
threatened to leave, then I was free. . . . Great God! What sort of
slave am I now? Here I am now nailed down in this foul sewer, and
Fabrizio in chains in the citadel, in that citadel which for so many
eminent men has been the ante-room of death; and I can no longer keep
that tiger cowed by the fear of seeing me leave his den.




_DESPONDENCY_


"He has too much sense not to realise that I will never move from the
infamous tower in which my heart is enchained. Now, the injured vanity
of the man may put the oddest ideas into his head; their fantastic
cruelty would but whet the appetite of his astounding vanity. If he
returns to his former programme of insipid love-making, if he says to
me: 'Accept the devotion of your slave or Fabrizio dies,'--well, there
is the old story of Judith. . . . Yes, but if it is only suicide for me,
it will be murder for Fabrizio; his fool of a successor, our Crown
Prince, and the infamous headsman Rassi will have Fabrizio hanged as my
accomplice."

The Duchessa wailed aloud: this dilemma, from which she could see no way
of escape, was torturing her unhappy heart. Her distracted head could
see no other probability in the future. For ten minutes she writhed like
a mad-woman; then a sleep of utter exhaustion took the place for a few
moments of this horrible state, life was crushed out. A few minutes
later she awoke with a start and found herself sitting on her bed; she
had dreamed that, in her presence, the Prince was going to cut off
Fabrizio's head. With what haggard eyes the Duchessa stared round her!
When at length she was convinced that neither Fabrizio nor the Prince
was in the room with her, she fell back on her bed and was on the point
of fainting. Her physical exhaustion was such, that she could not summon
up enough strength to change her position. "Great God! If I could die!"
she said to herself. . . . "But what cowardice, for me to abandon
Fabrizio in his trouble! My wits are straying. . . . Come, let us get
back to the facts; let us consider calmly the execrable position in
which I have plunged myself, as though of my own free will. What a
lamentable piece of stupidity to come and live at the court of an
Absolute Prince! A tyrant who knows all his victims; every look they
give him he interprets as a defiance of his power. Alas, that is what
neither the Conte nor I took into account when we left Milan: I thought
of the attractions of an amusing court; something inferior, it is true,
but something in the same style as the happy days of Prince Eugène.

"Looking from without, we can form no idea of what is meant by the
authority of a despot who knows all his subjects by sight. The outward
form of despotism is the same as that of the other kinds of government:
there are judges, for instance, but they are Rassis: the monster! He
would see nothing extraordinary in hanging his own father if the Prince
ordered him to do so. . . . He would call it his duty. . . . Seduce
Rassi! Unhappy wretch that I am! I possess no means of doing so. What
can I offer him? A hundred thousand francs, possibly: and they say that,
after the last dagger-blow which the wrath of heaven against this
unhappy country allowed him to escape, the Prince sent him ten thousand
golden sequins in a casket. Besides, what sum of money would seduce him?
That soul of mud, which has never read anything but contempt in the eyes
of men, enjoys here the pleasure of seeing now fear, and even respect
there; he may become Minister of Police, and why not? Then three-fourths
of the inhabitants of the place will be his base courtiers, and will
tremble before him in as servile a fashion as he himself trembles before
his sovereign.

"Since I cannot fly this detested spot, I must be of use here to
Fabrizio: live alone, in solitude, in despair!--what can I do then for
Fabrizio? Come; _forward, unhappy woman_! Do your duty; go into society,
pretend to think no more of Fabrizio. . . . Pretend to forget him, the
dear angel!"

So speaking, the Duchessa burst into tears; at last she could weep.
After an hour set apart for human frailty, she saw with some slight
consolation that her mind was beginning to grow clearer. "To have the
magic carpet," she said to herself, "to snatch Fabrizio from the citadel
and fly with him to some happy place where we could not be pursued,
Paris for instance. We should live there, at first, on the twelve
hundred francs which his father's agent transmits to me with so pleasing
a regularity. I could easily gather together a hundred thousand francs
from the remains of my fortune!" The Duchessa's imagination passed in
review, with moments of unspeakable delight, all the details of the life
which she would lead three hundred leagues from Parma. "There," she said
to herself, "he could enter the service under an assumed name. . . .
Placed in a regiment of those gallant Frenchmen, the young Valserra
would speedily win a reputation; at last he would be happy."

These blissful pictures brought on a second flood of tears, but they
were tears of joy. So happiness did exist then somewhere in the world!
This state lasted for a long time; the poor woman had a horror of coming
back to the contemplation of the grim reality. At length, as the light
of dawn began to mark with a white line the tops of the trees in her
garden, she forced herself into a state of composure. "In a few hours
from now," she told herself, "I shall be on the field of battle; it will
be a case for action, and if anything should occur to irritate me, if
the Prince should take it into his head to say anything to me about
Fabrizio, I am by no means certain that I can keep myself properly in
control. I must therefore, here and now, _make plans_.

"If I am declared a State criminal, Rassi will seize everything there is
in this _palazzo_; on the first of this month the Conte and I burned, as
usual, all papers of which the police might make any improper use; and
he is Minister of Police! That is the amusing part of it. I have three
diamonds of some value; to-morrow, Fulgenzio, my old boatman from
Grianta, will set off for Geneva, where he will deposit them in a safe
place. Should Fabrizio ever escape (Great God, be Thou propitious to
me!" She crossed herself), "the unutterable meanness of the Marchese del
Dongo will decide that it is a sin to supply food to a man pursued by a
lawful Sovereign: then he will at least find my diamonds, he will have
bread.

"Dismiss the Conte . . . being left alone with him, after what has
happened, is the one thing I cannot face. The poor man! He is not bad
really, far from it; he is only weak. That commonplace soul does not
rise to the level of ours. Poor Fabrizio! Why cannot you be here for a
moment with me to discuss our perils?

"The Conte's meticulous prudence would spoil all my plans, and besides,
I must on no account involve him in my downfall. . . . For why should
not the vanity of that tyrant cast me into prison? I shall have
conspired . . . what could be easier to prove? If it should be to his
citadel that he sent me, and I could manage, by bribery, to speak to
Fabrizio, were it only for an instant, with what courage would we step
out together to death! But enough of such follies: his Rassi would
advise him to make an end of me with poison; my appearance in the
streets, riding upon a cart, might touch the hearts of his dear
Parmesans. . . . But what is this? Still romancing? Alas! These follies
must be forgiven a poor woman whose actual lot is so piteous! The truth
of all this is that the Prince will not send me to my death; but nothing
could be more easy than to cast me into prison and keep me there; he
will make his people hide all sorts of suspicious papers in some corner
of my _palazzo_, as they did with that poor L----. Then three
judges--not too big rascals, for they will have what is called
_documentary evidence_--and a dozen false witnesses will be all he
needs. So I may be sentenced to death as having conspired, and the
Prince, in his boundless clemency, taking into consideration the fact
that I have had the honour of being admitted to his court, will commute
my punishment to ten years in a fortress. But I, so as not to fall short
in any way of that violent character which has led the Marchesa Raversi
and my other enemies to say so many stupid things about me, will poison
myself bravely. So, at least, the public will be kind enough to believe;
but I wager that Rassi will appear in my cell to bring me gallantly, in
the Prince's name, a little bottle of strychnine, or Perugia opium.

"Yes, I must quarrel in the most open manner with the Conte, for I do
not wish to involve him in my downfall--that would be a scandalous
thing; the poor man has loved me with such candour! My mistake lay in
thinking that a true courtier would have sufficient heart left to be
capable of love. Very probably the Prince will find some excuse for
casting me into prison; he will be afraid of my perverting public
opinion with regard to Fabrizio. The Conte is a man of perfect honour;
at once he will do what the sycophants of this court, in their profound
astonishment, will call madness, he will leave the court. I braved the
Prince's authority on the evening of the note; I may expect anything
from his wounded vanity: does a man who is born a Prince ever forget the
sensation I gave him that evening? Besides, the Conte, once he has
quarrelled with me, is in a stronger position for being of use to
Fabrizio. But if the Conte, whom this decision of mine must plunge in
despair, should avenge himself? . . . There, now, is an idea that would
never occur to him; his is not a fundamentally base nature like the
Prince's; the Conte may, with a sigh of protest, countersign a wicked
decree, but he is a man of honour. And besides, avenge himself for what?
Simply because, after loving him for five years without giving the
slightest offence of his love, I say to him: 'Dear Conte, I had the good
fortune to be in love with you: very well, that flame is burning low; I
no longer love you, but I know your heart through and through, I retain
a profound regard for you and you will always be my best friend.'

"What answer can a _galantuomo_ make to so sincere a declaration?

"I shall take a new lover, or so at least people will suppose; I shall
say to this lover: 'After all, the Prince does right to punish
Fabrizio's folly; but on the day of his _festa_, no doubt our gracious
Sovereign will set him at liberty.' Thus I gain six months. The new
lover whom prudence suggests to me would be that venal judge, that foul
hangman of a Rassi. . . . He would find himself ennobled and, as far as
that goes, I shall give him the right of entry into good society.
Forgive me, dear Fabrizio; such an effort, for me, is beyond the bounds
of possibility. What! That monster, still all bespattered with the blood
of Conte P---- and of D----! I should faint with horror whenever he came
near me, or rather I should seize a knife and plunge it into his vile
heart. Do not ask of me things that are impossible!

"Yes, that is the first thing to do: forget Fabrizio! And not the least
trace of anger with the Prince; I must resume my ordinary gaiety, which
will seem all the more attractive to these souls of mud, in the first
place because I shall appear to be submitting with good grace to their
Sovereign's will, secondly because, so far from laughing at them, I
shall take good care to bring out all their pretty little qualities; for
instance, I shall compliment Conte Zurla on the beauty of the white
feather in his hat, which he has just had sent him from Lyons by
courier, and which keeps him perfectly happy.

"Choose a lover from the Raversi's party. . . . If the Conte goes, that
will be the party in office; there is where the power will lie. It will
be a friend of the Raversi that will reign over the citadel, for Fabio
Conti will take office as Minister. How in the world will the Prince, a
man used to good society, a man of intelligence, accustomed to the
charming collaboration of the Conte, be able to discuss business with
that ox, that king of fools, whose whole life has been occupied with the
fundamental problem: ought His Highness's troops to have seven buttons
on their uniform, in front, or nine? It is all those brute beasts
thoroughly jealous of myself, and that is where you are in danger, dear
Fabrizio, it is those brute beasts who are going to decide my fate and
yours! Well then, shall I not allow the Conte to hand in his
resignation? Let him remain, even if he has to submit to humiliations.
He always imagines that to resign is the greatest sacrifice a Prime
Minister can make; and whenever his mirror tells him he is growing old,
he offers me that sacrifice: a complete rupture, then; yes, and
reconciliation only in the event of its being the sole method of
prevailing upon him not to go. Naturally, I shall give him his dismissal
in the friendliest possible way; but, after his courtierlike omission of
the words _unjust proceedings_ in the Prince's note, I feel that, if I
am not to hate him, I need to spend some months without seeing him. On
that decisive evening, I had no need of his cleverness; he had only to
write down what I dictated to him, he had only to write those words
_which I had obtained_ by my own strength of character: he was led away
by force of habit as a base courtier. He told me next day that he could
not make the Prince sign an absurdity, that we should have had _letters
of grace_; why, good God, with people like that, with those monsters of
vanity and rancour who bear the name Farnese, one takes what one can
get."

At the thought of this, all the Duchessa's anger was rekindled. "The
Prince has betrayed me," she said to herself, "and in how dastardly a
way! There is no excuse for the man: he has brains, discernment, he is
capable of reasoning; there is nothing base in him but his passions. The
Conte and I have noticed it a score of times; his mind becomes vulgar
only when he imagines that some one has tried to insult him. Well,
Fabrizio's crime has nothing to do with politics, it is a trifling
homicide, just like a hundred others that are reported every day in his
happy States, and the Conte has sworn to me that he has taken pains to
procure the most accurate information, and that Fabrizio is innocent.
That Giletti was certainly not lacking in courage: finding himself
within a few yards of the frontier, he suddenly felt the temptation to
rid himself of an attractive rival."

The Duchessa paused for a long time to consider whether it were possible
to believe in Fabrizio's guilt, not that she felt that it would have
been a very grave sin in a gentleman of her nephew's rank to rid himself
of the impertinence of a mummer; but, in her despair, she was beginning
to feel vaguely that she would be obliged to fight to prove Fabrizio's
innocence. "No," she told herself finally, "here is a decisive proof: he
is like poor Pietranera, he always has all his pockets stuffed with
weapons, and that day he was carrying only a wretched singled-barrelled
gun, and even that he had borrowed from one of the workmen.

"I hate the Prince because he has betrayed me, and betrayed me in the
most dastardly fashion; after his written pardon, he had the poor boy
seized at Bologna, and all that. But I shall settle that account." About
five o'clock in the morning, the Duchessa, crushed by this prolonged fit
of despair, rang for her women; who screamed. Seeing her on her bed,
fully dressed, with her diamonds, pale as the sheet on which she lay and
with closed eyes, it seemed to them as though they beheld her laid out
in state after death. They would have supposed that she had completely
lost consciousness had they not remembered that she had just rung for
them. A few rare tears trickled from time to time down her insentient
cheeks; her women gathered from a sign which she made that she wished to
be put to bed.




_A BREACH_


Twice that evening after the party at the Minister Zurla's, the Conte
had called on the Duchessa; being refused admittance, he wrote to her
that he wished to ask her advice as to his conduct. Ought he to retain
his post after the insult that they had dared to offer him? The Conte
went on to say: "The young man is innocent; but, were he guilty, ought
they to arrest him without first informing me, his acknowledged
protector?" The Duchessa did not see this letter until the following
day.

The Conte had no virtue; one may indeed add that what the Liberals
understand by _virtue_ (seeking the greatest happiness of the greatest
number) seemed to him silly; he believed himself bound to seek first and
foremost the happiness of Conte Mosca della Rovere; but he was entirely
honourable, and perfectly sincere when he spoke of his resignation.
Never in his life had he told the Duchessa a lie; she, as it happened,
did not pay the slightest attention to this letter; her attitude, and a
very painful attitude it was, had been adopted: _to pretend to forget
Fabrizio_; after that effort, nothing else mattered to her.

Next day, about noon, the Conte, who had called ten times at the
_palazzo_ Sanseverina, was at length admitted; he was appalled when he
saw the Duchessa. . . . "She looks forty!" he said to himself; "and
yesterday she was so brilliant, so young! . . . Everyone tells me that,
during her long conversation with Clelia Conti, she looked every bit as
young and far more attractive."

The Duchessa's voice, her tone were as strange as her personal
appearance. This tone, divested of all passion, of all human interest,
of all anger, turned the Conte pale; it reminded him of the manner of a
friend of his who, a few months earlier, when on the point of death, and
after receiving the Last Sacrament, had sent for him to talk to him.

After some minutes the Duchessa was able to speak to him. She looked at
him, and her eyes remained dead.

"Let us part, my dear Conte," she said to him in a faint but quite
articulate voice which she tried to make sound friendly; "let us part,
we must! Heaven is my witness that, for five years, my behaviour towards
you has been irreproachable. You have given me a brilliant existence, in
place of the boredom which would have been my sad portion at the castle
of Grianta; without you I should have reached old age several years
sooner. . . . For my part, my sole occupation has been to try to make
you find happiness. It is because I love you that I propose to you this
parting _à l'amiable_, as they say in France."

The Conte did not understand; she was obliged to repeat her statement
several times. He grew deadly pale, and, flinging himself on his knees
by her bedside, said to her all the things that profound astonishment,
followed by the keenest despair, can inspire in a man who is
passionately in love. At every moment he offered to hand in his
resignation and to follow his mistress to some retreat a thousand
leagues from Parma.

"You dare to speak to me of departure, and Fabrizio is here!" she at
length exclaimed, half rising. But seeing that the sound of Fabrizio's
name made a painful impression, she added after a moment's quiet, gently
pressing the Conte's hand: "No, dear friend, I am not going to tell you
that I have loved you with that passion and those transports which one
no longer feels, it seems to me, after thirty, and I am already a long
way past that age. They will have told you that I was in love with
Fabrizio, for I know that the rumour has gone round in this _wicked_
court." (Her eyes sparkled for the first time in this conversation, as
she uttered the word _wicked_.) "I swear to you before God, and upon
Fabrizio's life, that never has there passed between him and me the
tiniest thing which could not have borne the eyes of a third person. Nor
shall I say to you that I love him exactly as a sister might; I love him
instinctively, so to speak. I love in him his courage, so simple and so
perfect that, one may say, he is not aware of it himself; I remember
that this sort of admiration began on his return from Waterloo. He was
still a boy then, for all his seventeen years; his great anxiety was to
know whether he had really been present at the battle, and, if so,
whether he could say that he had fought, when he had not marched to the
attack of any enemy battery or column. It was during the serious
discussions which we used to have together on this important subject
that I began to see in him a perfect charm. His great soul revealed
itself to me; what sophisticated falsehoods would a well-bred young man,
in his place, have flaunted! Well then, if he is not happy I cannot be
happy. There, that is a statement which well describes the state of my
heart; if it is not the truth it is at any rate all of it that I see."
The Conte, encouraged by this tone of frankness and intimacy, tried to
kiss her hand; she drew it back with a sort of horror. "The time is
past," she said to him; "I am a woman of thirty-seven, I find myself on
the threshold of old age, I already feel all its discouragements, and
perhaps I have even drawn near to the tomb. That is a terrible moment,
by all one hears, and yet it seems to me that I desire it. I feel the
worst symptom of old age; my heart is extinguished by this frightful
misfortune, I can no longer love. I see in you now, dear Conte, only the
shade of someone who was dear to me. I shall say more, it is gratitude,
simply and solely, that makes me speak to you thus."

"What is to become of me," the Conte repeated, "of me who feel that I am
attached to you more passionately than in the first days of our
friendship, when I saw you at the Scala?"

"Let me confess to you one thing, dear friend, this talk of love bores
me, and seems to me indecent. Come," she said, trying to smile, but in
vain, "courage! Be the man of spirit, the judicious man, the man of
resource in all circumstances. Be with me what you really are in the
eyes of strangers, the most able man and the greatest politician that
Italy has produced for ages."

The Conte rose, and paced the room in silence for some moments.

"Impossible, dear friend," he said to her at length; "I am rent asunder
by the most violent passion, and you ask me to consult my reason. There
is no longer any reason for me!"

"Let us not speak of passion, I beg of you," she said in a dry tone; and
this was the first time, after two hours of talk, that her voice assumed
any expression whatever. The Conte, in despair himself, sought to
console her.

"He has betrayed me," she cried without in any way considering the
reasons for hope which the Conte was setting before her; "_he_ has
betrayed me in the most dastardly fashion!" Her deadly pallor ceased for
a moment; but, even in this moment of violent excitement, the Conte
noticed that she had not the strength to raise her arms.

"Great God! Can it be possible," he thought, "that she is only ill? In
that case, though, it would be the beginning of some very serious
illness." Then, filled with uneasiness, he proposed to call in the
famous Razori, the leading physician in the place and in the whole of
Italy.

"So you wish to give a stranger the pleasure of learning the whole
extent of my despair? . . . Is that the counsel of a traitor or of a
friend?" And she looked at him with strange eyes.

"It is all over," he said to himself with despair, "she has no longer
any love for me! And worse still; she no longer includes me even among
the common men of honour.

"I may tell you," the Conte went on, speaking with emphasis, "that I
have been anxious above all things to obtain details of the arrest which
has thrown us into despair, and the curious thing is that still I know
nothing positive; I have had the constables at the nearest station
questioned, they saw the prisoner arrive by the Castelnuovo road and
received orders to follow his _sediola_. I at once sent off Bruno, whose
zeal is as well known to you as his devotion; he has orders to go on
from station to station until he finds out where and how Fabrizio was
arrested."

On hearing him utter Fabrizio's name, the Duchessa was seized by a
slight convulsion.

"Forgive me, my friend," she said to the Conte as soon as she was able
to speak; "these details interest me greatly, give me them all, let me
have a clear understanding of the smallest circumstances."

"Well, Signora," the Conte went on, assuming a somewhat lighter air in
the hope of distracting her a little, "I have a good mind to send a
confidential messenger to Bruno and to order him to push on as far as
Bologna; it was from there, perhaps, that our young friend was carried
off. What is the date of his last letter?"

"Tuesday, five days ago."

"Had it been opened in the post?"

"No trace of any opening. I ought to tell you that it was written on
horrible paper; the address is in a woman's hand, and that address bears
the name of an old laundress who is related to my maid. The laundress
believes that it is something to do with a love affair, and Cocchina
refunds her for the carriage of the letters without adding anything
further." The Conte, who had adopted quite the tone of a man of
business, tried to discover, by questioning the Duchessa, which could
have been the day of the abduction from Bologna. He only then perceived,
he who had ordinarily so much tact, that this was the right tone to
adopt. These details interested the unhappy woman and seemed to distract
her a little. If the Conte had not been in love, this simple idea would
have occurred to him as soon as he entered the room. The Duchessa sent
him away in order that he might without delay dispatch fresh orders to
the faithful Bruno. As they were momentarily considering the question
whether there had been a sentence passed before the moment at which the
Prince signed the note addressed to the Duchessa, the latter with a
certain determination seized the opportunity to say to the Conte: "I
shall not reproach you in the least for having omitted the words _unjust
proceedings_ in the letter which you wrote and he signed, it was the
courtier's instinct that gripped you by the throat; unconsciously you
preferred your master's interest to your friend's. You have placed your
actions under my orders, dear Conte, and that for a long time past, but
it is not in your power to change your nature; you have great talents
for the part of Minister, but you have also the instinct of that trade.
The suppression of the word _unjust_ was my ruin; but far be it from me to
reproach you for it in any way, it was the fault of your instinct and
not of your will.




_THE COURT FROM WITHIN_


"Bear in mind," she went on, changing her tone, and with the most
imperious air, "that I am by no means unduly afflicted by the abduction
of Fabrizio, that I have never had the slightest intention of removing
myself from this place, that I am full of respect for the Prince. That
is what you have to say, and this is what I, for my part, wish to say to
you: 'As I intend to have the entire control of my own behaviour for the
future, I wish to part from you _à l'amiable_, that is to say as a good
and old friend. Consider that I am sixty, the young woman is dead in me,
I can no longer form an exaggerated idea of anything in the world, I can
no longer love.' But I should be even more wretched than I am were I to
compromise your future. It may enter into my plans to give myself the
appearance of having a young lover, and I should not like to see you
distressed. I can swear to you by Fabrizio's happiness"--she stopped for
half a minute after these words--"that never have I been guilty of any
infidelity to you, and that in five whole years. It is a long time," she
said; she tried to smile; her pallid cheeks were convulsed, but her lips
were unable to part. "I swear to you even that I have never either
planned or wished such a thing. Now you understand that, leave me."

The Conte in despair left the _palazzo_ Sanseverina: he could see in the
Duchessa the deliberately formed intention to part from him, and never
had he been so desperately in love. This is one of the points to which I
am obliged frequently to revert, because they are improbable outside
Italy. Returning home, he dispatched as many as six different people
along the road to Castelnuovo and Bologna, and gave them letters. "But
that is not all," the unhappy Conte told himself: "the Prince may take
it into his head to have this wretched boy executed, and that in revenge
for the tone which the Duchessa adopted with him on the day of that
fatal note. I felt that the Duchessa was exceeding a limit beyond which
one ought never to go, and it was to compensate for this that I was so
incredibly foolish as to suppress the words _unjust proceedings_, the
only ones that bound the Sovereign. . . . But bah! Are those people
bound by anything in the world? That is no doubt the greatest mistake of
my life, I have risked everything that can bring me life's reward: it
now remains to compensate for my folly by dint of activity and cunning;
but after all, if I can obtain nothing, even by sacrificing a little of
my dignity, I leave the man stranded; with his dreams of high politics,
with his ideas of making himself Constitutional King of Lombardy, we
shall see how he will fill my place. . . . Fabio Conti is nothing but a
fool, Rassi's talent reduces itself to having a man legally hanged who
is displeasing to Authority."

As soon as he had definitely made up his mind to resign from the
Ministry if the rigour shewn Fabrizio went beyond that of simple
detention, the Conte said to himself: "If a caprice of that man's
vanity, rashly braved, should cost me my happiness, at least I shall
have my honour left. . . . By that token, since I am throwing my
portfolio to the winds, I may allow myself a hundred actions which, only
this morning, would have seemed to be outside the bounds of possibility.
For instance, I am going to attempt everything that is humanly feasible
to secure Fabrizio's escape. . . . Great God!" exclaimed the Conte,
breaking off in his soliloquy and opening his eyes wide as though at the
sight of an unexpected happiness, "the Duchessa never said anything to
me about an escape; can she have been wanting in sincerity for once in
her life, and is the motive of her quarrel only a desire that I should
betray the Prince? Upon my word, no sooner said than done!"




_THE COURT_


The Conte's eye had recovered all its satirical sublety. "That engaging
Fiscal Rassi is paid by his master for all the sentences that disgrace
us throughout Europe, but he is not the sort of man to refuse to be paid
by me to betray the master's secrets. The animal has a mistress and a
confessor, but the mistress is of too vile a sort for me to be able to
tackle her, next day she would relate our interview to all the
applewomen in the parish." The Conte, revived by this gleam of hope, was
by this time on his way to the Cathedral; astonished at the alertness of
his gait, he smiled in spite of his grief: "This is what it is," he
said, "to be no longer a Minister!" This Cathedral, like many churches
in Italy, serves as a passage from one street to another; the Conte saw
as he entered one of the Archbishop's Grand Vicars crossing the nave.

"Since I have met you here," he said to him, "will you be so very good
as to spare my gout the deadly fatigue of climbing to His Grace the
Archbishop's. He would be doing me the greatest favour in the world if
he would be so kind as to come down to the sacristy." The Archbishop was
delighted by this message, he had a thousand things to say to the
Minister on the subject of Fabrizio. But the Minister guessed that these
things were no more than fine phrases, and refused to listen to any of
them.

"What sort of man is Dugnani, the Vicar of San Paolo?"

"A small mind and a great ambition," replied the Archbishop; "few
scruples and extreme poverty, for we too have our vices!"

"Egad, Monsignore," exclaimed the Minister, "you portray like Tacitus";
and he took leave of him, laughing. No sooner had he returned to his
Ministry than he sent for Priore Dugnani.

"You direct the conscience of my excellent friend the Fiscal General
Rassi; are you sure he has nothing to tell me?" And, without any further
speech or ceremony, he dismissed Dugnani.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The Conte regarded himself as out of office. "Let us see now," he said
to himself, "how many horses we shall be able to have after my disgrace,
for that is what they will call my resignation." He made a reckoning of
his fortune: he had come to the Ministry with 80,000 francs to his name;
greatly to his surprise, he found that, all told, his fortune at that
moment did not amount to 500,000 francs: "that is an income of 20,000
lire at the most," he said to himself. "I must admit that I am a great
simpleton! There is not a citizen in Parma who does not suppose me to
have an income of 150,000 lire, and the Prince, in that respect, is more
of a cit than any of them. When they see me in the ditch, they will say
that I know how to hide my fortune. Egad!" he cried, "if I am still
Minister in three months' time, we shall see that fortune doubled." He
found in this idea an occasion for writing to the Duchessa, which he
seized with avidity, but to bespeak her pardon for a letter, seeing the
terms on which they were, he filled this with figures and calculations.
"We shall have only 20,000 lire of income," he told her, "to live upon,
all three of us, at Naples, Fabrizio, you and myself. Fabrizio and I
shall have one saddle-horse between us." The Minister had barely sent
off his letter when the Fiscal General Rassi was announced. He received
him with a stiffness which bordered on impertinence.

"What, Sir," he said to him, "you seize and carry off from Bologna a
conspirator who is under my protection; what is more, you propose to cut
off his head, and you say nothing about it to me! Do you at least know
the name of my successor? Is it General Conti, or yourself?"

Rassi was dumbfoundered; he was too little accustomed to good society to
know whether the Conte was speaking seriously: he blushed a deep red,
mumbled a few scarcely intelligible words; the Conte watched him and
enjoyed his embarrassment. Suddenly Rassi pulled himself together and
exclaimed, with perfect ease and with the air of Figaro caught
red-handed by Almaviva:

"Faith, Signor Conte, I shan't beat about the bush with Your Excellency:
what will you give me to answer all your questions as I should those of
my confessor?"

"The Cross of San Paolo" (which is the Parmesan Order) "or money, if you
can find me an excuse for granting it to you."

"I prefer the Cross of San Paolo, because it ennobles me."

"What, my dear Fiscal, you still pay some regard to our poor nobility?"

"If I were of noble birth," replied Rassi with all the impudence of his
trade, "the families of the people I have had hanged would hate me, but
they would not feel contempt for me."

"Very well, I will save you from their contempt," said the Conte; "cure
me of my ignorance. What do you intend to do with Fabrizio?"




_THE COURT_


"Faith, the Prince is greatly embarrassed; he is afraid that, seduced by
the fine eyes of Armida--forgive my slightly bold language, they are the
Sovereign's own words--he is afraid that, seduced by a certain pair of
very fine eyes, which have touched him slightly himself, you may leave
him stranded, and there is no one but you to handle the question of
Lombardy. I will go so far as to say," Rassi went on, lowering his
voice, "that there is a fine opportunity there for you, and one that is
well worth the Cross of San Paolo which you are giving me. The Prince
would grant you, as a reward from the nation, a fine estate worth
600,000 francs, which he would set apart from his own domains, or a
gratuity of 300,000 scudi, if you would agree not to interfere in the
affairs of Fabrizio del Dongo, or at any rate not to speak of them to
him except in public."

"I expected something better than that," said the Conte; "not to
interfere with Fabrizio means quarrelling with the Duchessa."

"There, that is just what the Prince says: the fact is that he is
horribly enraged against the Signora Duchessa, this is between
ourselves; and he is afraid that, to compensate yourself for the rupture
with that charming lady, now that you are a widower, you may ask him for
the hand of his cousin, the old Princess Isotta, who is only fifty."

"He has guessed aright," exclaimed the Conte; "our master is the
shrewdest man in his States."

Never had the Conte entertained the grotesque idea of marrying this
elderly Princess; nothing would less have suited a man whom the
ceremonies of the court bored to death.

He began to tap with his snuff-box on the marble of a little table
beside his chair. Rassi saw in this gesture of embarrassment the
possibility of a fine windfall; his eye gleamed.

"As a favour, Signor Conte," he cried, "if Your Excellency decides to
accept this estate of 600,000 francs or the gratuity in money, I beg that
he will not choose any other intermediary than myself. I should make an
effort," he added, lowering his voice, "to have the gratuity increased,
or else to have a forest of some importance added to the land. If Your
Excellency would deign to introduce a little gentleness and tact into
his manner in speaking to the Prince of this youngster they've locked
up, a Duchy might perhaps be created out of the lands which the nation's
gratitude would offer him. I repeat to Your Excellency; the Prince, for
the moment, abominates the Duchessa, but he is greatly embarrassed, so
much so indeed that I have sometimes thought there must be some secret
consideration which he dared not confess to me. Do you know, we may find
a gold mine here, I selling you his most intimate secrets, and quite
openly, for I am supposed to be your sworn enemy. After all, if he is
furious with the Duchessa, he believes also, and so do we all, that you
are the one man in the world who can carry through all the secret
negotiations with regard to the Milanese. Will Your Excellency permit me
to repeat to him textually the Sovereign's words?" said Rassi, growing
heated; "there is often a character in the order of the words which no
translation can render, and you may be able to see more in them than I
see."

"I permit everything," said the Conte, as he went on, with an air of
distraction, tapping the marble table with his gold snuff-box; "I permit
everything, and I shall be grateful."

"Give me a patent of hereditary nobility independently of the Cross, and
I shall be more than satisfied. When I speak of ennoblement to the
Prince, he answers: 'A scoundrel like you, noble! I should have to shut
up shop next day; nobody in Parma would wish to be ennobled again.' To
come back to the business of the Milanese, the Prince said to me not
three days ago: 'There is only that rascal to unravel the thread of our
intrigues; if I send him away, or if he follows the Duchessa, I may as
well abandon the hope of seeing myself one day the Liberal and beloved
ruler of all Italy.'"

At this the Conte drew breath. "Fabrizio will not die," he said to
himself.

Never in his life had Rassi been able to secure an intimate conversation
with the Prime Minister. He was beside himself with joy: he saw himself
on the eve of being able to discard the name Rassi, which had become
synonymous throughout the country with everything that was base and
vile. The lower orders gave the name Rassi to mad dogs; recently more
than one soldier had fought a duel because one of his comrades had
called him Rassi. Not a week passed, moreover, in which this ill-starred
name did not figure in some atrocious sonnet. His son, a young and
innocent schoolboy of sixteen, used to be driven out of the caffè on
the strength of his name. It was the burning memory of all these little
perquisites of his office that made him commit an imprudence. "I have an
estate," he said to the Conte, drawing his chair closer to the
Minister's; "it is called Riva. I should like to be Barone Riva."

"Why not?" said the Minister. Rassi was beside himself.

"Very well, Signor Conte, I shall take the liberty of being indiscreet.
I shall venture to guess the object of your desires; you aspire to the
hand of the Princess Isotta, and it is a noble ambition. Once you are of
the family, you are sheltered from disgrace, you have our man _tied
down_. I shall not conceal from you that he has a horror of this
marriage with the Princess Isotta. But if your affairs were entrusted to
some skilful and _well paid_ person, you would be in a position not to
despair of success."

"I, my dear Barone, should despair of it; I disavow in advance
everything that you can say in my name; but on the day on which that
illustrious alliance comes at length to crown my wishes and to give me
so exalted a position in the State, I will offer you, myself, 300,000
francs of my own money, or else recommend the Prince to accord you a
mark of his favour which you yourself will prefer to that sum of money."

The reader finds this conversation long: and yet we are sparing him more
than half of it; it continued for two hours more. Rassi left the Conte's
presence mad with joy; the Conte was left with a great hope of saving
Fabrizio, and more than ever determined to hand in his resignation. He
found that his credit stood in need of renewal by the succession to
power of persons such as Rassi and General Conti; he took an exquisite
delight in a possible method which he had just discovered of avenging
himself on the Prince: "He may send the Duchessa away," he cried, "but,
by gad, he will have to abandon the hope of becoming Constitutional King
of Lombardy." (This was an absurd fantasy: the Prince had abundance of
brains, but, by dint of dreaming of it, he had fallen madly in love with
the idea.)

The Conte could not contain himself for joy as he hurried to the
Duchessa's to give her a report of his conversation with the Fiscal. He
found the door closed to him; the porter scarcely dared admit to him the
fact of this order, received from his mistress's own lips. The Conte
went sadly back to the ministerial _palazzo_; the rebuff he had just
encountered completely eclipsed the joy that his conversation with the
Prince's confidant had given him. Having no longer the heart to devote
himself to anything, the Conte was wandering gloomily through his
picture gallery when, a quarter of an hour later, he received a note
which ran as follows:


"Since it is true, dear and good friend, that we are nothing more now
than friends, you must come to see me only three times in the week. In a
fortnight we shall reduce these visits, always so dear to my heart, to
two monthly. If you wish to please me, give publicity to this apparent
rupture; if you wished to pay me back almost all the love that I once
felt for you, you would choose a new mistress for yourself. As for
myself, I have great plans of dissipation: I intend to go a great deal
into society, perhaps I shall even find a man of parts to make me forget
my misfortunes. Of course, in your capacity as a friend, the first place
in my heart will always be kept for you; but I do not wish, for the
future, that my actions should be said to have been dictated by your
wisdom; above all, I wish it to be well known that I have lost all my
influence over your decisions. In a word, dear Conte, be assured that
you will always be my dearest friend, but never anything else. Do not, I
beg you, entertain any idea of a resumption, it is all over. Count,
always, upon my friendship."


This last stroke was too much for the Conte's courage: he wrote a fine
letter to the Prince resigning all his offices, and addressed it to the
Duchessa with a request that she would forward it to the Palace. A
moment later, he received his resignation, torn across, and on one of the
blank scraps of the paper the Duchessa had condescended to write: "_No,
a thousand times no_!"



_A BREACH_


It would be difficult to describe the despair of the poor Minister. "She
is right, I quite agree," he kept saying to himself at every moment; "my
omission of the words _unjust proceedings_ is a dreadful misfortune; it
will involve perhaps the death of Fabrizio, and that will lead to my
own." It was with death in his heart that the Conte, who did not wish to
appear at the Sovereign's Palace before being summoned there, wrote out
with his own hand the _motu proprio_ which created Rassi Cavaliere of
the Order of San Paolo and conferred on him hereditary nobility; the
Conte appended to it a report of half a page which set forth to the
Prince the reasons of state which made this measure advisable. He found
a sort of melancholy joy in making a fair copy of each of these
documents, which he addressed to the Duchessa.

He lost himself in suppositions; he tried to guess what, for the future,
would be the plan of conduct of the woman he loved. "She has no idea
herself," he said to himself; "one thing alone remains certain, which is
that she would not for anything in the world fail to adhere to any
resolution once she had announced it to me." What added still further to
his unhappiness was that he could not succeed in finding that the
Duchessa was to be blamed. "She has shewn me a favour in loving me; she
ceases to love me after a mistake, unintentional, it is true, but one
that may involve a horrible consequence; I have no right to complain."
Next morning, the Conte learned that the Duchessa had begun to go into
society again; she had appeared the evening before in all the houses in
which parties were being given. What would have happened if they had met
in the same drawing-room? How was he to speak to her? In what tone was
he to address her? And how could he not speak to her?

The day that followed was a day of gloom; the rumour had gone abroad
everywhere that Fabrizio was going to be put to death, the town was
stirred. It was added that the Prince, having regard for his high birth,
had deigned to decide that he should have his head cut off.

"It is I that am killing him," the Conte said to himself; "I can no
longer aspire to see the Duchessa ever again." In spite of this fairly
obvious conclusion, he could not restrain himself from going three times
to her door; as a matter of fact, in order not to be noticed, he went to
her house on foot. In his despair, he had even the courage to write to
her. He had sent for Rassi twice; the Fiscal had not shewn his face.
"The scoundrel is playing me false," the Conte said to himself.




_PUBLIC OPINION_


The day after this, three great pieces of news excited the high society
of Parma, and even the middle classes. The execution of Fabrizio was
more certain than ever; and, a highly strange complement to this news,
the Duchessa did not appear to be at all despairing. To all appearance,
she bestowed only a quite moderate regret on her young lover; in any
event, she made the most, with an unbounded art, of the pallor which was
the legacy of a really serious indisposition, which had come to her at
the time of Fabrizio's arrest. The middle classes saw clearly in these
details the hard heart of a great lady of the court. In decency,
however, and as a sacrifice to the shade of the young Fabrizio, she had
broken with Conte Mosca. "What immorality!" exclaimed the Jansenists of
Parma. But already the Duchessa, and this was incredible, seemed
disposed to listen to the flatteries of the handsomest young men at
court. It was observed, among other curious incidents, that she had been
very gay in a conversation with Conte Baldi, the Raversi's reigning
lover, and had teased him greatly over his frequent visits to the
_castello_ of Velleja. The lower middle class and the populace were
indignant at the death of Fabrizio, which these good folk put down to
the jealousy of Conte Mosca. The society of the court was also greatly
taken up with the Conte, but only to laugh at him. The third of the
great pieces of news to which we have referred was indeed nothing else
than the Conte's resignation; everyone laughed at a ridiculous lover
who, at the age of fifty-six, was sacrificing a magnificent position to
his grief at being abandoned by a heartless woman, who moreover had long
ago shewn her preference for a young man. The Archbishop alone had the
intelligence or rather the heart to divine that honour forbade the Conte
to remain Prime Minister in a country where they were going to cut off
the head, and without consulting him, of a young man who was under his
protection. The news of the Conte's resignation had the effect of curing
General Fabio Conti of his gout, as we shall relate in due course, when
we come to speak of the way in which poor Fabrizio was spending his time
in the citadel, while the whole town was inquiring the hour of his
execution.

On the following day the Conte saw Bruno, that faithful agent whom he
had dispatched to Bologna: the Conte's heart melted at the moment when
this man entered his cabinet; the sight of him recalled the happy state
in which he had been when he sent him to Bologna, almost in concert with
the Duchessa. Bruno came from Bologna where he had discovered nothing;
he had not been able to find Lodovico, whom the _podestà_ of
Castelnuovo had kept locked up in his village prison.

"I am going to send you to Bologna," said the Conte to Bruno; "the
Duchessa wishes to give herself the melancholy pleasure of knowing the
details of Fabrizio's disaster. Report yourself to the _brigadiere_ of
police in charge of the station at Castelnuovo. . . .

"No!" exclaimed the Conte, breaking off in his orders; "start at once
for Lombardy, and distribute money lavishly among all our
correspondents. My object is to obtain from all these people reports of
the most encouraging nature." Bruno, after clearly grasping the object
of his mission, set to work to write his letters of credit. As the Conte
was giving him his final instructions, he received a letter which was
entirely false, but extremely well written; one would have called it the
letter of a friend writing to a friend to ask a favour of him. The
friend who wrote it was none other than the Prince. Having heard mention
of some idea of resignation, he besought his friend, Conte Mosca, to
retain his office; he asked him this in the name of their friendship and
of the _dangers that threatened the country_, and ordered him as his
master. He added that, the King of ---- having placed at his disposal
two Cordons of his Order, he was keeping one for himself and was sending
the other to his dear Conte Mosca.



_DIPLOMACY_


"That animal is ruining me!" cried the Conte in a fury, before the
astonished Bruno, "and he thinks to win me over by those same
hypocritical phrases which we have planned together so many times to
lime the twig for some fool." He declined the Order that was offered
him, and in his reply spoke of the state of his health as allowing him
but little hope of being able to carry on for much longer the arduous
duties of the Ministry. The Conte was furious. A moment later was
announced the Fiscal Rassi, whom he treated like a black.

"Well! Because I have made you noble, you are beginning to shew
insolence! Why did you not come yesterday to thank me, as was your
bounden duty, Master Drudge?"

Rassi was a long way below the reach of insult; it was in this tone that
he was daily received by the Prince; but he was anxious to be a Barone,
and justified himself with spirit. Nothing was easier.

"The Prince kept me glued to a table all day yesterday; I could not
leave the Palace. His Highness made me copy out in my wretched
attorney's script a number of diplomatic papers so stupid and so
long-winded that I really believe his sole object was to keep me
prisoner. When I was finally able to take my leave of him, about five
o'clock, half dead with hunger, he gave me the order to go straight home
and not to go out in the evening. As a matter of fact, I saw two of his
private spies, well known to me, patrolling my street until nearly
midnight. This morning, as soon as I could, I sent for a carriage which
took me to the door of the Cathedral. I got down from the carriage very
slowly, then at a quick pace walked through the church, and here I am.
Your Excellency is at this moment the one man in the world whom I am
most passionately anxious to please."

"And I, Master Joker, am not in the least taken in by all these more or
less well constructed stories. You refused to speak to me about Fabrizio
the day before yesterday; I respected your scruples and your oaths of
secrecy, although oaths, to a creature like you, are at the most means
of evasion. To-day, I require the truth. What are these ridiculous
rumours which make out that this young man is sentenced to death as the
murderer of the comedian Giletti?"

"No one can give Your Excellency a better account of those rumours, for
it was I myself who started them by the Sovereign's orders; and, I
believe, it was perhaps to prevent me from informing you of this
incident that he kept me prisoner all day yesterday. The Prince, who
does not take me for a fool, could have no doubt that I should come to
you with my Cross and ask you to fasten it in my buttonhole."

"To the point!" cried the Minister. "And no fine speeches."

"No doubt, the Prince would be glad to pass sentence of death on Signor
del Dongo, but he has been sentenced, as you probably know, only to
twenty years in irons, commuted by the Prince, on the very day after the
sentence, to twelve years in a fortress, with fasting on bread and water
every Friday and other religious observances."

"It is because I knew of this sentence to imprisonment only that I was
alarmed by the rumours of immediate execution which are going about the
town; I remember the death of Conte Palanza, which was such a clever
trick on your part."

"It was then that I ought to have had the Cross!" cried Rassi, in no way
disconcerted; "I ought to have forced him when I held him in my hand,
and the man wished the prisoner killed. I was a fool then; and it is
armed with that experience that I venture to advise you not to copy my
example to-day." (This comparison seemed in the worst of taste to his
hearer, who was obliged to restrain himself forcibly from kicking
Rassi.)

"In the first place," the latter went on with the logic of a trained
lawyer and the perfect assurance of a man whom no insult could offend,
"in the first place there can be no question of the execution of the
said del Dongo; the Prince would not dare, the times have altogether
changed! Besides, I, who am noble and hope through you to become Barone,
would not lend a hand in the matter. Now it is only from me, as Your
Excellency knows, that the executioner of supreme penalties can receive
orders, and, I swear to you, Cavaliere Rassi will never issue any such
orders against Signor del Dongo."

"And you will be acting wisely," said the Conte with a severe air,
taking his adversary's measure.

"Let us make a distinction," went on Rassi, smiling. "I myself figure
only in the official death-roll, and if Signor del Dongo happens to die
of a colic, do not go and put it down to me. The Prince is vexed, and I
do not know why, with the Sanseverina." (Three days earlier Rassi would
have said "the Duchessa," but, like everyone in the town, he knew of her
breach with the Prime Minister.) The Conte was struck by the omission of
her title on such lips, and the reader may judge of the pleasure that it
afforded him; he darted at Rassi a glance charged with the keenest
hatred. "My dear angel," he then said to himself, "I can shew you my
love only by blind obedience to your orders.

"I must admit," he said to the Fiscal, "that I do not take any very
passionate interest in the various caprices of the Signora Duchessa;
only, since it was she who introduced to me this scapegrace of a
Fabrizio, who would have done well to remain at Naples and not come here
to complicate our affairs, I make a point of his not being put to death
in my time, and I am quite ready to give you my word that you shall be
Barone in the week following his release from prison."

"In that case, Signor Conte, I shall not be Barone for twelve whole
years, for the Prince is furious, and his hatred of the Duchessa is so
keen that he is trying to conceal it."

"His Highness is too good; what need has he to conceal his hatred, since
his Prime Minister is no longer protecting the Duchessa? Only I do not
wish that anyone should be able to accuse me of meanness, nor above all
of jealousy: it was I who made the Duchessa come to this country, and if
Fabrizio dies in prison you will not be Barone, but you will perhaps be
stabbed with a dagger. But let us not talk about this trifle: the fact
is that I have made an estimate of my fortune, at the most I may be able
to put together an income of twenty thousand lire, on which I propose to
offer my resignation, most humbly, to the Sovereign. I have some hope of
finding employment with the King of Naples; that big town will offer me
certain distractions which I need at this moment and which I cannot find
in a hole like Parma; I should stay here only in the event of your
obtaining for me the hand of the Princess Isotta," and so forth. The
conversation on this subject was endless. As Rassi was rising to leave,
the Conte said to him with an air of complete indifference:

"You know that people have said that Fabrizio was playing me false, in
the sense that he was one of the Duchessa's lovers; I decline to accept
that rumour, and, to give it the lie, I wish you to have this purse
conveyed to Fabrizio."

"But, Signor Conte," said Rassi in alarm, looking at the purse, "there
is an enormous sum here, and the regulations. . . ."

"To you, my dear Sir, it may be enormous," replied the Conte with an air
of the most supreme contempt: "a cit like you, sending money to his
friend in prison, thinks he is ruining himself if he gives him ten
sequins; I, on the other hand, wish Fabrizio to receive these six
thousand francs, and on no account is the Castle to know anything of the
matter."

While the terrified Rassi was trying to answer, the Conte shut the door
on him with impatience. "Those fellows," he said to himself, "cannot see
power unless it is cloaked in insolence." So saying, this great Minister
abandoned himself to an action so ridiculous that we have some
misgivings about recording it. He ran to take from his desk a portrait
in miniature of the Duchessa, and covered it with passionate kisses.
"Forgive me, my dear angel," he cried, "if I did not fling out of the
window with my own hands that drudge who dares to speak of you in a tone
of familiarity; but, if I am acting with this excess of patience, it is
to obey you! And he will lose nothing by waiting."

After a long conversation with the portrait, the Conte, who felt his
heart dead in his breast, had the idea of an absurd action, and dashed
into it with the eagerness of a child. He sent for a coat on which his
decorations were sewn and went to pay a call on the elderly Princess
Isotta. Never in his life had he gone to her apartments, except on New
Year's Day. He found her surrounded by a number of dogs, and tricked out
in all her finery, including diamonds even, as though she were going to
court. The Conte having shewn some fear lest he might be upsetting the
arrangements of Her Highness, who was probably going out, the lady
replied that a Princess of Parma owed it to herself to be always in such
array. For the first time since his disaster the Conte felt an impulse
of gaiety. "I have done well to appear here," he told himself, "and this
very day I must make my declaration." The Princess had been delighted to
receive a visit from a man so renowned for his wit, and a Prime
Minister; the poor old maid was hardly accustomed to such visitors. The
Conte began by an adroit preamble, relative to the immense distance that
must always separate from a plain gentleman the members of a reigning
family.

"One must draw a distinction," said the Princess: "the daughter of a
King of France, for instance, has no hope of ever succeeding to the
Throne; but things are not like that in the House of Parma. And that is
why we Farnese must always keep up a certain dignity in externals; and
I, a poor Princess such as you see me now, I cannot say that it is
absolutely impossible that one day you may be my Prime Minister."

This idea, by its fantastic unexpectedness, gave the poor Conte a second
momentary thrill of perfect gaiety.

On leaving the apartments of the Princess Isotta, who had blushed deeply
on receiving the avowal of the Prime Minister's passion, he met one of
the grooms from the Palace: the Prince had sent for him in hot haste.

"I am unwell," replied the Minister, delighted at being able to play a
trick on his Prince. "Oh! Oh! You drive me to extremes," he exclaimed in
a fury, "and then you expect me to serve you; but learn this, my Prince,
that to have received power from Providence is no longer enough in these
times: it requires great brains and a strong character to succeed in
being a despot."




_DESPOTISM_


After dismissing the groom from the Palace, highly scandalised by the
perfect health of this invalid, the Conte amused himself by going to see
the two men at court who had the greatest influence over General Fabio
Conti. The one thing that made the Minister shudder and robbed him of
all his courage was that the governor of the citadel was accused of
having once before made away with a captain, his personal enemy, by
means of the _acquetta di Perugia_.

The Conte knew that during the last week the Duchessa had been
squandering vast sums with a view to establishing communications with
the citadel; but, in his opinion, there was small hope of success; all
eyes were still too wide open. We shall not relate to the reader all the
attempts at corruption made by this unhappy woman: she was in despair,
and agents of every sort, all perfectly devoted, were supporting her.
But there is perhaps only one kind of business which is done to
perfection in small despotic courts, namely the custody of political
prisoners. The Duchessa's gold had no other effect than to secure the
dismissal from the citadel of nine or ten men of all ranks.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Thus, with an entire devotion to the prisoner, the Duchessa and the
Prime Minister had been able to do but very little for him. The Prince
was in a rage, the court as well as the public were piqued by Fabrizio,
delighted to see him come to grief: he had been too fortunate. In spite
of the gold which she spent in handfuls, the Duchessa had not succeeded
in advancing an inch in her siege of the citadel; not a day passed but
the Marchesa Raversi or Cavaliere Riscara had some fresh report to
communicate to General Fabio Conti. They were supporting his weakness.



_A MODEL PRISON_


As we have already said, on the day of his imprisonment, Fabrizio was
taken first of all to the _governor's palazzo_. This was a neat little
building erected in the eighteenth century from the plans of Vanvitelli,
who placed it one hundred and eighty feet above the ground, on the
platform of the huge round tower. From the windows of this little
_palazzo_, isolated on the back of the enormous tower like a camel's
hump, Fabrizio could make out the country and the Alps to a great
distance; he followed with his eye beneath the citadel the course of the
Parma, a sort of torrent which, turning to the right four leagues from
the town, empties its waters into the Po. Beyond the left bank of this
river, which formed so to speak a series of huge white patches in the
midst of the green fields, his enraptured eye caught distinctly each of
the summits of the immense wall with which the Alps enclose Italy to the
north. These summits, always covered in snow, even in the month of
August which it then was, give one as it were a reminder of coolness in
the midst of these scorching plains; the eye can follow them in the
minutest detail, and yet they are more than thirty leagues from the
citadel of Parma. This expansive view from the governor's charming
_palazzo_ is broken at one corner towards the south by the _Torre
Farnese_, in which a room was being hastily prepared for Fabrizio. This
second tower, as the reader may perhaps remember, was built on the
platform of the great tower in honour of a Crown Prince who, unlike
Hippolytus the son of Theseus, had by no means repelled the advances of
a young stepmother. The Princess died in a few hours; the Prince's son
regained his liberty only seventeen years later, when he ascended the
throne on the death of his father. This Torre Farnese to which, after
waiting for three quarters of an hour, Fabrizio was made to climb, of an
extremely plain exterior, rises some fifty feet above the platform of
the great tower, and is adorned with a number of lightning conductors.
The Prince who, in his displeasure with his wife, built this prison
visible from all parts of the country, had the singular design of trying
to persuade his subjects that it had been there for many years: that is
why he gave it the name of _Torre Farnese_. It was forbidden to speak of
this construction, and from all parts of the town of Parma and the
surrounding plains people could perfectly well see the masons laying
each of the stones which compose this pentagonal edifice. In order to
prove that it was old, there was placed above the door two feet wide and
four feet high which forms its entrance a magnificent bas-relief
representing Alessandro Farnese, the famous general, forcing Henri IV to
withdraw from Paris. This Torre Farnese, standing in so conspicuous a
position, consists of a hall on the ground floor, at least forty yards
long, broad in proportion and filled with extremely squat pillars, for
this disproportionately large room is not more than fifteen feet high.
It is used as the guard-room, and in the middle of it the staircase
rises in a spiral round one of the pillars; it is a small staircase of
iron, very light, barely two feet in width and wrought in filigree. By
this staircase, which shook beneath the weight of the gaolers who were
escorting him, Fabrizio came to a set of vast rooms more than twenty
feet high, forming a magnificent first floor. They had originally been
furnished with the greatest luxury for the young Prince who spent in
them the seventeen best years of his life. At one end of this apartment,
the new prisoner was shewn a chapel of the greatest magnificence; the
walls and ceiling were entirely covered in black marble; pillars, black
also and of the noblest proportions, were placed in line along the black
walls without touching them, and these walls were decorated with a
number of skulls in white marble, of colossal proportions, elegantly
carved and supported underneath by crossbones. "There is an invention of
the hatred that cannot kill," thought Fabrizio, "and what a devilish
idea to let me see it."




_THE DOG "FOX"_


An iron staircase of light filigree, similarly coiled about a pillar,
gave access to the second floor of this prison, and it was in the rooms
of this second floor, which were some fifteen feet in height, that for
the last year General Fabio Conti had given proof of his genius. First
of all, under his direction, solid bars had been fixed in the windows of
these rooms, originally occupied by the Prince's servants, and standing
more than thirty feet above the stone slabs which paved the platform of
the great round tower. It was by a dark corridor, running along the
middle of this building, that one approached these rooms, each of which
had two windows; and in this very narrow corridor Fabrizio noticed three
iron gates in succession, formed of enormous bars and rising to the
roof. It was the plans, sections and elevations of all these pretty
inventions that, for two years past, had entitled the General to an
audience of his master every week. A conspirator placed in one of these
rooms could not complain to public opinion that he was being treated in
an inhuman fashion, and yet was unable to communicate with anyone in the
world, or to make a movement without being heard. The General had had
placed in each room huge joists of oak in the form of trestles three
feet high, and this was his paramount invention, which gave him a claim
to the Ministry of Police. On these trestles he had set up a cell of
planks, extremely resonant, ten feet high, and touching the wall only at
the side where the windows were. On the other three sides ran a little
corridor four feet wide, between the original wall of the prison, which
consisted of huge blocks of dressed stone, and the wooden partitions of
the cell. These partitions, formed of four double planks of walnut, oak
and pine, were solidly held together by iron bolts and by innumerable
nails.

It was into one of these rooms, constructed a year earlier, and the
masterpiece of General Fabio Conti's inventive talent, which had
received the sounding title of _Passive Obedience_, that Fabrizio was
taken. He ran to the windows. The view that one had from these barred
windows was sublime: one little piece of the horizon alone was hidden,
to the north-west, by the terraced roof of the _governor's palazzo_,
which had only two floors; the ground floor was occupied by the offices
of the staff; and from the first Fabrizio's eyes were attracted to one
of the windows of the upper floor, in which were to be seen, in pretty
cages, a great number of birds of all sorts. Fabrizio amused himself in
listening to their song and in watching them greet the last rays of the
setting sun, while the gaolers busied themselves about him. This aviary
window was not more than five-and-twenty feet from one of his, and stood
five or six feet lower down, so that his eyes fell on the birds.

There was a moon that evening, and at the moment of Fabrizio's entering
his prison it was rising majestically on the horizon to the right, over
the chain of the Alps, towards Treviso. It was only half past eight,
and, at the other extremity of the horizon, to the west, a brilliant
orange-red sunset showed to perfection the outlines of Monviso and the
other Alpine peaks which run inland from Nice towards Mont Cenis and
Turin. Without a thought of his misfortunes, Fabrizio was moved and
enraptured by this sublime spectacle. "So it is in this exquisite world
that Clelia Conti dwells; with her pensive and serious nature, she must
enjoy this view more than anyone; here it is like being alone in the
mountains a hundred leagues from Parma." It was not until he had spent
more than two hours at the window, admiring this horizon which spoke to
his soul, and often also letting his eyes rest on the governor's
charming _palazzo_, that Fabrizio suddenly exclaimed: "But is this
really a prison? Is this what I have so greatly dreaded?" Instead of
seeing at every turn discomforts and reasons for bitterness, our hero
let himself be charmed by the attractions of his prison.

Suddenly his attention was forcibly recalled to reality by a terrifying
din: his wooden cell, which was not unlike a cage and moreover was
extremely resonant, was violently shaken; the barking of a dog and
little shrill cries completed the strangest medley of sounds. "What now!
Am I going to escape so soon?" thought Fabrizio. A moment later he was
laughing as perhaps no one has ever laughed in a prison. By the
General's orders, at the same time as the gaolers there had been sent up
an English dog, extremely savage, which was set to guard officers of
importance, and was to spend the night in the space so ingeniously
contrived all round Fabrizio's cage. The dog and the gaoler were to
sleep in the interval of three feet left between the stone pavement of
the original floor and the wooden planks on which the prisoner could not
move a step without being heard.




_PRISON_


Now, when Fabrizio arrived, the room of the _Passive Obedience_ happened
to be occupied by a hundred huge rats which took flight in every
direction. The dog, a sort of spaniel crossed with an English
fox-terrier, was no beauty, but to make up for this shewed a great
alertness. He had been tied to the stone pavement beneath the planks of
the wooden room; but when he heard the rats pass close by him, he made an
effort so extraordinary that he succeeded in pulling his head out of his
collar. Then came this splendid battle the din of which aroused
Fabrizio, plunged in the least melancholy of dreams. The rats that had
managed to escape the first assault of the dog's teeth took refuge in
the wooden room, the dog came after them up the six steps which led from
the stone floor to Fabrizio's cell. Then began a really terrifying din:
the cell was shaken to its foundations. Fabrizio laughed like a madman
until the tears ran down his cheeks: the gaoler Grillo, no less amused,
had shut the door; the dog, in going after the rats, was not impeded by
any furniture, for the room was completely bare; there was nothing to
check the bounds of the hunting dog but an iron stove in one corner.
When the dog had triumphed over all his enemies, Fabrizio called him,
patted him, succeeded in winning his affection. "Should this fellow ever
see me jumping over a wall," he said to himself, "he will not bark." But
this far-seeing policy was a boast on his part: in the state of mind in
which he was, he found his happiness in playing with this dog. By a
paradox to which he gave no thought, a secret joy was reigning in the
depths of his heart.

After he had made himself quite breathless by running about with the
dog:

"What is your name?" Fabrizio asked the gaoler.

"Grillo, to serve Your Excellency in all that is allowed by the
regulations."

"Very well, my dear Grillo, a certain Giletti tried to murder me on the
broad highway, I defended myself, and killed him; I should kill him
again if it had to be done, but I wish to lead a gay life for all that
so long as I am your guest. Ask for authority from your chiefs, and go
and procure linen for me from the _palazzo_ Sanseverina; also, buy me
lots of _nebiolo d'Asti_."

This is quite a good sparkling wine which is made in Piedmont, in
Alfieri's country, and is highly esteemed, especially by the class of
wine-tasters to which gaolers belong. Nine or ten of these gentlemen
were engaged in transporting to Fabrizio's wooden room certain pieces of
old furniture, highly gilded, which they took from the Prince's
apartment on the first floor; all of them bore religiously in mind this
recommendation of the wine of Asti. In spite of all they might do,
Fabrizio's establishment for this first night was lamentable; but he
appeared shocked only by the absence of a bottle of good _nebiolo_. "He
seems a good lad," said the gaolers as they left him, "and there is only
one thing to be hoped for, that our gentlemen will let him have plenty
of money."

When he had recovered a little from all this din and confusion: "Is it
possible that this is a prison?" Fabrizio asked himself, gazing at that
vast horizon from Treviso to Monviso, the endless chain of the Alps, the
peaks covered with snow, the stars, and everything, "and a first night
in prison besides. I can conceive that Clelia Conti enjoys this airy
solitude; here one is a thousand leagues above the pettinesses and
wickednesses which occupy us down there. If those birds which are under
my window there belong to her, I shall see her. . . . Will she blush
when she catches sight of me?" It was while debating this important
question that our hero, at a late hour of the night, fell asleep.

On the day following this night, the first spent in prison, in the
course of which he never once lost his patience, Fabrizio was reduced to
making conversation with Fox, the English dog; Grillo the gaoler did
indeed greet him always with the friendliest expression, but a new order
made him dumb, and he brought neither linen nor _nebiolo_.

"Shall I see Clelia?" Fabrizio asked himself as he awoke. "But are those
birds hers?" The birds were beginning to utter little chirps and to
sing, and at that height this was the only sound that was carried on the
air. It was a sensation full of novelty and pleasure for Fabrizio, the
vast silence which reigned at this height; he listened with rapture to
the little chirpings, broken and so shrill, with which his neighbours
the birds were greeting the day. "If they belong to her, she will appear
for a moment in that room, there, beneath my window," and, while he
examined the immense chains of the Alps, against the first foothills of
which the citadel of Parma seemed to rise like an advanced redoubt, his
eyes returned every moment to the sumptuous cages of lemon-wood and
mahogany, which, adorned with gilt wires, filled the bright room which
served as an aviary. What Fabrizio did not learn until later was that
this room was the only one on the second floor of the _palazzo_ which
had any shade, between eleven o'clock and four: it was sheltered by the
Torre Farnese.

"What will be my dismay," thought Fabrizio, "if, instead of those modest
and pensive features for which I am waiting, and which will blush
slightly perhaps if she catches sight of me, I see appear the coarse
face of some thoroughly common maid, charged with the duty of looking
after the birds! But if I do see Clelia, will she deign to notice me?
Upon my soul, I must commit some indiscretion so as to be noticed; my
position should have some privileges; besides, we are both alone here,
and so far from the world! I am a prisoner, evidently what General Conti
and the other wretches of his sort call one of their subordinates. . . .
But she has so much intelligence, or, I should say, so much heart, so
the Conte supposes, that possibly, by what he says, she despises her
father's profession; which would account for her melancholy. A noble
cause of sadness! But, after all, I am not exactly a stranger to her.
With what grace, full of modesty, she greeted me yesterday evening! I
remember quite well how, when we met near Como, I said to her: 'One day
I shall come to see your beautiful pictures at Parma; will you remember
this name: Fabrizio del Dongo?' Will she have forgotten it? She was so
young then!

"But by the way," Fabrizio said to himself in astonishment, suddenly
interrupting the current of his thoughts, "I am forgetting to be angry.
Can I be one of those stout hearts of which antiquity has furnished the
world with several examples? How is this, I who was so much afraid of
prison, I am in prison, and I do not even remember to be sad! It is
certainly a case where the fear was a hundred times worse than the evil.
What! I have to convince myself before I can be distressed by this
prison, which, as Blanès says, may as easily last ten years as ten
months! Can it be the surprise of all these novel surroundings that is
distracting me from the grief that I ought to feel? Perhaps this good
humour which is independent of my will and not very reasonable will
cease all of a sudden, perhaps in an instant I shall fall into the black
misery which I ought to be feeling.

"In any case, it is indeed surprising to be in prison and to have to
reason with oneself in order to be unhappy. Upon my soul, I come back to
my theory, perhaps I have a great character."

Fabrizio's meditations were disturbed by the carpenter of the citadel,
who came to take the measurements of a screen for his windows; it was
the first time that this prison had been used, and they had forgotten to
complete it in this essential detail.




_THE FIRST STEP_


"And so," thought Fabrizio, "I am going to be deprived of that sublime
view." And he sought to derive sadness from this privation.

"But what's this?" he cried suddenly, addressing the carpenter. "Am I
not to see those pretty birds any more?" "Ah, the Signorina's birds,
that she's so fond of," said the man, with a good-natured air, "hidden,
eclipsed, blotted out like everything else."

Conversation was forbidden the carpenter just as strictly as it was the
gaolers, but the man felt pity for the prisoner's youth: he informed him
that these enormous shutters, resting on the sills of the two windows,
and slanting upwards and away from the wall, were intended to leave the
inmates with no view save of the sky. "It is done for their morals," he
told him, "to increase a wholesome sadness and the desire to amend their
ways in the hearts of the prisoners; the General," the carpenter added,
"has also had the idea of taking the glass out of their windows and
putting oiled paper there instead."

Fabrizio greatly enjoyed the epigrammatic turn of this conversation,
extremely rare in Italy.

"I should very much like to have a bird to cheer me, I am madly fond of
them; buy me one from Signorina Clelia Conti's maid."

"What, do you know her," cried the carpenter, "that you say her name so
easily?"

"Who has not heard tell of so famous a beauty? But I have had the honour
of meeting her several times at court."

"The poor young lady is very dull here," the carpenter went on; "she
spends all her time there with her birds. This morning she sent out to
buy some fine orange trees which they have placed by her orders at the
door of the tower, under your window: if it weren't for the cornice, you
would be able to see them." There were in this speech words that were
very precious to Fabrizio; he found a tactful way of giving the
carpenter money.

"I am breaking two rules at the same time," the man told him; "I am
talking to Your Excellency and taking money. The day after to-morrow,
when I come back with the shutters, I shall have a bird in my pocket,
and if I am not alone, I shall pretend to let it escape; if I can, I
shall bring you a prayer book: you must suffer by not being able to say
your office."

"And so," Fabrizio said to himself as soon as he was alone, "those birds
are hers, but in two days more I shall no longer see them." At this
thought his eyes became tinged with regret. But finally, to his
inexpressible joy, after so long a wait and so much anxious gazing,
towards midday Clelia came to attend to her birds. Fabrizio remained
motionless, and did not breathe; he was standing against the enormous
bars of his window and pressed close to them. He observed that she did
not raise her eyes to himself; but her movements had an air of
embarrassment, like those of a person who knows that she is being
overlooked. Had she wished to do so, the poor girl could not have
forgotten the delicate smile she had seen hovering over the prisoner's
lips the day before, when the constables brought him out of the
guard-room.

Although to all appearance she was paying the most careful attention to
what she was doing, at the moment when she approached the window of the
aviary she blushed quite perceptibly. The first thought in Fabrizio's
mind, as he stood glued to the iron bars of his window, was to indulge
in the childish trick of tapping a little with his hand on those bars,
and so making a slight noise; then the mere idea of such a want of
delicacy horrified him. "It would serve me right if for the next week
she sent her maid to look after the birds." This delicate thought would
never have occurred to him at Naples or at Novara.




_THE SCREEN_


He followed her eagerly with his eyes: "Obviously," he said to himself,
"she is going to leave the room without deigning to cast a glance at
this poor window, and yet she is just opposite me." But, on turning back
from the farther end of the room, which Fabrizio, thanks to his greater
elevation, could see quite plainly, Clelia could not help looking
furtively up at him, as she approached, and this was quite enough to
make Fabrizio think himself authorised to salute her. "Are we not alone
in the world here?" he asked himself, to give himself the courage to do
so. At this salute the girl stood still and lowered her eyes; then
Fabrizio saw her raise them very slowly; and, evidently making an effort
to control herself, she greeted the prisoner with the most grave and
_distant_ gesture; but she could not impose silence on her eyes: without
her knowing it, probably, they expressed for a moment the keenest pity.
Fabrizio remarked that she blushed so deeply that the rosy tinge ran
swiftly down to her shoulders, from which the heat had made her cast
off, when she came to the aviary, a shawl of black lace. The unconscious
stare with which Fabrizio replied to her glance doubled the girl's
discomposure. "How happy that poor woman would be," she said to herself,
thinking of the Duchessa, "if for a moment only she could see him as I
see him now."

Fabrizio had had some slight hope of saluting her again as she left the
room; but to avoid this further courtesy Clelia beat a skilful retreat
by stages, from cage to cage, as if, at the end of her task, she had to
attend to the birds nearest the door. At length she went out; Fabrizio
stood motionless gazing at the door through which she had disappeared;
he was another man.

From that moment the sole object of his thoughts was to discover how he
might manage to continue to see her, even when they had set up that
horrible screen outside the window that overlooked the governor's
_palazzo_.

Overnight, before going to bed, he had set himself the long and tedious
task of hiding the greater part of the gold that he had in several of
the rat-holes which adorned his wooden cell. "This evening, I must hide
my watch. Have I not heard it said that with patience and a watch-spring
with a jagged edge one can cut through wood and even iron? So I shall be
able to saw through this screen. The work of concealing his watch, which
occupied him for hours, did not seem to him at all long; he was thinking
of the different ways of attaining his object and of what he himself
could do in the way of carpentering. "If I get to work the right way,"
he said to himself, "I shall be able to cut a section clean out of the
oak plank which will form the screen, at the end which will be resting
on the window-sill; I can take this piece out and put it back according
to circumstances; I shall give everything I possess to Grillo, so that
he may be kind enough not to notice this little device." All Fabrizio's
happiness was now involved in the possibility of carrying out this task,
and he could think of nothing else. "If I can only manage to see her, I
am a happy man. . . . No," he reminded himself, "she must also see that
I see her." All night long his head was filled with devices of
carpentering, and perhaps never gave a single thought to the court of
Parma, the Prince's anger, etc., etc. We must admit that he did not
think either of the grief in which the Duchessa must be plunged. He
waited impatiently for the morrow; but the carpenter did not appear
again: evidently he was regarded in the prison as a Liberal. They took
care to send another, a sour-faced fellow who made no reply except a
growl that boded ill to all the pleasant words with which Fabrizio
sought to cajole him. Some of the Duchessa's many attempts to open a
correspondence with Fabrizio had been discovered by the Marchesa
Raversi's many agents, and, by her, General Fabio Conti was daily
warned, frightened, put on his mettle. Every eight hours six soldiers of
the guard relieved the previous six in the great hall with the hundred
pillars on the ground floor: in addition to these, the governor posted a
gaoler on guard at each of the three successive iron gates of the
corridor, and poor Grillo, the only one who saw the prisoner, was
condemned to leave the Torre Farnese only once a week, at which he
showed great annoyance. He made his ill humour felt by Fabrizio, who had
the sense to reply only in these words: "Plenty of good _nebiola
d'Asti_, my friend." And he gave him money.




_PRISON_


"Well now, even this, which consoles us in all our troubles," exclaimed
the indignant Grillo, in a voice barely loud enough to be heard by the
prisoner, "we are forbidden to take, and I ought to refuse it, but I
accept; however, it's money thrown away; I can tell you nothing about
anything. Go on, you must be a rare bad lot, the whole citadel is upside
down because of you; the Signora Duchessa's fine goings on have got
three of us dismissed already."

"Will the screen be ready before midday?" This was the great question
which made Fabrizio's heart throb throughout that long morning; he
counted each quarter as it sounded from the citadel clock. Finally, when
the last quarter before noon struck, the screen had not yet arrived;
Clelia reappeared and looked after her birds. Cruel necessity had made
Fabrizio's daring take such strides, and the risk of not seeing her
again seemed to him so to transcend all others that he ventured, looking
at Clelia, to make with his finger the gesture of sawing through the
screen; it is true that as soon as she had perceived this gesture, so
seditious in prison, she half bowed and withdrew.

"How now!" thought Fabrizio in amazement, "can she be so unreasonable as
to see an absurd familiarity in a gesture dictated by the most imperious
necessity? I meant to request her always to deign, when she is attending
to her birds, to look now and again at the prison window, even when she
finds it masked by an enormous wooden shutter; I meant to indicate to
her that I shall do everything that is humanly possible to contrive to
see her. Great God! Does this mean that she will not come to-morrow
owing to that indiscreet gesture?" This fear, which troubled Fabrizio's
sleep, was entirely justified; on the following day Clelia had not
appeared at three o'clock, when the workmen finished installing outside
Fabrizio's windows the two enormous screens; they had been hauled up
piecemeal, from the terrace of the great tower, by means of ropes and
pulleys attached to the iron bars outside the windows. It is true that,
hidden behind a shutter in her own room, Clelia had followed with
anguish every movement of the workmen; she had seen quite plainly
Fabrizio's mortal anxiety, but had nevertheless had the courage to keep
the promise she had made to herself.

Clelia was a little devotee of Liberalism; in her girlhood she had taken
seriously all the Liberal utterances which she had heard in the company
of her father, who thought only of establishing his own position; from
this she had come to feel a contempt, almost a horror for the flexible
character of the courtier; whence her antipathy to marriage. Since
Fabrizio's arrival, she had been racked by remorse: "And so," she said
to herself, "my unworthy heart is taking the side of the people who seek
to betray my father! He dares to make me the sign of sawing through a
door! . . . But," she at once went on with anguish in her heart, "the
whole town is talking of his approaching death! To-morrow may be the
fatal day! With the monsters who govern us, what in the world is not
possible? What meekness, what heroic serenity in those eyes, which
perhaps are about to close for ever! God! What must be the Duchessa's
anguish! They say that she is in a state of utter despair. If I were
she, I would go and stab the Prince, like the heroic Charlotte Corday."

Throughout this third day of his imprisonment, Fabrizio was wild with
anger, but solely at not having seen Clelia appear. "Anger for anger, I
ought to have told her that I loved her," he cried; for he had arrived
at this discovery. "No, it is not at all from greatness of heart that I
am not thinking about prison, and am making Blanès's prophecy prove
false: such honour is not mine. In spite of myself I think of that look
of sweet pity which Clelia let fall on me when the constables led me out
of the guard-room; that look has wiped out all my past life. Who would
have said that I should find such sweet eyes in such a place, and at the
moment when my own sight was offended by the faces of Barbone and the
General-governor. Heaven appeared to me in the midst of those vile
creatures. And how can one help loving beauty and seeking to see it
again? No, it is certainly not greatness of heart that makes me
indifferent to all the little vexations which prison heaps upon me."
Fabrizio's imagination, passing rapidly over every possibility in turn,
arrived at that of his being set at liberty. "No doubt the Duchessa's
friendship will do wonders for me. Well, I shall thank her for my
liberty only with my lips; this is not at all the sort of place to which
one returns! Once out of prison, separated as we are socially, I should
practically never see Clelia again! And, after all, what harm is prison
doing me? If Clelia deigned not to crush me with her anger, what more
should I have to ask of heaven?"

On the evening of this day on which he had not seen his pretty
neighbour, he had a great idea: with the iron cross of the rosary which
is given to every prisoner on his admission to prison, he began, and
with success, to bore a hole in the shutter. "It is perhaps an
imprudence," he told himself before he began. "Did not the carpenters
say in front of me that the painters would be coming to-morrow in their
place? What will they say if they find the shutter with a hole in it?
But if I do not commit this imprudence, to-morrow I shall not be able to
see her. What! By my own inactivity am I to remain for a day without
seeing her, and that after she has turned from me in an ill humour?"
Fabrizio's imprudence was rewarded; after fifteen hours of work he saw
Clelia, and, to complete his happiness, as she had no idea that he was
looking at her, she stood for a long time without moving, her gaze fixed
on the huge screen; he had plenty of time to read in her eyes the signs
of the most tender pity. Towards the end of the visit, she was even
quite evidently neglecting her duty to her birds, to stay for whole
minutes gazing at the window. Her heart was profoundly troubled; she was
thinking of the Duchessa, whose extreme misfortune had inspired in her
so much pity, and at the same time she was beginning to hate her. She
understood nothing of the profound melancholy which had taken hold of
her character, she felt out of temper with herself. Two or three times,
in the course of this encounter, Fabrizio was impatient to try to shake
the screen; he felt that he was not happy so long as he could not
indicate to Clelia that he saw her. "However," he told himself, "if she
knew that I could see her so easily, timid and reserved as she is, she
would probably slip away out of my sight."

He was far more happy next day (out of what miseries does love create
its happiness!): while she was looking sadly at the huge screen, he
succeeded in slipping a tiny piece of wire through the hole which the
iron cross had bored, and made signs to her which she evidently
understood, at least in the sense that they implied: "I am here and I
see you."

Fabrizio was unfortunate on the days that followed. He was anxious to
cut out of the colossal screen a piece of board the size of his hand,
which could be replaced when he chose, and which would enable him to see
and to be seen, that is to say to speak, by signs at least, of what was
passing in his heart; but he found that the noise of the very imperfect
little saw which he had made by notching the spring of his watch with
the cross aroused Grillo, who came and spent long hours in his cell. It
is true that he thought he noticed that Clelia's severity seemed to
diminish as the material difficulties in the way of any communication
between them increased; Fabrizio was fully aware that she no longer
pretended to lower her eyes or to look at the birds when he was trying
to shew her a sign of his presence by means of his wretched little piece
of wire; he had the pleasure of seeing that she never failed to appear
in the aviary at the precise moment when the quarter before noon struck,
and he almost presumed to imagine himself to be the cause of this
remarkable punctuality. Why? Such an idea does not seem reasonable; but
love detects shades invisible to the indifferent eye, and draws endless
conclusions from them. For instance, now that Clelia could no longer see
the prisoner, almost immediately on entering the aviary she would raise
her eyes to his window. These were the funereal days on which no one in
Parma had any doubt that Fabrizio would shortly be put to death: he
alone knew nothing; but this terrible thought never left Clelia's mind
for a moment, and how could she reproach herself for the excessive
interest which she felt in Fabrizio? He was about to perish and for
the cause of freedom! For it was too absurd to put a del Dongo to death
for running his sword into a mummer. It was true that this attractive
young man was attached to another woman! Clelia was profoundly unhappy,
and without admitting to herself at all precisely the kind of interest
that she took in his fate: "Certainly," she said to herself, "if they
lead him out to die, I shall fly to a convent, and never in my life will
I reappear in that society of the court; it horrifies me. Kid-gloved
assassins!"

On the eighth day of Fabrizio's imprisonment, she had good cause to
blush: she was watching fixedly, absorbed in her sorrowful thoughts, the
screen that hid the prisoner's window: suddenly a small piece of the
screen, larger than a man's hand, was removed by him; he looked at her
with an air of gaiety, and she could see his eyes which were greeting
her. She had not the strength to endure this unlooked-for trial, she
turned swiftly towards her birds and began to attend to them; but she
trembled so much that she spilled the water which she was pouring out
for them, and Fabrizio could perfectly well see her emotion; she could
not endure this situation, and took the prudent course of running from
the room.

This was the best moment in Fabrizio's life, beyond all comparison. With
what transports would he have refused his freedom, had it been offered
to him at that instant!

The following day was the day of the Duchessa's great despair. Everyone
in the town was certain that it was all over with Fabrizio. Clelia had
not the melancholy courage to show him a harshness that was not in her
heart, she spent an hour and a half in the aviary, watched all his
signals, and often answered him, at least by an expression of the
keenest and sincerest interest; at certain moments she turned from him
so as not to let him see her tears. Her feminine coquetry felt very
strongly the inadequacy of the language employed: if they could have
spoken, in how many different ways could she not have sought to discover
what precisely was the nature of the sentiments which Fabrizio felt for
the Duchessa! Clelia was now almost unable to delude herself any longer;
her feeling for Signora Sanseverina was one of hatred.

One night Fabrizio began to think somewhat seriously of his aunt: he was
amazed, he found a difficulty in recognising her image; the memory that
he kept of her had totally changed; for him, at this moment, she was a
woman of fifty.

"Great God!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "how well inspired I was not
to tell her that I loved her!" He had reached the point of being barely
able to understand how he had found her so good looking. In this
connexion little Marietta gave him the impression of a less perceptible
change: this was because he had never imagined that his heart entered at
all into his love for Marietta, while often he had believed that his
whole heart belonged to the Duchessa. The Duchessa d'A---- and Marietta
now had the effect on him of two young doves whose whole charm would be
in weakness and innocence, whereas the sublime image of Clelia Conti,
taking entire possession of his heart, went so far as to inspire him
with terror. He felt only too well that the eternal happiness of his
life was to force him to reckon with the governor's daughter, and that
it lay in her power to make of him the unhappiest of men. Every day he
went in mortal fear of seeing brought to a sudden end, by a caprice of
her will against which there was no appeal, this sort of singular and
delicious life which he found in her presence; in any event she had
already filled with joy the first two months of his imprisonment. It was
the time when, twice a week, General Fabio Conti was saying to the
Prince: "I can give Your Highness my word of honour that the prisoner
del Dongo does not speak to a living soul, and is spending his life
crushed by the most profound despair, or asleep."

Clelia came two or three times daily to visit her birds, sometimes for a
few moments only; if Fabrizio had not loved her so well, he would have
seen clearly that he was loved; but he had serious doubts on this head.
Clelia had had a piano put in her aviary. As she struck the notes, that
the sound of the instrument might account for her presence there, and
occupy the minds of the sentries who were patrolling beneath her
windows, she replied with her eyes to Fabrizio's questions. On one
subject alone she never made any answer, and indeed, on serious
occasions, took flight, and sometimes disappeared for a whole day; this
was when Fabrizio's signals indicated sentiments the import of which it
was too difficult not to understand: on this point she was inexorable.

Thus, albeit straitly confined in a small enough cage, Fabrizio led a
fully occupied life; it was entirely devoted to seeking the solution of
this important problem: "Does she love me?" The result of thousands of
observations, incessantly repeated, but also incessantly subjected to
doubt, was as follows: "All her deliberate gestures say no, but what is
involuntary in the movement of her eyes seems to admit that she is
forming an affection for me."

Clelia hoped that she might never be brought to an avowal, and it was to
avert this danger that she had repulsed, with an excessive show of
anger, a prayer which Fabrizio had several times addressed to her. The
wretchedness of the resources employed by the poor prisoner ought, it
might seem, to have inspired greater pity in Clelia. He sought to
correspond with her by means of letters which he traced on his hand with
a piece of charcoal of which he had made the precious discovery in his
stove; he would have formed the words letter by letter, in succession.
This invention would have doubled the means of conversation, inasmuch as
it would have allowed him to say actual words. His window was distant
from Clelia's about twenty-five feet; it would have been too great a
risk to speak aloud over the heads of the sentries patrolling outside
the governor's _palazzo_. Fabrizio was in doubt whether he was loved; if
he had had any experience of love, he would have had no doubt left: but
never had a woman occupied his heart; he had, moreover, no suspicion of
a secret which would have plunged him in despair had he known it: there
was a serious question of the marriage of Clelia Conti to the Marchese
Crescenzi, the richest man at court.




CHAPTER NINETEEN


General Fabio Conti's ambition, exalted to madness by the obstacles
which were occurring in the career of the Prime Minister Mosca, and
seemed to forebode his fall, had led him to make violent scenes before
his daughter; he told her incessantly, and angrily, that she was ruining
her own prospects if she did not finally make up her mind to choose a
husband; at twenty and past it was time to make a match; this cruel
state of isolation, in which her unreasonable obstinacy was plunging the
General, must be brought to an end, and so forth.

It was originally to escape from these continual bursts of ill humour
that Clelia had taken refuge in the aviary; it could be reached only by
an extremely awkward wooden stair, which his gout made a serious
obstacle to the governor.

For some weeks now Clelia's heart had been so agitated, she herself knew
so little what she ought to decide, that, without giving any definite
promise to her father, she had almost let herself be engaged. In one of
his fits of rage, the General had shouted that he could easily send her
to cool her heels in the most depressing convent in Parma, and that
there he would let her stew until she deigned to make a choice.

"You know that our family, old as it is, cannot muster a rent-roll of
6,000 lire, while the Marchese Crescenzi's fortune amounts to more than
100,000 scudi a year. Everyone at court agrees that he has the sweetest
temper; he has never given anyone cause for complaint; he is a fine
looking man, young, popular with the Prince; and I say that you ought to
be shut up in a madhouse if you reject his advances. If this were the
first refusal, I might perhaps put up with it, but there have been five
or six suitors now, all among the first men at court, whom you have
rejected, like the little fool that you are. And what would become of
you, I ask you, if I were to be put on half-pay? What a triumph for my
enemies, if they saw me living in some second floor apartment, I who
have so often been talked of for the Ministry! No, begad, my good nature
has let me play Cassandra quite long enough. You will kindly supply me
with some valid objection to this poor Marchese Crescenzi, who is so
kind as to be in love with you, to be willing to marry you without a
dowry, and to make over to you a jointure of 30,000 lire a year, which
will at least pay my rent; you will talk to me reasonably, or, by
heaven, you will marry him in two months from now!"




_ANGUISH_


One passage alone in the whole of this speech had struck Clelia; this
was the threat to send her to a convent, and thereby remove her from the
citadel, at the moment, moreover, when Fabrizio's life seemed to be
hanging only by a thread, for not a month passed in which the rumour of
his approaching death did not run afresh through the town and through
the court. Whatever arguments she might use, she could not make up her
mind to run this risk. To be separated from Fabrizio, and at the moment
when she was trembling for his life! This was in her eyes the greatest
of evils; it was at any rate the most immediate.

This is not to say that, even in not being parted from Fabrizio, her
heart found any prospect of happiness; she believed him to be loved by
the Duchessa, and her soul was torn by a deadly jealousy. Incessantly she
thought of the advantages enjoyed by this woman who was so generally
admired. The extreme reserve which she imposed on herself with regard to
Fabrizio, the language of signs to which she had restricted him, from
fear of falling into some indiscretion, all seemed to combine to take
from her the means of arriving at any enlightenment as to his relations
with the Duchessa. Thus, every day, she felt more cruelly than before
the frightful misfortune of having a rival in the heart of Fabrizio, and
every day she dared less to expose herself to the danger of giving him
an opportunity to tell her the whole truth as to what was passing in
that heart. But how charming it would be, nevertheless, to hear him make
an avowal of his true feelings! What a joy for Clelia to be able to
clear away those frightful suspicions which were poisoning her life!

Fabrizio was fickle; at Naples he had had the reputation of changing his
mistress rather easily. Despite all the reserve imposed on the character
of a young lady, since she had become a Canoness and had gone to court,
Clelia, without ever asking questions, but by listening attentively, had
succeeded in learning the reputation that had been made for themselves
by the young men who in succession had sought her hand; very well,
Fabrizio, when compared with all these young men, was the one who was
charged with being most fickle in affairs of the heart. He was in
prison, he was dull, he was paying court to the one woman to whom he
could speak; what more simple? What, indeed, _more common_? And it was
this that grieved Clelia. Even if, by a complete revelation, she should
learn that Fabrizio no longer loved the Duchessa, what confidence could
she have in his words? Even if she believed in the sincerity of what he
said, what confidence could she have in the permanence of his feelings?
And lastly, to drive the final stroke of despair into her heart, was not
Fabrizio already far advanced in his career as a churchman? Was he not
on the eve of binding himself by lifelong vows? Did not the highest
dignities await him in that walk in life? "If the least glimmer of sense
remained in my mind," the unhappy Clelia said to herself, "ought I not
to take flight? Ought I not to beg my father to shut me up in some
convent far away? And, as a last straw, it is precisely the fear of
being sent away from the citadel and shut up in a convent that is
governing all my conduct! It is that fear which is forcing me to hide
the truth, which is obliging me to act the hideous and degrading lie of
pretending to accept the public attentions of the Marchese Crescenzi."




_PRISON_


Clelia was by nature profoundly reasonable; in the whole of her life she
had never had to reproach herself with a single unconsidered step, and
her conduct on this occasion was the height of unreason: one may judge
of her sufferings! They were all the more cruel in that she let herself
rest under no illusion. She was attaching herself to a man who was
desperately loved by the most beautiful woman at court, a woman who had
so many claims to be reckoned superior to Clelia herself! And this man
himself, had he been at liberty, was incapable of a serious attachment,
whereas she, as she felt only too well, would never have but this one
attachment in her life.

It was, therefore, with a heart agitated by the most frightful remorse
that Clelia came every day to the aviary: carried to this spot as though
in spite of herself, her uneasiness changed its object and became less
cruel, the remorse vanished for a few moments; she watched, with
indescribable beatings of her heart, for the moments at which Fabrizio
could open the sort of hatch that he had made in the enormous screen
which masked his window. Often the presence of the gaoler Grillo in his
cell prevented him from conversing by signs with his friend.

One evening, about eleven, Fabrizio heard sounds of the strangest nature
in the citadel: at night, by leaning on the window-sill and poking his
head out through the hatch, he could distinguish any noise at all loud
that was made on the great staircase, called "of the three hundred
steps," which led from the first courtyard, inside the round tower, to
the stone platform on which had been built the governor's _palazzo_ and
the Farnese prison in which he himself was.

About halfway up, at the hundred and eightieth step, this staircase
passed from the south side of a vast court to the north side; at this
point there was an iron bridge, very light and very narrow, on the
middle of which a turnkey was posted. This man was relieved every six
hours, and was obliged to rise and stand to one side to enable anyone to
pass over the bridge which he guarded, and by which alone one could
reach the governor's _palazzo_ and the Torre Farnese. Two turns of a
spring, the key of which the governor carried on his person, were enough
to hurl this iron bridge down into the court, more than a hundred feet
below; this simple precaution once taken, as there was no other
staircase in the whole of the citadel, and as every evening at midnight
a serjeant brought to the governor's house, and placed in a closet which
was reached through his bedroom, the ropes of all the wells, he was left
completely inaccessible in his _palazzo_, and it would have been equally
impossible for anyone in the world to reach the Torre Farnese. All this
Fabrizio had thoroughly observed for himself on the day of his arrival
at the citadel, while Grillo who, like all gaolers, loved to boast of
his prison, had explained it to him many times since; thus he had but
little hope of escape. At the same time he reminded himself of a maxim
of Priore Blanès: "The lover thinks more often of reaching his mistress
than the husband of guarding his wife; the prisoner thinks more often of
escaping than the gaoler of shutting his door; and so, whatever the
obstacles may be, the lover and the prisoner ought to succeed."




_THE SERENADE_


That evening Fabrizio could hear quite distinctly a considerable number
of men cross the iron bridge, known as the Slave's bridge, because once
a Dalmatian slave had succeeded in escaping, by throwing the guardian of
the bridge down into the court below.

"They are coming here to carry off somebody, perhaps they are going to
take me out to hang me; but there may be some disorder, I must make the
most of it." He had armed himself, he was already taking the gold from
some of his hiding-places, when suddenly he stopped.

"Man is a quaint animal," he exclaimed, "I must admit! What would an
invisible onlooker say if he saw my preparations? Do I by any chance
wish to escape? What would happen to me the day after my return to
Parma? Should I not be doing everything in the world to return to
Clelia? If there is some disorder, let us profit by it to slip into the
governor's _palazzo_; perhaps I may be able to speak to her, perhaps,
encouraged by the disorder, I may venture to kiss her hand. General
Conti, highly mistrustful by nature, and no less vain, has his _palazzo_
guarded by five sentries, one at each corner of the building and a fifth
outside the door, but fortunately the night is very dark." On tiptoe
Fabrizio stole down to find out what the gaoler Grillo and his dog were
doing: the gaoler was fast asleep in an oxhide suspended by four ropes
and enclosed in a coarse net; the dog Fox opened his eyes, rose, and
came quietly towards Fabrizio to lick his hand.

Our prisoner returned softly up the six steps, which led to his wooden
cell; the noise was becoming so loud at the foot of the Torre Farnese,
and immediately opposite the door, that he thought that Grillo might
easily awake. Fabrizio, armed with all his weapons, ready for action,
was imagining that he was destined that night for great adventures, when
suddenly he heard the most beautiful symphony in the world strike up: it
was a serenade which was being given to the governor or his daughter. He
was seized with a fit of wild laughter: "And I who was already dreaming
of striking dagger-blows! As though a serenade were not infinitely more
normal than an abduction requiring the presence of two dozen people in a
prison, or than a mutiny!" The music was excellent, and seemed to
Fabrizio delicious, his spirit having had no distraction for so many
weeks; it made him shed very pleasant tears; in his delight he addressed
the most irresistible speeches to the fair Clelia. But the following
day, at noon, he found her in so sombre a melancholy, she was so pale,
she directed at him a gaze in which he read at times such anger, that he
did not feel himself to be sufficiently justified in putting any
question to her as to the serenade; he was afraid of being impolite.

Clelia had every reason to be sad, it was a serenade given her by the
Marchese Crescenzi; a step so public was in a sense the official
announcement of their marriage. Until the very day of the serenade, and
until nine o'clock that evening, Clelia had set up the bravest
resistance, but she had had the weakness to yield to the threat of her
being sent immediately to a convent, which had been held over her by her
father.




_PRISON_


"What! I should never see him again!" she had said to herself, weeping.
It was in vain that her reason had added: "I should never see again that
creature who will harm me in every possible way, I should never see
again that lover of the Duchessa, I should never see again that man who
had ten acknowledged mistresses at Naples, and was unfaithful to them
all; I should never see again that ambitious young man who, if he
survives the sentence that he is undergoing, is to take holy orders! It
would be a crime for me to look at him again when he is out of his
citadel, and his natural inconstancy will spare me the temptation; for,
what am I to him? An excuse for spending less tediously a few hours of
each of his days in prison." In the midst of all this abuse, Clelia
happened to remember the smile with which he had looked at the
constables who surrounded him when he came out of the turnkey's office
to go up to the Torre Farnese. The tears welled into her eyes: "Dear
friend, what would I not do for you? You will ruin me, I know; such is
my fate; I am ruining myself in a terrible fashion by listening to-night
to this frightful serenade; but to-morrow, at midday, I shall see your
eyes again."

It was precisely on the morrow of that day on which Clelia had made such
great sacrifices for the young prisoner, whom she loved with so strong a
passion; it was on the morrow of that day on which, seeing all his
faults, she had sacrificed her life to him, that Fabrizio was in despair
at her coldness. If, even employing only the imperfect language of
signs, he had done the slightest violence to Clelia's heart, probably
she would not have been able to keep back her tears, and Fabrizio would
have won an avowal of all that she felt for him; but he lacked the
courage, he was in too deadly a fear of offending Clelia, she could
punish him with too severe a penalty. In other words, Fabrizio had no
experience of the emotion that is given one by a woman whom one loves;
it was a sensation which he had never felt, even in the feeblest degree.
It took him a week, from the day of the serenade, to place himself once
more on the old footing of simple friendship with Clelia. The poor girl
armed herself with severity, being half dead with fear of betraying
herself, and it seemed to Fabrizio that every day he was losing ground
with her.

One day (and Fabrizio had then been nearly three months in prison
without having had any communication whatever with the outer world, and
yet without feeling unhappy), Grillo had stayed very late in the morning
in his cell: Fabrizio did not know how to get rid of him; in the end,
half past twelve had already struck before he was able to open the two
little traps, a foot high, which he had carved in the fatal screen.

Clelia was standing at the aviary window, her eyes fixed on Fabrizio's;
her drawn features expressed the most violent despair. As soon as she
saw Fabrizio, she made him a sign that all was lost: she dashed to her
piano, and, pretending to sing a _recitativo_ from the popular opera of
the season, spoke to him in sentences broken by her despair and the fear
of being overheard by the sentries who were patrolling beneath the
window:


"Great God! You are still alive? How grateful I am to heaven! Barbone,
the gaoler whose impudence you punished on the day of your coming here,
disappeared, was not to be found in the citadel; the night before last
he returned, and since yesterday I have had reason to believe that he is
seeking to poison you. He comes prowling through the private kitchen of
the _palazzo_, where your meals are prepared. I know nothing for
certain, but my maid thinks that the horrible creature can only be
coming to the _palazzo_ kitchens with the object of taking your life. I
was dying of anxiety when I did not see you appear, I thought you were
dead. Abstain from all nourishment until further notice, I shall do
everything possible to see that a little chocolate comes to you. In any
case, this evening at nine, if the bounty of heaven wills that you have
any thread, or that you can tie strips of your linen together in a
riband, let it down from your window over the orange trees, I shall
fasten a cord to it which you can pull up, and by means of the cord I
shall keep you supplied with bread and chocolate."


Fabrizio had carefully treasured the piece of charcoal which he had
found in the stove in his cell: he hastened to make the most of Clelia's
emotion, and wrote on his hand a series of letters which taken in order
formed these words:

"I love you, and life is dear to me only because I see you; at all
costs, send me paper and a pencil."

As Fabrizio had hoped, the extreme terror which he read in Clelia's
features prevented the girl from breaking off the conversation after
this daring announcement, "I love you"; she was content with exhibiting
great vexation. Fabrizio was inspired to add: "There is such a wind
blowing to-day that I can only catch very faintly the advice you are so
kind as to give me in your singing; the sound of the piano is drowning
your voice. What is this poison, for instance, that you tell me of?"

At these words the girl's terror reappeared in its entirety; she began
in haste to trace large letters in ink on the pages of a book which she
tore out, and Fabrizio was transported with joy to see at length
established, after three months of effort, this channel of
correspondence for which he had so vainly begged. He had no thought of
abandoning the little ruse which had proved so successful, his aim was
to write real letters, and he pretended at every moment not to
understand the words of which Clelia was holding up each letter in turn
before his eyes.

She was obliged to leave the aviary to go to her father; she feared more
than anything that he might come to look for her; his suspicious nature
would not have been at all satisfied with the close proximity of the
window of this aviary to the screen which masked that of the prisoner.
Clelia herself had had the idea a few moments earlier, when Fabrizio's
failure to appear was plunging her in so deadly an anxiety, that it
might be possible to throw a small stone wrapped in a piece of paper
over the top of this screen; if by a lucky chance the gaoler in charge
of Fabrizio happened not to be in his cell at that moment, it was a
certain method of corresponding with him.

Our hero hastened to make a riband of sorts out of his linen; and that
evening, shortly after nine, he heard quite distinctly a series of
little taps on the tubs of the orange trees which stood beneath his
window; he let down his riband, which brought back with it a fine cord
of great length with the help of which he drew up first of all a supply
of chocolate, and then, to his unspeakable satisfaction, a roll of paper
and a pencil. It was in vain that he let down the cord again, he
received nothing more; apparently the sentries had come near the orange
trees. But he was wild with joy. He hastened to write Clelia an endless
letter: no sooner was it finished than he attached it to the cord and
let it down. For more than three hours he waited in vain for it to be
taken, and more than once drew it up again to make alterations. "If
Clelia does not see my letter to-night," he said to himself, "while she
is still upset by her idea of poison, to-morrow morning perhaps she will
utterly reject the idea of receiving a letter."

The fact was that Clelia had been unable to avoid going down to the town
with her father; Fabrizio almost guessed as much when he heard, about
half past twelve, the General's carriage return; he recognised the trot
of the horses. What was his joy when, a few minutes after he had heard
the General cross the terrace and the sentries present arms to him, he
felt a pull at the cord which he had not ceased to keep looped round his
arm! A heavy weight was attached to this cord; two little tugs gave him
the signal to draw it up. He had considerable difficulty in getting the
heavy object that he was lifting past a cornice which jutted out some
way beneath his window.

This object which he had so much difficulty in pulling up was a flask
filled with water and wrapped in a shawl. It was with ecstasy that this
poor young man, who had been living for so long in so complete a
solitude, covered this shawl with his kisses. But we must abandon the
attempt to describe his emotion when at last, after so many days of
fruitless expectation, he discovered a little scrap of paper which was
attached to the shawl by a pin.

"Drink nothing but this water, live upon chocolate; to-morrow I shall do
everything in the world to get some bread to you, I shall mark it on
each side with little crosses in ink. It is a terrible thing to say, but
you must know it, perhaps Barbone has been ordered to poison you. How is
it that you did not feel that the subject of which you treat in your
pencilled letter was bound to displease me? Besides, I should not write
to you, but for the danger that threatens us. I have just seen the
Duchessa, she is well and so is the Conte, but she has grown very thin;
do not write to me again on that subject; do you wish to make me angry?"

It required a great effort of virtue on Clelia's part to write the
penultimate line of this letter. Everyone alleged, in the society at
court, that Signora Sanseverina was becoming extremely friendly with
Conte Baldi, that handsome man, the former friend of the Marchesa
Raversi. What was certain was that he had quarrelled in the most open
fashion with the said Marchesa, who for six years had been a second
mother to him and had established him in society.

Clelia had been obliged to begin this hasty little note over again, for,
in the first draft, some allusion escaped her to the fresh amours with
which popular malice credited the Duchessa.

"How base of me!" she had exclaimed, "to say things to Fabrizio against
the woman he loves!"

The following morning, long before it was light, Grillo came into
Fabrizio's cell, left there a package of some weight, and vanished
without saying a word. This package contained a loaf of bread of some
size, adorned on every side with little crosses traced in ink: Fabrizio
covered them with kisses; he was in love. Besides the bread there was a
roll wrapped in a large number of folds of paper; these enclosed six
hundred francs in sequins; last of all Fabrizio found a handsome
breviary, quite new: a hand which he was beginning to know had traced
these words on the margin:

"_Poison_! Beware of water, wine, everything; live upon chocolate, try
to make the dog eat your untouched dinner; you must not appear
distrustful, the enemy would try some other plan. Do nothing foolish, in
Heaven's Name! No frivolity!"

Fabrizio made haste to erase these dear words which might compromise
Clelia, and to tear a large number of pages from the breviary, with the
help of which he made several alphabets; each letter was properly drawn
with crushed charcoal soaked in wine. These alphabets had dried when at
a quarter to twelve Clelia appeared, a few feet inside the aviary
window. "The great thing now," Fabrizio said to himself, "is that she
shall consent to make use of these." But, fortunately for him, it so
happened that she had a number of things to say to the young prisoner
with regard to the attempt to poison him: a dog belonging to one of the
maidservants had died after eating a dish that was intended for him.
Clelia, so far from raising any objection to the use of the alphabets,
had prepared a magnificent one for herself, in ink. The conversation
carried out by these means, awkward enough in the first few moments,
lasted not less than an hour and a half, that is to say all the time
that Clelia was able to spend in the aviary. Two or three times, when
Fabrizio allowed himself forbidden liberties, she made no answer, and
turned away for a moment to give the necessary attention to her birds.

Fabrizio had obtained the concession that, in the evening, when she sent
him his water, she would convey to him one of the alphabets which she
had written in ink, and which were far more visible. He did not fail to
write her a very long letter in which he took care not to include
anything affectionate, in a manner at least that might give offence.
This plan proved successful; his letter was accepted.

Next day, in their conversation by the alphabets, Clelia made him no
reproach; she told him that the danger of poison was growing less;
Barbone had been attacked and almost killed by the men who were keeping
company with the kitchen-maids of the governor's _palazzo_; probably he
would not venture to appear in the kitchens again. Clelia confessed to
him that, for his sake, she had dared to steal an antidote from her
father; she was sending it to him; the essential thing was to refuse at
once all food in which he detected an unusual taste.

Clelia had put many questions to Don Cesare without succeeding in
discovering who had sent the six hundred francs which Fabrizio had
received; in any case, it was an excellent sign; the severity was
decreasing.

This episode of the poison advanced our hero's position enormously; he
was still unable ever to obtain the least admission that resembled love,
but he had the happiness of living on the most intimate terms with
Clelia. Every morning, and often in the evening, there was a long
conversation with the alphabets; every evening, at nine o'clock, Clelia
accepted a long letter, to which she sometimes replied in a few words;
she sent him the newspaper and several books; finally, Grillo had been
won over to the extent of bringing Fabrizio bread and wine, which were
given him every day by Clelia's maid. The gaoler Grillo had concluded
from this that the governor was not acting in concert with the people
who had ordered Barbone to poison the young Monsignore, and was greatly
relieved, as were all his fellows, for it had become a proverb in the
prison that "you had only to look Monsignor del Dongo in the face for
him to give you money."

Fabrizio had grown very pale; the complete want of exercise was
affecting his health; apart from this, he had never in his life been so
happy. The tone of the conversation between Clelia and himself was
intimate, and at times quite gay. The only moments in Clelia's life that
were not besieged by grim forebodings and remorse were those which she
spent in talk with him. One day she was so rash as to say to him:

"I admire your delicacy; as I am the governor's daughter, you never
speak to me of your desire to regain your freedom!"

"That is because I take good care not to feel so absurd a desire," was
Fabrizio's answer; "once back in Parma, how should I see you again? And
life would become insupportable if I could not tell you all that is in
my mind--no, not quite all that is in my mind, you take good care of
that: but still, in spite of your hard-heartedness, to live without
seeing you every day would be to me a far worse punishment than this
prison! Never in my life have I been so happy! . . . Is it not pleasant
to find that happiness was awaiting me in prison?"




_DIPLOMACY_


"There is a great deal more to be said about that," replied Clelia with
an air which became of a sudden unduly serious and almost sinister.

"What!" cried Fabrizio, greatly alarmed, "is there a risk of my losing
the tiny place I have managed to win in your heart, which constitutes my
sole joy in this world?"

"Yes," she told him; "I have good reason to believe that you are lacking
in frankness towards me, although you may be regarded generally as a
great gentleman; but I do not wish to speak of this to-day."

This singular opening caused great embarrassment in their conversation,
and often tears started to the eyes of both.

The Fiscal General Rassi was still anxious to change his name; he was
tired to death of the name he had made for himself, and wished to become
Barone Riva. Conte Mosca, for his part, was toiling, with all the skill
of which he was capable, to strengthen in this venal judge his passion
for the barony, just as he was seeking to intensify in the Prince his
mad hope of making himself Constitutional Monarch of Lombardy. They were
the only means that he could invent of postponing the death of Fabrizio.

The Prince said to Rassi:

"A fortnight of despair and a fortnight of hope, it is by patiently
carrying out this system that we shall succeed in subduing that proud
woman's nature; it is by these alternatives of mildness and harshness
that one manages to break the wildest horses. Apply the caustic firmly."

And indeed, every fortnight, one saw a fresh rumour come to birth in
Parma announcing the death of Fabrizio in the near future. This talk
plunged the unhappy Duchessa in the utmost despair. Faithful to her
resolution not to involve the Conte in her downfall, she saw him but
twice monthly; but she was punished for her cruelty towards that poor
man by the continual alternations of dark despair in which she was
passing her life. In vain did Conte Mosca, overcoming the cruel jealousy
inspired in him by the assiduities of Conte Baldi, that handsome man,
write to the Duchessa when he could not see her, and acquaint her with
all the intelligence that he owed to the zeal of the future Barone Riva;
the Duchessa would have needed (for strength to resist the atrocious
rumours that were incessantly going about with regard to Fabrizio), to
spend her life with a man of intelligence and heart such as Mosca; the
nullity of Baldi, leaving her to her own thoughts, gave her an appalling
existence, and the Conte could not succeed in communicating to her his
reasons for hope.

By means of various pretexts of considerable ingenuity the Minister had
succeeded in making the Prince agree to his depositing in a friendly
castle, in the very heart of Lombardy, the records of all the highly
complicated intrigues by means of which Ranuccio-Ernest IV nourished the
utterly mad hope of making himself Constitutional Monarch of that
smiling land.

More than a score of these extremely compromising documents were in the
Prince's hand, or bore his signature, and in the event of Fabrizio's
life being seriously threatened the Conte had decided to announce to His
Highness that he was going to hand these documents over to a great power
which with a word could crush him.

Conte Mosca believed that he could rely upon the future Barone Riva, he
was afraid only of poison; Barbone's attempt had greatly alarmed him,
and to such a point that he had determined to risk taking a step which,
to all appearance, was an act of madness. One morning he went to the
gate of the citadel and sent for General Fabio Conti, who came down as
far as the bastion above the gate; there, strolling with him in a
friendly fashion, he had no hesitation in saying to him, after a short
preamble, acidulated but polite:




_PRISON_


"If Fabrizio dies in any suspicious manner, his death may be put down to
me; I shall get a reputation for jealousy, which would be an absurd and
abominable stigma and one that I am determined not to accept. So, to
clear myself in the matter, if he dies of illness, _I shall kill you
with my own hand_; you may count on that." General Fabio Conti made a
magnificent reply and spoke of his bravery, but the look in the Conte's
eyes remained present in his thoughts.

A few days later, as though he were working in concert with the Conte,
the Fiscal Rassi took a liberty which was indeed singular in a man of
his sort. The public contempt attached to his name, which was proverbial
among the rabble, had made him ill since he had acquired the hope of
being able to change it. He addressed to General Fabio Conti an official
copy of the sentence which condemned Fabrizio to twelve years in the
citadel. According to the law, this was what should have been done on
the very day after Fabrizio's admission to prison; but what was
unheard-of at Parma, in that land of secret measures, was that Justice
should allow itself to take such a step without an express order from
the Sovereign. How indeed could the Prince entertain the hope of
doubling every fortnight the Duchessa's alarm, and of subduing that
proud spirit, to quote his own words, once an official copy of the
sentence had gone out from the Chancellory of Justice? On the day before
that on which General Fabio Conti received the official document from
the Fiscal Rassi, he learned that the clerk Barbone had been beaten
black and blue on returning rather late to the citadel; he concluded
from this that there was no longer any question, in a certain quarter,
of getting rid of Fabrizio; and, in a moment of prudence which saved
Rassi from the immediate consequences of his folly, he said nothing to
the Prince, at the next audience which he obtained of him, of the
official copy of Fabrizio's sentence which had been transmitted to him.
The Conte had discovered, happily for the peace of mind of the
unfortunate Duchessa, that Barbone's clumsy attempt had been only an act
of personal revenge, and had caused the clerk to be given the warning of
which we have spoken.

Fabrizio was very agreeably surprised when, after one hundred and
thirty-five days of confinement in a distinctly narrow cell, the good
chaplain Don Cesare came to him one Thursday to take him for an airing
on the dungeon of the Torre Farnese: he had not been there ten minutes
before, unaccustomed to the fresh air, he began to feel faint.

Don Cesare made this accident an excuse to allow him half an hour's
exercise every day. This was a mistake: these frequent airings soon
restored to our hero a strength which he abused.

There were several serenades; the punctilious governor allowed them only
because they created an engagement between the Marchese Crescenzi and
his daughter Clelia, whose character alarmed him; he felt vaguely that
there was no point of contact between her and himself, and was always
afraid of some rash action on her part. She might fly to the convent,
and he would be left helpless. At the same time, the General was afraid
that all this music, the sound of which could penetrate into the deepest
dungeons, reserved for the blackest Liberals, might contain signals. The
musicians themselves, too, made him suspicious; and so no sooner was the
serenade at an end than they were locked into the big rooms below the
governor's _palazzo_, which by day served as an office for the staff,
and the door was not opened to let them out until the following morning,
when it was broad daylight. It was the governor himself who, stationed
on the Slave's Bridge, had them searched in his presence and gave them
their liberty, not without several times repeating that he would have
hanged at once any of them who had the audacity to undertake the
smallest commission for any prisoner. And they knew that, in his fear of
giving offence, he was a man of his word, so that the Marchese Crescenzi
was obliged to pay his musicians at a triple rate, they being greatly
upset at thus having to spend a night in prison.

All that the Duchessa could obtain, and that with great difficulty, from
the pusillanimity of one of these men was that he should take with him a
letter to be handed to the governor. The letter was addressed to
Fabrizio: the writer deplored the fatality which had brought it about
that, after he had been more than five months in prison, his friends
outside had not been able to establish any communication with him.

On entering the citadel, the bribed musician flung himself at the feet
of General Fabio Conti, and confessed to him that a priest, unknown to
him, had so insisted upon his taking a letter addressed to Signor del
Dongo that he had not dared to refuse; but, faithful to his duty, he was
hastening to place it in His Excellency's hands.

His Excellency was highly flattered: he knew the resources at the
Duchessa's disposal, and was in great fear of being hoaxed. In his joy,
the General went to submit this letter to the Prince, who was delighted.

"So, the firmness of my administration has brought me my revenge! That
proud woman has been suffering for more than six months! But one of
these days we are going to have a scaffold erected, and her wild
imagination will not fail to believe that it is intended for young del
Dongo."




CHAPTER TWENTY


One night, about one o'clock in the morning, Fabrizio, leaning upon his
window-sill, had slipped his head through the door cut in his screen and
was contemplating the stars and the immense horizon which one enjoyed
from the summit of the Torre Farnese. His eyes, roaming over the country
in the direction of the lower Po and Ferrara, noticed quite by chance an
extremely small but quite brilliant light which seemed to be shining
from the top of a tower. "That light cannot be visible from the plain,"
Fabrizio said to himself, "the bulk of the tower prevents it from being
seen from below; it will be some signal for a distant point." Suddenly
he noticed that this light kept on appearing and disappearing at very
short intervals. "It is some girl speaking to her lover in the next
village." He counted nine flashes in succession. "That is an _I_," he
said, "_I_ being the ninth letter of the alphabet." There followed,
after a pause, fourteen flashes: "That is _N_"; then, after another
pause, a single flash: "It is an _A_; the word is _Ina_."

What were his joy and surprise when the next series of flashes, still
separated by short pauses, made up the following words:


    INA PENSA A TE


Evidently, "Gina is thinking of you!"

He replied at once by flashing his own lamp through the smaller of the
holes that he had made:


FABRIZIO T'AMA ("Fabrizio loves you!")





_PRISON_


The conversation continued until daybreak. This night was the one
hundred and seventy-third of his imprisonment, and he was informed that
for four months they had been making these signals every night. But
anyone might see and read them; they began from this night to establish
a system of abbreviations: three flashes in very quick succession meant
the Duchessa; four, the Prince; two, Conte Mosca; two quick flashes
followed by two slow ones meant _escape_. They agreed to use in future
the old alphabet _alla Monaca_, which, so as not to be understood by
unauthorised persons, changes the ordinary sequence of the letters, and
gives them arbitrary values: _A_, for instance, is represented by 10,
_B_ by Z; that is to say three successive interruptions of the flash
mean _B_, ten successive interruptions _A_, and so on; an interval of
darkness separates the words. An appointment was made for the following
night at one o'clock, and that night the Duchessa came to the tower,
which was a quarter of a league from the town. Her eyes filled with
tears as she saw the signals made by the Fabrizio whom she had so often
imagined dead. She told him herself, by flashes of the lamp: "_I love
you--courage--health--hope. Exercise your strength in your cell, you
will need the strength of your arms_.--I have not seen him," she said to
herself, "since that concert with Fausta, when he appeared at the door
of my drawing-room dressed as a _chasseur_. Who would have said then
what a fate was in store for him?"

The Duchessa had signals made which informed Fabrizio that presently he
would be released thanks to the Prince's bounty (these signals might be
intercepted); then she returned to messages of affection; she could not
tear herself from him. Only the representations made by Lodovico, who,
because he had been of use to Fabrizio, had become her factotum, could
prevail upon her, when day was already breaking, to discontinue signals
which might attract the attention of some ill-disposed person. This
announcement, several times repeated, of an approaching release, cast
Fabrizio into a profound sorrow. Clelia, noticing this next day, was so
imprudent as to inquire the cause of it.

"I can see myself on the point of giving the Duchessa serious grounds
for displeasure."

"And what can she require of you that you would refuse her?" exclaimed
Clelia, carried away by the most lively curiosity.

"She wishes me to leave this place," was his answer, "and that is what I
will never consent to do."

Clelia could not reply: she looked at him and burst into tears. If he
had been able to speak to her face to face, then perhaps he would have
received her avowal of feelings, his uncertainty as to which often
plunged him in a profound discouragement; he felt keenly that life
without Clelia's love could be for him only a succession of bitter
griefs or intolerable tedium. He felt that it was no longer worth his
while to live to rediscover those same pleasures that had seemed to him
interesting before he knew what love was, and, albeit suicide has not
yet become fashionable in Italy, he had thought of it as a last
resource, if fate were to part him from Clelia.

Next day he received a long letter from her:


"You must, my friend, be told the truth: over and over again, since you
have been here, it has been believed in Parma that your last day had
come. It is true that you were sentenced only to twelve years in a
fortress; but it is, unfortunately, impossible to doubt that an
all-powerful hatred is bent on your destruction, and a score of times I
have trembled for fear that poison was going to put an end to your days:
you must therefore seize every _possible_ means of escaping from here. You
see that for your sake I am neglecting the most sacred duties; judge of
the imminence of the danger by the things which I venture to say to you,
and which are so out of place on my lips. If it is absolutely necessary,
if there is no other way of safety, fly. Every moment that you spend in
this fortress may put your life in the greatest peril; bear in mind that
there is a party at court whom the prospect of crime has never deterred
from carrying out their designs. And do you not see all the plans of
that party constantly circumvented by the superior skill of Conte Mosca?
Very well, they have found a sure way of banishing him from Parma, it is
the Duchessa's desperation; and are they not only too sure of bringing
about the desperation by the death of a certain young prisoner? This
point alone, which is unanswerable, ought to make you form a judgment of
your situation. You say that you feel friendship for me: think, first of
all, that insurmountable obstacles must prevent that feeling from ever
becoming at all definite between us. We may have met in our youth, we
may each have held out a helping hand to the other in a time of trouble;
fate may have set me in this grim place that I might lighten your
suffering; but I should never cease to reproach myself if illusions,
which nothing justifies or will ever justify, led you not to seize every
possible opportunity of removing your life from so terrible a peril. I
have lost all peace of mind through the cruel folly I have committed in
exchanging with you certain signs of open friendship. If our childish
pastimes, with alphabets, led you to form illusions which are so little
warranted and which may be so fatal to yourself, it would be vain for me
to seek to justify myself by reminding you of Barbone's attempt. I
should be casting you myself into a far more terrible, far more certain
peril, when I thought only to protect you from a momentary danger; and
my imprudences are for ever unpardonable if they have given rise to
feelings which may lead you to resist the Duchessa's advice. See what
you oblige me to repeat to you: save yourself, I command you. . . ."


This letter was very long; certain passages, such as the _I command you_
which we have just quoted, gave moments of exquisite hope to Fabrizio's
love; it seemed to him that the sentiments underlying the words were
distinctly tender, if the expressions used were remarkably prudent. In
other instances he paid the penalty for his complete ignorance of this
kind of warfare; he saw only simple friendship, or even a very ordinary
humanity in this letter from Clelia.

Otherwise, nothing that she told him made him change his intentions for
an instant: supposing that the perils which she depicted were indeed
real, was it extravagant to purchase, with a few momentary dangers, the
happiness of seeing her every day? What sort of life would he lead when
he had fled once again to Bologna or to Florence? For, if he escaped
from the citadel, he certainly could not hope for permission to live in
Parma. And even so, when the Prince should change his mind sufficiently
to set him at liberty (which was so highly improbable since he,
Fabrizio, had become, for a powerful faction, one of the means of
overthrowing Conte Mosca), what sort of life would he lead in Parma,
separated from Clelia by all the hatred that divided the two parties?
Once or twice in a month, perhaps, chance would place them in the same
drawing-room; but even then, what sort of conversation could he hold
with her? How could he recapture that perfect intimacy which, every day
now, he enjoyed for several hours? What would be the conversation of the
drawing-room, compared with that which they made by alphabets? "And, if
I must purchase this life of enjoyment and this unique chance of
happiness with a few little dangers, where is the harm in that? And
would it not be a further happiness to find thus a feeble opportunity of
giving her a proof of my love?"

Fabrizio saw nothing in Clelia's letter but an excuse for asking her for
a meeting; it was the sole and constant object of all his desires. He
had spoken to her of it once only, and then for an instant, at the
moment of his entry into prison; and that was now more than two hundred
days ago.

An easy way of meeting Clelia offered itself: the excellent Priore Don
Cesare allowed Fabrizio half an hour's exercise on the terrace of the
Torre Farnese every Thursday, during the day; but on the other days of
the week this airing, which might be observed by all the inhabitants of
Parma and the neighbouring villages, and might seriously compromise the
governor, took place only at nightfall. To climb to the terrace of the
Torre Farnese there was no other stair but that of the little belfry
belonging to the chapel so lugubriously decorated in black and white
marble, which the reader may perhaps remember. Grillo escorted Fabrizio
to this chapel, and opened the little stair to the belfry for him: his
duty would have been to accompany him; but, as the evenings were growing
cold, the gaoler allowed him to go up by himself, locking him into this
belfry which communicated with the terrace, and went back to keep warm
in his cell. Very well; one evening, could not Clelia contrive to
appear, escorted by her maid, in the black marble chapel?

The whole of the long letter in which Fabrizio replied to Clelia's was
calculated to obtain this meeting. Otherwise, he confided to her, with
perfect sincerity, and as though he were writing of someone else, all
the reasons which made him decide not to leave the citadel.

"I would expose myself every day to the prospect of a thousand deaths to
have the happiness of speaking to you with the help of our alphabets,
which now never defeat us for a moment, and you wish me to be such a
fool as to exile myself in Parma, or perhaps at Bologna, or even at
Florence! You wish me to walk out of here so as to be farther from you!
Understand that any such effort is impossible for me; it would be
useless to give you my word, I could never keep it."

The result of this request for a meeting was an absence on the part of
Clelia which lasted for no fewer than five days; for five days she came
to the aviary only at times when she knew that Fabrizio could not make
use of the little opening cut in the screen. Fabrizio was in despair; he
concluded from this absence that, despite certain glances which had made
him conceive wild hopes, he had never inspired in Clelia any sentiments
other than those of a simple friendship. "In that case," he asked
himself, "what good is life to me? Let the Prince take it from me, he
will be welcome; another reason for not leaving the fortress." And it
was with a profound feeling of disgust that, every night, he replied to
the signals of the little lamp. The Duchessa thought him quite mad when
she read, on the record of the messages which Lodovico brought to her
every morning, these strange words: "_I do not wish to escape; I wish to
die here_!"

During these five days, so cruel for Fabrizio, Clelia was more unhappy
than he; she had had the idea, so poignant for a generous nature: "My
duty is to take refuge in a convent, far from the citadel; when Fabrizio
knows that I am no longer here, and I shall make Grillo and all the
gaolers tell him, then he will decide upon an attempt at escape." But to
go to a convent was to abandon for ever all hope of seeing Fabrizio
again; and how abandon that hope, when he was furnishing so clear a
proof that the sentiments which might at one time have attached him to
the Duchessa no longer existed? What more touching proof of love could a
young man give? After seven long months in prison, which had seriously
affected his health, he refused to regain his liberty. A fickle
creature, such as the talk of the courtiers had portrayed Fabrizio in
Clelia's eyes as being, would have sacrificed a score of mistresses
rather than remain another day in the citadel, and what would such a man
not have done to escape from a prison in which, at any moment, poison
might put an end to his life?

Clelia lacked courage; she made the signal mistake of not seeking refuge
in a convent, a course which would at the same time have furnished her
with a quite natural means of breaking with the Marchese Crescenzi. Once
this mistake was made, how was she to resist this young man--so lovable,
so natural, so tender--who was exposing his life to frightful perils to
gain the simple pleasure of looking at her from one window to another?
After five days of terrible struggles, interspersed with moments of
self-contempt, Clelia made up her mind to reply to the letter in which
Fabrizio begged for the pleasure of speaking to her in the black marble
chapel. To tell the truth, she refused, and in distinctly firm language;
but from that moment all peace of mind was lost for her; at every
instant her imagination portrayed to her Fabrizio succumbing to the
attack of the poisoner; she came six or eight times in a day to her
aviary, she felt the passionate need of assuring herself with her own
eyes that Fabrizio was alive.

"If he is still in the fortress," she told herself, "if he is exposed to
all the horrors which the Raversi faction are perhaps plotting against
him with the object of getting rid of Conte Mosca, it is solely because
I have had the cowardice not to fly to the convent! What excuse could he
have for remaining here once he was certain that I had gone for ever?"

This girl, at once so timid and so proud, brought herself to the point
of running the risk of a refusal on the part of the gaoler Grillo; what
was more, she exposed herself to all the comments which the man might
allow himself to make on the singularity of her conduct. She stooped to
the degree of humiliation involved in sending for him, and telling him
in a tremulous voice which betrayed her whole secret that within a few
days Fabrizio was going to obtain his freedom, that the Duchessa
Sanseverina, in the hope of this, was taking the most active measures,
that often it was necessary to have without a moment's delay the
prisoner's answer to certain proposals which might be made, and that she
wished him, Grillo, to allow Fabrizio to make an opening in the screen
which masked his window, so that she might communicate to him by signs
the instructions which she received several times daily from Signora
Sanseverina.

Grillo smiled and gave her an assurance of his respect and obedience.
Clelia felt a boundless gratitude to him because he said nothing; it was
evident that he knew quite well all that had been going on for the last
few months.

Scarcely had the gaoler left her presence when Clelia made the signal by
which she had arranged to call Fabrizio upon important occasions; she
confessed to him all that she had just been doing. "You wish to perish
by poison," she added: "I hope to have the courage, one of these days,
to leave my father and escape to some remote convent. I shall be
indebted to you for that; then I hope that you will no longer oppose the
plans that may be proposed to you for getting you away from here. So
long as you are in prison, I have frightful and unreasonable moments;
never in my life have I contributed to anyone's hurt, and I feel that I
am to be the cause of your death. Such an idea in the case of a complete
stranger would fill me with despair; judge of what I feel when I picture
to myself that a friend, whose unreasonableness gives me serious cause
for complaint, but whom, after all, I have been seeing every day for so
long, is at this very moment a victim to the pangs of death. At times I
feel the need to know from your own lips that you are alive.

"It was to escape from this frightful grief that I have just lowered
myself so far as to ask a favour of a subordinate who might have refused
it me, and may yet betray me. For that matter, I should perhaps be happy
were he to come and denounce me to my father; at once I should leave for
the convent, I should no longer be the most unwilling accomplice of your
cruel folly. But, believe me, this cannot go on for long, you will obey
the Duchessa's orders. Are you satisfied, cruel friend? It is I who am
begging you to betray my father. Call Grillo, and give him a present."

Fabrizio was so deeply in love, the simplest expression of Clelia's
wishes plunged him in such fear that even this strange communication
gave him no certainty that he was loved. He summoned Grillo, whom he
paid generously for his services in the past, and, as for the future,
told him that for every day on which he allowed him to make use of the
opening cut in the screen, he should receive a sequin. Grillo was
delighted with these terms.

"I am going to speak to you with my hand on my heart, Monsignore; will
you submit to eating your dinner cold every day? It is a very simple way
of avoiding poison. But I ask you to use the utmost discretion; a gaoler
has to see everything and know nothing," and so on. "Instead of one dog,
I shall have several, and you yourself will make them taste all the
dishes that you propose to eat; as for wine, I will give you my own, and
you will touch only the bottles from which I have drunk. But if Your
Excellency wishes to ruin me for ever, he has merely got to repeat these
details even to Signorina Clelia; women will always be women; if
to-morrow she quarrels with you, the day after, to have her revenge, she
will tell the whole story to her father, whose greatest joy would be to
find an excuse for having a gaoler hanged. After Barbone, he is perhaps
the wickedest creature in the fortress, and that is where the real
danger of your position lies; he knows how to handle poison, you may be
sure of that, and he would never forgive me this idea of having three or
four little dogs."

There was another serenade. This time Grillo answered all Fabrizio's
questions: he had indeed promised himself always to be prudent, and not
to betray Signorina Clelia, who according to him, while on the point of
marrying the Marchese Crescenzi, the richest man in the States of Parma,
was nevertheless making love, so far as the prison walls allowed, to the
charming Monsignore del Dongo. He had answered the latter's final
questions as to the serenade, when he was fool enough to add: "They
think that he will marry her soon." One may judge of the effect of this
simple statement on Fabrizio.

That night he replied to the signals of the lamp only to say that he was
ill. The following morning, at ten o'clock, Clelia having appeared in
the aviary, he asked her in a tone of ceremonious politeness which was
quite novel between them, why she had not told him frankly that she was
in love with the Marchese Crescenzi, and that she was on the point of
marrying him.

"Because there is not a word of truth in the story," replied Clelia with
impatience. It is true, however, that the rest of her answer was less
precise: Fabrizio pointed this out to her, and took advantage of it to
repeat his request for a meeting. Clelia, seeing a doubt cast on her
sincerity, granted his request almost at once, reminding him at the same
time that she was dishonouring herself for ever in Grillo's eyes. That
evening, when it was quite dark, she appeared, accompanied by her maid,
in the black marble chapel; she stopped in the middle, by the sanctuary
lamp; the maid and Grillo retired thirty paces towards the door. Clelia,
who was trembling all over, had prepared a fine speech: her object was
to make no compromising admission, but the logic of passion is
insistent; the profound interest which it feels in knowing the truth
does not allow it to keep up vain pretences, while at the same time the
extreme devotion that it feels to the object of its love takes from it
the fear of giving offence. Fabrizio was dazzled at first by Clelia's
beauty; for nearly eight months he had seen no one at such close range
except gaolers. But the name of the Marchese Crescenzi revived all his
fury, it increased when he saw quite clearly that Clelia was answering
him only with tactful circumspection; Clelia herself realised that she
was increasing his suspicions instead of dissipating them. This
sensation was too cruel for her to bear.

"Will you be really glad," she said to him with a sort of anger and with
tears in her eyes, "to have made me exceed all the bounds of what I owe
to myself? Until the third of August last year I had never felt anything
but aversion towards the men who sought to attract me. I had a boundless
and probably exaggerated contempt for the character of the courtier,
everyone who flourished at that court revolted me. I found, on the other
hand, singular qualities in a prisoner who, on the third of August, was
brought to this citadel. I felt, without noticing them at first, all the
torments of jealousy. The attractions of a charming woman, and one whom
I knew well, were like daggers thrust into my heart, because I believed,
and I am still inclined to believe that this prisoner was attached to
her. Presently the persecutions of the Marchese Crescenzi, who had
sought my hand, were redoubled; he is extremely rich, and we have no
fortune. I was rejecting them with the greatest boldness when my father
uttered the fatal word convent; I realised that, if I left the citadel,
I would no longer be able to watch over the life of the prisoner in
whose fate I was interested. The triumph of my precautions had been that
until that moment he had not the slightest suspicion of the appalling
dangers that were threatening his life. I had promised myself never to
betray either my father or my secret; but that woman of an admirable
activity, a superior intelligence, a terrible will, who is protecting
this prisoner, offered him, or so I suppose, means of escape: he
rejected them, and sought to persuade me that he was refusing to leave
the citadel in order not to be separated from me. Then I made a great
mistake, I fought with myself for five days; I ought at once to have
fled to the convent and to have left the fortress: that course offered
me a very simple method of breaking with the Marchese Crescenzi. I had
not the courage to leave the fortress, and I am a ruined girl: I have
attached myself to a fickle man: I know what his conduct was at Naples;
and what reason should I have to believe that his character has altered?
Shut up in a harsh prison, he has paid his court to the one woman he
could see; she has been a distraction from the dulness of his life. As
he could speak to her only with a certain amount of difficulty, this
amusement has assumed the false appearance of a passion. This prisoner,
having made a name for himself in the world by his courage, imagines
himself to be proving that his love is something more than a passing
fancy by exposing himself to considerable dangers in order to continue
to see the person whom he thinks that he loves. But as soon as he is in
a big town, surrounded once more by the seductions of society, he will
once more become what he has always been, a man of the world given to
dissipation, to gallantry; and his poor prison companion will end her
days in a convent, forgotten by this light-hearted creature, and with
the undying regret that she has made him an avowal."

This historic speech, of which we give only the principal points, was,
as one may imagine, interrupted a score of times by Fabrizio. He was
desperately in love; also he was perfectly convinced that he had never
loved before seeing Clelia, and that the destiny of his life was to live
for her alone.

The reader will no doubt imagine the fine speeches that he was making
when the maid warned her mistress that half past eleven had struck, and
that the General might return at any moment; the parting was cruel.

"I am seeing you perhaps for the last time," said Clelia to the
prisoner: "a proceeding which is evidently in the interest of the
Raversi cabal may furnish you with a cruel fashion of proving that you
are not inconstant." Clelia parted from Fabrizio choked by her sobs and
dying with shame at not being able to hide them entirely from her maid,
nor, what was worse, from the gaoler Grillo. A second conversation was
possible only when the General should announce his intention of spending
an evening in society: and as, since Fabrizio's imprisonment, and the
interest which it inspired in the curious courtiers, he had found it
prudent to afflict himself with an almost continuous attack of gout, his
excursions to the town, subjected to the requirements of an astute
policy, were decided upon often only at the moment of his getting into
the carriage.

After this evening in the marble chapel, Fabrizio's life was a
succession of transports of joy. Serious obstacles, it was true, seemed
still to stand in the way of his happiness; but now at last he had that
supreme and scarcely hoped-for joy of being loved by the divine creature
who occupied all his thoughts.

On the third evening after this conversation, the signals from the lamp
finished quite early, almost at midnight; at the moment of their coming
to an end Fabrizio almost had his skull broken by a huge ball of lead
which, thrown over the top of the screen of his window, came crashing
through its paper panes and fell into his room.

This huge ball was not nearly so heavy as appeared from its size.
Fabrizio easily succeeded in opening it, and found inside a letter from
the Duchessa. By the intervention of the Archbishop, to whom she paid
sedulous attention, she had won over to her side a soldier in the
garrison of the citadel. This man, a skilled slinger, had eluded the
sentries posted at the corners and outside the door of the governor's
_palazzo_, or had come to terms with them.


"You must escape with cords: I shudder as I give you this strange
advice, I have been hesitating, for two whole months and more, to tell
you this; but the official outlook grows darker every day, and one must
be prepared for the worst. This being so, start signalling again at once
with your lamp, to shew us that you have received this letter; send
_P--B--G alla Monaca_, that is four, three and two: I shall not breathe
until I have seen this signal. I am on the tower, we shall answer
_N--O_, that is seven and five. On receiving the answer send no other
signal, and attend to nothing but the meaning of my letter."


Fabrizio made haste to obey and sent the arranged signals, which were
followed by the promised reply; then he went on reading the letter:


"We may be prepared for the worst; so I have been told by the three men
in whom I have the greatest confidence, after I had made them swear on
the Gospel that they would tell me the truth, however cruel it might be
to me. The first of these men threatened the surgeon who betrayed you at
Ferrara that he would fall upon him with an open knife in his hand; the
second told you, on your return from Belgirate, that it would have been
more strictly prudent to take your pistol and shoot the footman who came
singing through the wood leading a fine horse, but a trifle thin; you do
not know the third: he is a highway robber of my acquaintance, a man of
action if ever there was one, and as full of courage as yourself; that
is chiefly why I asked him to tell me what you ought to do. All three of
them assured me, without knowing, any of them, that I was consulting the
other two, that it was better to risk breaking your neck than to spend
eleven years and four months in the continual fear of a highly probable
poison.

"You must for the next month practise in your cell climbing up and down
on a knotted cord. Then, on the night of some _festa_ when the garrison
of the citadel will have received an extra ration of wine, you will make
the great attempt; you shall have three cords of silk and canvas, of the
thickness of a swan's quill, the first of eighty feet to come down the
thirty-five feet from the window to the orange trees; the second of
three hundred feet, and that is where the difficulty will be on account
of the weight, to come down the hundred and eighty feet which is the
height of the wall of the great tower; a third of thirty feet will help
you to climb down the rampart. I spend my life studying the great wall
from the east, that is from the direction of Ferrara: a gap due to an
earthquake has been filled by means of a buttress which forms an
_inclined plane_. My highway robber assures me that he would undertake
to climb down on that side without any great difficulty and at the risk
only of a few scratches, by letting himself slide along the inclined
plane formed by this buttress. The vertical drop is no more than
twenty-eight feet, right at the bottom: that side is the least carefully
guarded.

"However, all things considered, my robber, who has escaped three times
from prison, and whom you would love if you knew him, though he
abominates people of your class; my highway robber, I say, as agile and
nimble as yourself, thinks that he would rather come down on the west
side, exactly opposite the little _palazzo_ formerly occupied by Fausta,
which you know well. What would make him choose that side is that the
wall, although very slightly inclined, is covered almost all the way
down with shrubs; there are twigs on it, as thick as your little finger,
which may easily scratch you if you do not take care, but are also
excellent things to hold on to. Only this morning I examined this west
side with an excellent telescope: the place to choose is precisely
beneath a new stone which was fixed in the parapet two or three years
ago. Directly beneath this stone you will find first of all a bare space
of some twenty feet; you must go very slowly down this (you can imagine
how my heart shudders in giving you these terrible instructions, but
courage consists in knowing how to choose the lesser evil, frightful as
it may be); after the bare space, you will find eighty or ninety feet of
quite big shrubs, out of which one can see birds flying, then a space of
thirty feet where there is nothing but grass, wall-flowers and creepers.
Then, as you come near the ground, twenty feet of shrubs, and last of
all twenty-five or thirty feet recently plastered.

"What would make me choose this side is that there, directly underneath
the new stone in the parapet on top, there is a wooden hut built by a
soldier in his garden, which the engineer captain employed at the
fortress is trying to force him to pull down; it is seventeen feet high,
and is roofed with thatch, and the roof touches the great wall of the
citadel. It is this roof that tempts me; in the dreadful event of an
accident, it would break your fall. Once you have reached this point,
you are within the circle of the ramparts, which are none too carefully
guarded; if they arrest you there, fire your pistol and put up a fight
for a few minutes. Your friend of Ferrara and another stout-hearted man,
he whom I call the highway robber, will have ladders, and will not
hesitate to scale this quite low rampart, and fly to your rescue.

"The rampart is only twenty-three feet high, and is built on an easy
slope. I shall be at the foot of this last wall with a good number of
armed men.

"I hope to be able to send you five or six letters by the same channel
as this. I shall continue to repeat the same things in different words,
so that we may fully understand one another. You can guess with what
feelings I tell you that the man who said: '_Shoot the footman_,' who,
after all, is the best of men, and is dying of compunction, thinks that
you will get away with a broken arm. The highway robber, who has a wider
experience of this sort of expedition, thinks that, if you will climb
down very carefully, and, above all, without hurrying, your liberty need
cost you only a few scratches. The great difficulty is to supply the
cords; and this is what has been occupying my whole mind during the last
fortnight, in which this great idea has taken up all my time.

"I make no answer to that mad signal, the only stupid thing you have
ever said in your life: 'I do not wish to escape!' The man who said:
'Shoot the footman,' exclaimed that boredom had driven you mad. I shall
not attempt to hide from you that we fear a very imminent danger, which
will perhaps hasten the day of your flight. To warn you of this danger,
the lamp will signal several times in succession:

_The castle has taken fire._

You will reply:

_Are my books burned?_"




_THE JUDGES_


This letter contained five or six pages more of details; it was written
in a microscopic hand on the thinnest paper.

"All that is very fine and very well thought out," Fabrizio said to
himself; "I owe an eternal debt of gratitude to the Conte and the
Duchessa; they will think perhaps that I am afraid, but I shall not try
to escape. Did anyone ever escape from a place where he was at the
height of happiness, to go and cast himself into a horrible exile where
everything would be lacking, including air to breathe? What should I do
after a month at Florence? I should put on a disguise to come and prowl
round the gate of this fortress, and try to intercept a glance!"

Next day Fabrizio had an alarm; he was at his window, about eleven
o'clock, admiring the magnificent view and awaiting the happy moment
when he should see Clelia, when Grillo came breathless into his cell:

"Quick, quick, Monsignore! Fling yourself on your bed, pretend to be
ill; there are three judges coming up! They are going to question you:
think well before you speak; they have come to _entangle_ you."

So saying, Grillo made haste to shut the little trap in the screen,
thrust Fabrizio on to his bed and piled two or three cloaks on top of
him.

"Tell them that you are very ill, and don't say much; above all make
them repeat their questions, so as to have time to think."

The three judges entered. "Three escaped gaolbirds," thought Fabrizio on
seeing their vile faces, "not three judges." They wore long black gowns.
They bowed gravely and took possession, without saying a word, of the
three chairs that were in the room.

"Signor Fabrizio del Dongo," said the eldest of the three, "we are
pained by the sad duty which we have come to you to perform. We are here
to announce to you the decease of His Excellency the Signor Marchese del
Dongo, your father, Second Grand Majordomo Major of the
Lombardo-Venetian Kingdom, Knight Grand Cross of the Orders of ----" a
string of titles followed. Fabrizio burst into tears. The judge went on:

"The Signora Marchesa del Dongo, your mother, informs you of this event
by a letter missive; but as she has added to the fact certain improper
reflexions, by a decree issued yesterday, the Court of Justice has
decided that her letter shall be communicated to you only by extract,
and it is this extract which the Recorder Bona is now going to read to
you."




_PRISON_


This reading finished, the judge came across to Fabrizio, who was still
lying down, and made him follow on his mother's letter the passages of
which copies had been read to him. Fabrizio saw in the letter the words
_unjust imprisonment_, _cruel punishment for a crime which is no crime
at all_, and understood what had inspired the judges' visit. However, in
his contempt for magistrates without honour, he did not actually say to
them any more than:

"I am ill, gentlemen, I am dying of weakness, and you will excuse me if
I do not rise."

When the judges had gone, Fabrizio wept again copiously, then said to
himself: "Am I a hypocrite? I used to think that I did not love him at
all."

On that day and the days that followed Clelia was very sad; she called
him several times, but had barely the courage to say a few words. On the
morning of the fifth day after their first meeting, she told him that
she would come that evening to the marble chapel.

"I can only say a few words to you," she told him as she entered. She
trembled so much that she had to lean on her maid. After sending the
woman to wait at the chapel door: "You are going to give me your word of
honour," she went on in a voice that was barely audible, "you are going
to give me your word of honour that you will obey the Duchessa, and will
attempt to escape on the day when she orders you and in the way that she
will indicate to you, or else to-morrow morning I fly to a convent, and
I swear to you here and now that never in my life will I utter a word to
you again."

Fabrizio remained silent.

"Promise," said Clelia, the tears starting to her eyes and apparently
quite beside herself, "or else we converse here for the last time. The
life you have made me lead is intolerable: you are here on my account,
and each day is perhaps the last of your existence." At this stage
Clelia became so weak that she was obliged to seek the support of an
enormous armchair that had originally stood in the middle of the chapel,
for the use of the prisoner-prince; she was almost fainting.

"What must I promise?" asked Fabrizio with a beaten air.

"You know."

"I swear then to cast myself deliberately into a terrible disaster, and
to condemn myself to live far from all that I love in the world."

"Make a definite promise."

"I swear to obey the Duchessa and to make my escape on the day she
wishes and as she wishes. And what is to become of me once I am parted
from you?"

"Swear to escape, whatever may happen to you."

"What! Have you made up your mind to marry the Marchese Crescenzi as
soon as I am no longer here?"

"Oh, heavens! What sort of heart do you think I have? . . . But swear,
or I shall not have another moment's peace."

"Very well, I swear to escape from here on the day on which Signora
Sanseverina shall order me to do so, and whatever may happen to me
between now and then."

This oath obtained, Clelia became so faint that she was obliged to
retire after thanking Fabrizio.

"Everything was in readiness for my flight to-morrow morning," she told
him, "had you persisted in refusing. I should have beheld you at this
moment for the last time in my life, I had vowed that to the Madonna.
Now, as soon as I can leave my room, I shall go and examine the terrible
wall beneath the new stone in the parapet."

On the following day he found her so pale that he was keenly distressed.
She said to him from the aviary window:

"Let us be under no illusion, my dear friend; as there is sin in our
friendship, I have no doubt that misfortune will come to us. You will be
discovered while seeking to make your escape, and ruined for ever, if it
is no worse; however, we must satisfy the demands of human prudence, it
orders us to leave nothing untried. You will need, to climb down the
outside of the great tower, a strong cord more than two hundred feet
long. In spite of all the efforts I have made since I learned of the
Duchessa's plan, I have only been able to procure cords that together
amount to barely fifty feet. By a standing order of the governor, all
cords that may be seen in the fortress are burned, and every evening
they remove the well-ropes, which for that matter are so frail that they
often break when drawing up the light weight attached to them. But pray
God to forgive me, I am betraying my father, and working, unnatural girl
that I am, to cause him undying grief. Pray to God for me, and, if your
life is saved, make a vow to consecrate every moment of it to His Glory.

"This is an idea that has come to me: in a week from now I shall leave
the citadel to be present at the wedding of one of the Marchese
Crescenzi's sisters. I shall come back that night, as I must, but I
shall try in every possible way not to come in until very late, and
perhaps Barbone will not dare to examine me too closely. All the
greatest ladies of the court will be at this wedding of the Marchese's
sister, and no doubt Signora Sanseverina among them. In heaven's name,
make one of these ladies give me a parcel of cords tightly packed, not
too large, and reduced to the smallest possible bulk. Were I to expose
myself to a thousand deaths I shall employ every means, even the most
dangerous, to introduce this parcel of cords into the citadel, in
defiance, alas, of all my duties. If my father comes to hear of it, I
shall never see you again; but whatever may be the fate that is in store
for me, I shall be happy within the bounds of a sisterly friendship if I
can help to save you."

That same evening, by their nocturnal correspondence with the lamps,
Fabrizio gave the Duchessa warning of the unique opportunity that would
shortly arise of conveying into the citadel a sufficient length of cord.
But he begged her to keep this secret even from the Conte, which seemed
to her odd. "He is mad," thought the Duchessa, "prison has altered him,
he is taking things in a tragic spirit." Next day a ball of lead, thrown
by the slinger, brought the prisoner news of the greatest possible
peril; the person who undertook to convey the cords, he was told, would
be literally saving his life. Fabrizio hastened to give this news to
Clelia. This leaden ball brought him also a very careful drawing of the
western wall by which he was to climb down from the top of the great
tower into the space enclosed within the bastions; from this point it
was then quite easy to escape, the ramparts being, as we know, only
twenty-three feet in height. On the back of the plan was written in an
exquisite hand a magnificent sonnet: a generous soul exhorted Fabrizio
to take flight, and not to allow his soul to be debased and his body
destroyed by the eleven years of captivity which he had still to
undergo.

At this point a detail which is essential and will explain in part the
courage that the Duchessa had found to recommend to Fabrizio so
dangerous a flight, obliges us to interrupt for a moment the history of
this bold enterprise.

Like all parties which are not in power, the Raversi party was not
closely united. Cavaliere Riscara detested the Fiscal Rassi, whom he
accused of having made him lose an important suit in which, as a matter
of fact, he, Riscara, had been in the wrong. From Riscara the Prince
received an anonymous message informing him that a copy of Fabrizio's
sentence had been officially addressed to the governor of the citadel.
The Marchesa Raversi, that skilled party leader, was extremely annoyed
by this false move, and at once sent word of it to her friend the Fiscal
General; she found it quite natural that he should have wished to secure
something from the Minister Mosca while Mosca remained in power. Rassi
presented himself boldly at the Palace, thinking that he would get out
of the scrape with a few kicks; the Prince could not dispense with a
talented jurist, and Rassi had procured the banishment as Liberals of a
judge and a barrister, the only two men in the country who could have
taken his place.




_AN AUDIENCE_


The Prince, beside himself with rage, hurled insults at him and advanced
upon him to strike him.

"Why, it is only a clerk's mistake," replied Rassi with the utmost
coolness; "the procedure is laid down by the law, it should have been
done the day after Signor del Dongo was confined in the citadel. The
clerk in his zeal thought it had been forgotten, and must have made me
sign the covering letter as a formality."

"And you expect to take me in with a clumsy lie like that?" cried the
Prince in a fury; "why not confess that you have sold yourself to that
rascal Mosca, and that this is why he gave you the Cross. But, by
heaven, you shall not escape with a thrashing: I shall have you brought
to justice, I shall disgrace you publicly."

"I defy you to bring me to justice," replied Rassi with assurance; he
knew that this was a sure way of calming the Prince: "the law is on my
side, and you have not a second Rassi to find you a way round it. You
will not disgrace me, because there are moments when your nature is
severe; you then feel a thirst for blood, but at the same time you seek
to retain the esteem of reasonable Italians; that esteem is a _sine qua
non_ for your ambition. And so you will recall me for the first act of
severity of which your nature makes you feel the need, and as usual I
shall procure you a quite regular sentence passed by timid judges who
are fairly honest men, which will satisfy your passions. Find another
man in your States as useful as myself!"

So saying, Rassi fled; he had got out of his scrape with a sharp
reprimand and half-a-dozen kicks. On leaving the Palace he started for
his estate of Riva; he had some fear of a dagger-thrust in the first
impulse of anger, but had no doubt that within a fortnight a courier
would summon him back to the capital. He employed the time which he
spent in the country in organising a safe method of correspondence with
Conte Mosca; he was madly in love with the title of Barone, and felt
that the Prince made too much of that sublime thing, nobility, ever to
confer it upon him; whereas the Conte, extremely proud of his own birth,
respected nothing but nobility proved by titles anterior by the year
1400.

The Fiscal General had not been out in his forecast: he had been barely
eight days on his estate when a friend of the Prince, who came there by
chance, advised him to return to Parma without delay; the Prince
received him with a laugh, then assumed a highly serious air, and made
him swear on the Gospel that he would keep secret what was going to be
confided to him. Rassi swore with great solemnity, and the Prince, his
eye inflamed by hatred, cried that he would no longer be master in his
own house so long as Fabrizio del Dongo was alive.

"I cannot," he went on, "either drive the Duchessa away or endure her
presence; her eyes defy me and destroy my life."

Having allowed the Prince to explain himself at great length, Rassi,
affecting extreme embarrassment, finally exclaimed:

"Your Highness shall be obeyed, of course, but the matter is one of a
horrible difficulty: there is no possibility of condemning a del Dongo
to death for the murder of a Giletti; it is already a masterly stroke to
have made twelve years' imprisonment out of it. Besides, I suspect the
Duchessa of having discovered three of the _contadini_ who were employed
on the excavations at Sanguigna, and were outside the trench at the
moment when that brigand Giletti attacked del Dongo.

"And where are these witnesses?" said the Prince, irritated.

"Hiding in Piedmont, I suppose. It would require a conspiracy against
Your Highness's life. . . ."

"There is a danger in that," said the Prince, "it makes people think of
the reality."

"Well," said Rassi with a feint of innocence, "that is all my official
arsenal."

"There remains poison. . . ."

"But who is to give it? Not that imbecile Conte?"

"From what one hears, it would not be his first attempt. . . ."

"He would have to be roused to anger first," Rassi went on; "and
besides, when he made away with the captain he was not thirty, and he
was in love, and infinitely less of a coward than he is in these days.
No doubt, everything must give way to reasons of State; but, taken
unawares like this and at first sight, I can see no one to carry out the
Sovereign's orders but a certain Barbone, registry clerk in the prison,
whom Signor del Dongo knocked down with a cuff in the face on the day of
his admission there."

Once the Prince had been put at his ease, the conversation was endless;
he brought it to a close by granting his Fiscal General a month in which
to act; Rassi wished for two. Next day he received a secret present of a
thousand sequins. For three days he reflected; on the fourth he returned
to his original conclusion, which seemed to him self-evident: "Conte
Mosca alone will have the heart to keep his word to me, because, in
making me a Barone, he does not give me anything that he respects;
secondly, by warning him, I save myself probably from a crime for which
I am more or less paid in advance; thirdly, I have my revenge for the
first humiliating blows which Cavaliere Rassi has received." The
following night he communicated to Conte Mosca the whole of his
conversation with the Prince.

The Conte was secretly paying his court to the Duchessa; it is quite
true that he still did not see her in her own house more than once or
twice in a month, but almost every week, and whenever he managed to
create an occasion for speaking of Fabrizio, the Duchessa, accompanied
by Cecchina, would come, late in the evening, to spend a few moments in
the Conte's gardens. She managed even to deceive her coachman, who was
devoted to her, and believed her to be visiting a neighbouring house.

One may imagine whether the Conte, after receiving the Fiscal's terrible
confidence, at once made the signal arranged between them to the
Duchessa. Although it was the middle of the night, she begged him by
Cecchina to come to her for a moment. The Conte, enraptured, lover-like,
by this prospect of intimate converse, yet hesitated before telling the
Duchessa everything. He was afraid of seeing her driven mad by grief.

After first seeking veiled words in which to mitigate the fatal
announcement, he ended by telling her all; it was not in his power to
keep a secret which she asked of him. In the last nine months her
extreme misery had had a great influence on this ardent soul, this had
fortified her courage, and she did not give way to sobs or lamentations.
On the following evening she sent Fabrizio the signal of great danger:

"_The castle has taken fire._"

He made the appropriate reply:

"_Are my books burned?_"

The same night she was fortunate enough to have a letter conveyed to him
in a leaden ball. It was a week after this that the marriage of the
Marchese Crescenzi's sister was celebrated, when the Duchessa was guilty
of an enormously rash action of which we shall give an account in its
proper place.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Almost a year before the time of these calamities the Duchessa had made
a singular acquaintance: one day when she had the _luna_, as they say in
those parts, she had gone suddenly, towards evening, to her villa of
Sacca, situated on the farther side of Colorno, on the hill commanding
the Po. She was amusing herself in improving this property; she loved
the vast forest which crowned the hill and reached to the house; she
spent her time laying out paths in picturesque directions.

"You will have yourself carried off by brigands, fair Duchessa," the
Prince said to her one day; "it is impossible that a forest in which it
is known that you take the air should remain deserted." The Prince threw
a glance at the Conte, whose jealousy he hoped to quicken.

"I have no fear, Serene Highness," replied the Duchessa with an innocent
air, "when I go walking in my woods; I reassure myself with this
thought: I have done no harm to anyone, who is there that could hate
me?" This speech was considered daring, it recalled the insults offered
by the Liberals of the country, who were most insolent people.

On the day of the walk in question, the Prince's words came back to the
mind of the Duchessa as she observed a very ill dressed man who was
following her at a distance through the woods. At a sudden turn which she
took in the course of her walk, this person came so near her that she
felt alarmed. Her first impulse was to call her game-keeper whom she had
left half a mile away, in the flower-garden close to the house. The
stranger had time to overtake her and fling himself at her feet. He was
young, extremely good-looking, but horribly badly dressed; his clothes
had rents in them a foot long, but his eyes burned with the fire of an
ardent soul.




_FERRANTE_


"I am under sentence of death, I am the physician, Ferrante Palla, I am
dying of hunger, I and my five children."

The Duchessa had noticed that he was terribly thin; but his eyes were so
fine, and filled with so tender an exaltation that they took from him
any suggestion of crime. "Pallagi," she thought, "might well have given
eyes like those to the Saint John in the Desert he has just placed in
the Cathedral." The idea of Saint John was suggested to her by the
incredible thinness of the vagabond. The Duchessa gave him three sequins
which she had in her purse, with an apology for offering him so little,
because she had just paid her gardener's account. Ferrante thanked her
effusively. "Alas!" he said to her, "once I lived in towns, I used to
see beautiful women; now that in fulfilment of my duties as a citizen I
have had myself sentenced to death, I live in the woods, and I was
following you, not to demand alms of you nor to rob you, but like a
savage fascinated by an angelic beauty. It is so long since I last saw a
pair of lovely white hands."

"Rise, then," the Duchessa told him; for he had remained on his knees.

"Allow me to remain like this," said Ferrante; "this posture proves to
me that I am not for the present engaged in robbery, and that soothes
me; for you must know that I steal to live, now that I am prevented from
practising my profession. But at this moment I am only a simple mortal
who is adoring sublime beauty." The Duchessa gathered that he was
slightly mad, but she was not at all afraid; she saw in the eyes of the
man that he had a good and ardent soul, and besides she had no objection
to extraordinary physiognomies.

"I am a physician, then, and I was making love to the wife of the
apothecary Sarasine of Parma: he took us by surprise and drove us from
the house, with three children whom he supposed, and rightly, to be mine
and not his. I have had two since then. The mother and five children are
living in the direst poverty in a sort of hut which I built with my own
hands a league from here, in the wood. For I have to keep away from the
police, and the poor woman refuses to be parted from me. I was sentenced
to death, and quite justly; I was conspiring. I abominate the Prince,
who is a tyrant. I did not fly the country, for want of money. My
misfortunes have greatly increased, and I ought to have killed myself a
thousand times over; I no longer love the unhappy woman who has borne me
these five children and has ruined herself for me; I love another. But
if I kill myself, the five children will literally starve to death." The
man spoke with an accent of sincerity.

"But how do you live?" inquired the Duchessa, moved to compassion.

"The children's mother spins; the eldest girl is kept in a farm by some
Liberals, where she tends the sheep; I am a highwayman on the road
between Piacenza and Genoa."

"How do you harmonise highway robbery with your Liberal principles?"

"I keep a note of the people I rob, and if ever I have anything I shall
restore to them the sums I have taken. I consider that a Tribune of the
People like myself is performing work which, in view of its danger, is
well worth a hundred francs monthly; and so I am careful not to take
more than twelve hundred francs in a year.

"No, I am wrong, I steal a small sum in addition, for in that way I am
able to meet the cost of printing my works."

"What works?"

"_Is ---- ever to have a Chamber and a Budget?_"

"What," said the Duchessa in amazement, "it is you, Sir, who are one of
the greatest poets of the age, the famous Ferrante Palla?"

"Famous perhaps, but most unfortunate; that is certain."

"And a man of your talent, Sir, is obliged to steal in order to live?"

"That is perhaps the calling for which I have some talent. Hitherto all
our authors who have made themselves famous have been men paid by the
government or the religion that they sought to undermine. I, in the
first place, risk my life; in the second place, think, Signora, of the
reflexions that disturb my mind when I go out to rob! Am I in the right,
I ask myself. Does the office of Tribune render services that are really
worth a hundred francs a month? I have two shirts, the coat in which you
see me, a few worthless weapons, and I am sure to end by the rope; I
venture to think that I am disinterested. I should be happy but for this
fatal love which allows me to find only misery now in the company of the
mother of my children. Poverty weighs upon me because it is ugly: I like
fine clothes, white hands. . . ."

He looked at the Duchessa's in such a fashion that fear seized hold of
her.

"Good-bye, Sir," she said to him: "can I be of any service to you in
Parma?"

"Think sometimes of this question: his task is to awaken men's hearts
and to prevent them from falling asleep in that false and wholly
material happiness which is given by monarchies. Is the service that he
renders to his fellow-citizens worth a hundred francs a month? . . . My
misfortune is that I am in love," he said in the gentlest of tones, "and
for nearly two years my heart has been occupied by you alone, but until
now I have seen you without alarming you." And he took to his heels with
a prodigious swiftness which astonished the Duchessa and reassured her.
"The police would have hard work to catch him," she thought; "he must be
mad, after all."

"He is mad," her servants informed her; "we have all known for a long
time that the poor man was in love with the Signora; when the Signora is
here we see him wandering in the highest parts of the woods, and as soon
as the Signora has gone he never fails to come and sit in the very
places where she has rested; he is careful to pick up any flowers that
may have dropped from her nosegay and keeps them for a long time
fastened in his battered hat."

"And you have never spoken to me of these eccentricities," said the
Duchessa, almost in a tone of reproach.

"We were afraid that the Signora might tell the Minister Mosca. Poor
Ferrante is such a good fellow! He has never done harm to anyone, and
because he loves our Napoleon they have sentenced him to death."

She said no word to the Minister of this meeting, and, as in four years
it was the first secret that she had kept from him, a dozen times she
was obliged to stop short in the middle of a sentence. She returned to
Sacca with a store of gold. Ferrante shewed no sign of life. She came
again a fortnight later: Ferrante, after following her for some time,
bounding through the wood at a distance of a hundred yards, fell upon
her with the swiftness of a hawk, and flung himself at her feet as on
the former occasion.

"Where were you a fortnight ago?"

"In the mountains, beyond Novi, robbing the muleteers who were returning
from Milan where they had been selling oil."

"Take this purse."

Ferrante opened the purse, took from it a sequin which he kissed and
thrust into his bosom, then handed it back to her.

"You give me back this purse, and you are a robber!"

"Certainly; my rule is that I must never possess more than a hundred
francs; now, at this moment, the mother of my children has eighty
francs, and I have twenty-five; I am five francs to the bad, and if they
were to hang me now I should feel remorse. I have taken this sequin
because it comes from you and I love you."

The intonation of this very simple speech was perfect. "He does really
love," the Duchessa said to herself.

That day he appeared quite distracted. He said that there were in Parma
people who owed him six hundred francs, and that with that sum he could
repair his hut in which now his poor children were catching cold.

"But I will make you a loan of those six hundred francs," said the
Duchessa, genuinely moved.

"But then I, a public man--will not the opposite party have a chance to
slander me, and say that I am selling myself?"

The Duchessa, in compassion, offered him a hiding-place in Parma if he
would swear that for the time being he would not exercise his
magistrature in that city, and above all would not carry out any of
those sentences of death which, he said, he had _in petto_.

"And if they hang me, as a result of my rashness," said Ferrante
gravely, "all those scoundrels, who are so obnoxious to the People, will
live for long years to come, and by whose fault? What will my father say
to me when he greets me up above?"

The Duchessa spoke to him at length of his young children, to whom the
damp might give fatal illnesses; he ended by accepting the offer of the
hiding place in Parma.

The Duca Sanseverina, during the solitary half-day which he had spent in
Parma after his marriage, had shewn the Duchessa a highly singular
hiding place which exists in the southern corner of the _palazzo_ of
that name. The wall in front, which dates from the middle ages, is eight
feet thick; it has been hollowed out inside, so as to provide a secret
chamber twenty feet in height but only two in width. It is close to
where the visitor admires the reservoir mentioned in all the accounts of
travels, a famous work of the twelfth century, constructed at the time
of the siege of Parma by the Emperor Sigismund, and afterwards enclosed
within the walls of the _palazzo_ Sanseverina.

One enters the hiding place by turning an enormous stone on an iron axis
which runs through the middle of the block. The Duchessa was so
profoundly touched by Ferrante's madness and by the hard lot of his
children, for whom he obstinately refused every present of any value,
that she allowed him to make use of this hiding place for a considerable
time. She saw him again a month later, still in the woods of Sacca, and
as on this occasion he was a little more calm, he recited to her one of
his sonnets which seemed to her equal if not superior to any of the
finest work written in Italy in the last two centuries. Ferrante
obtained several interviews; but his love grew exalted, became
importunate, and the Duchessa perceived that this passion was obeying
the laws of all love-affairs in which one conceives the possibility of a
ray of hope. She sent him back to the woods, forbade him to speak to her
again: he obeyed immediately and with a perfect docility. Things had
reached this point when Fabrizio was arrested. Three days later, at
nightfall, a Capuchin presented himself at the door of the _palazzo_
Sanseverina; he had, he said, an important secret to communicate to the
lady of the house. She was so wretched that she had him admitted: it was
Ferrante. "There is happening here a fresh iniquity of which the Tribune
of the people ought to take cognisance," this man mad with love said to
her. "On the other hand, acting as a private citizen," he added, "I can
give the Signora Duchessa Sanseverina nothing but my life, and I lay it
before her."

So sincere a devotion on the part of a robber and madman touched the
Duchessa keenly. She talked for some time to this man who was considered
the greatest poet in the North of Italy, and wept freely. "Here is a man
who understands my heart," she said to herself. The following day he
reappeared, again at the _Ave Maria_, disguised as a servant and wearing
livery.

"I have not left Parma: I have heard tell of an atrocity which my lips
shall not repeat; but here I am. Think, Signora, of what you are
refusing! The being you see before you is not a doll of the court, he is
a man!" He was on his knees as he uttered these words with an air which
made them tell. "Yesterday I said to myself," he went on: "She has wept
in my presence; therefore she is a little less unhappy."

"But, Sir, think of the dangers that surround you, you will be arrested
in this town!"

"The Tribune will say to you: Signora, what is life when duty calls? The
unhappy man, who has the grief of no longer feeling any passion for
virtue now that he is burning with love, will add: Signora Duchessa,
Fabrizio, a man of feeling, is perhaps about to perish, do not repulse
another man of feeling who offers himself to you! Here is a body of iron
and a heart which fears nothing in the world but your displeasure."

"If you speak to me again of your feelings, I close my door to you for
ever."

It occurred to the Duchessa, that evening, to announce to Ferrante that
she would make a small allowance to his children, but she was afraid
that he would go straight from the house and kill himself.

No sooner had he left her than, filled with gloomy presentiments, she
said to herself: "I too, I may die, and would to God I might, and that
soon! If I found a man worthy of the name to whom to commend my poor
Fabrizio."

An idea struck the Duchessa: she took a sheet of paper and drafted an
acknowledgment, into which she introduced the few legal terms that she
knew, that she had received from Signor Ferrante Palla the sum of 25,000
francs, on the express condition of paying every year a life-rent of
1,500 francs to Signora Sarasine and her five children. The Duchessa
added: "In addition, I bequeath a life-rent of 300 francs to each of
these five children, on condition that Ferrante Palla gives his
professional services as a physician to my nephew Fabrizio del Dongo,
and behaves to him as a brother. This I request him to do." She signed
the document, ante-dated it by a year and folded the sheet.

Two days later, Ferrante reappeared. It was at the moment when the town
was agitated by the rumour of the immediate execution of Fabrizio. Would
this grim ceremony take place in the citadel, or under the trees of the
public mall? Many of the populace took a walk that evening past the gate
of the citadel, trying to see whether the scaffold were being erected;
this spectacle had moved Ferrante. He found the Duchessa in floods of
tears and unable to speak; she greeted him with her hand and pointed to
a seat. Ferrante, disguised that day as a Capuchin, was superb; instead
of seating himself he knelt, and prayed devoutly in an undertone. At a
moment when the Duchessa seemed slightly more calm, without stirring
from his posture, he broke off his prayer for an instant to say these
words: "Once again he offers his life."

"Think of what you are saying," cried the Duchessa, with that haggard
eye which, following tears, indicates that anger is overcoming emotion.

"He offers his life to place an obstacle in the way of Fabrizio's fate,
or to avenge it."

"There are circumstances," replied the Duchessa, "in which I could
accept the sacrifice of your life."

She gazed at him with a severe attention. A ray of joy gleamed in his
eye; he rose swiftly and stretched out his arms towards heaven. The
Duchessa went to find a paper hidden in the secret drawer of a walnut
cabinet.

"Read this," she said to Ferrante. It was the deed in favour of his
children, of which we have spoken.

Tears and sobs prevented Ferrante from reading it to the end; he fell on
his knees.

"Give me back the paper," said the Duchessa, and, in his presence,
burned it in the flame of a candle.

"My name," she explained, "must not appear if you are taken and
executed, for your life will be at stake."

"My joy is to die in harming the tyrant: a far greater joy is to die for
you. Once this is stated and clearly understood, be so kind as to make
no further mention of this detail of money. I might see in it a
suspicion that would be injurious to me."

"If you are compromised, I may be also," replied the Duchessa, "and
Fabrizio as well as myself: it is for that reason, and not because I
have any doubt of your bravery, that I require that the man who is
lacerating my heart shall be poisoned and not stabbed. For the same
reason which is so important to me, I order you to do everything in the
world to save your own life."

"I shall execute the task faithfully, punctiliously and prudently. I
foresee, Signora Duchessa, that my revenge will be combined with your
own: were it not so, I should still obey you faithfully, punctiliously
and prudently. I may not succeed, but I shall employ all my human
strength."

"It is a question of poisoning Fabrizio's murderer."

"So I had guessed, and, during the twenty-seven months in which I have
been leading this vagabond and abominable life, I have often thought of
a similar action on my own account."

"If I am discovered and condemned as an accomplice," went on the
Duchessa in a tone of pride, "I do not wish the charge to be imputed to
me of having corrupted you. I order you to make no further attempt to
see me until the time comes for our revenge: he must on no account be
put to death before I have given you the signal. His death at the
present moment, for instance, would be lamentable to me instead of being
useful. Probably his death will occur only in several months' time, but
it shall occur. I insist on his dying by poison, and I should prefer to
leave him alive rather than see him shot. For considerations which I do
not wish to explain to you, I insist upon your life's being saved."

Ferrante was delighted with the tone of authority which the Duchessa
adopted with him: his eyes gleamed with a profound joy. As we have said,
he was horribly thin; but one could see that he had been very handsome
in his youth, and he imagined himself to be still what he had once been.
"Am I mad?" he asked himself; "or will the Duchessa indeed one day, when
I have given her this proof of my devotion, make me the happiest of men?
And, when it comes to that, why not? Am I not worth as much as that doll
of a Conte Mosca, who when the time came, could do nothing for her, not
even enable Monsignor Fabrizio to escape?"




_PREPARATIONS_


"I may wish his death to-morrow," the Duchessa continued, still with the
same air of authority. "You know that immense reservoir of water which
is at the corner of the _palazzo_, not far from the hiding-place which
you have sometimes occupied; there is a secret way of letting all that
water run out into the street: very well, that will be the signal for my
revenge. You will see, if you are in Parma, or you will hear it said, if
you are living in the woods, that the great reservoir of the _palazzo_
Sanseverina has burst. Act at once but by poison, and above all risk
your own life as little as possible. No one must ever know that I have
had a hand in this affair."

"Words are useless," replied Ferrante, with an enthusiasm which he could
ill conceal: "I have already fixed on the means which I shall employ.
The life of that man has become more odious to me than it was before,
since I shall not dare to see you again so long as he is alive. I shall
await the signal of the reservoir flooding the street." He bowed
abruptly and left the room. The Duchessa watched him go.

When he was in the next room, she recalled him.

"Ferrante!" she cried; "sublime man!"

He returned, as though impatient at being detained: his face at that
moment was superb.

"And your children?"

"Signora, they will be richer than I; you will perhaps allow them some
small pension."

"Wait," said the Duchessa as she handed him a sort of large case of
olive wood, "here are all the diamonds that I have left: they are worth
50,000 francs."

"Ah! Signora, you humiliate me!" said Ferrante with a gesture of horror;
and his face completely altered.

"I shall not see you again before the deed: take them, I wish it," added
the Duchessa with an air of pride which struck Ferrante dumb; he put the
case in his pocket and left her.

The door had closed behind him. The Duchessa called him back once again;
he returned with an uneasy air: the Duchessa was standing in the middle
of the room; she threw herself into his arms. A moment later, Ferrante
had almost fainted with happiness; the Duchessa released herself from
his embrace, and with her eyes shewed him the door.

"There goes the one man who has understood me," she said to herself;
"that is how Fabrizio would have acted, if he could have realised."

There were two salient points in the Duchessa's character: she always
wished what she had once wished; she never gave any further
consideration to what had once been decided. She used to quote in this
connexion a saying of her first husband, the charming General
Pietranera. "What insolence to myself!" he used to say; "Why should I
suppose that I have more sense to-day than when I made up my mind?"

From that moment a sort of gaiety reappeared in the Duchessa's
character. Before the fatal resolution, at each step that her mind took,
at each new point that she saw, she had the feeling of her own
inferiority to the Prince, of her weakness and gullibility; the Prince,
according to her, had basely betrayed her, and Conte Mosca, as was
natural to his courtier's spirit, albeit innocently, had supported the
Prince. Once her revenge was settled, she felt her strength, every step
that her mind took gave her happiness. I am inclined to think that the
immoral happiness which the Italians find in revenge is due to the
strength of their imagination; the people of other countries do not
properly speaking forgive; they forget.

The Duchessa did not see Palla again until the last days of Fabrizio's
imprisonment. As the reader may perhaps have guessed, it was he who gave
her the idea of his escape: there was in the woods, two leagues from
Sacca, a mediæval tower, half in ruins, and more than a hundred feet
high; before speaking a second time to the Duchessa of an escape,
Ferrante begged her to send Lodovico with a party of trustworthy men, to
fasten a set of ladders against this tower. In the Duchessa's presence
he climbed up by means of the ladders and down with an ordinary knotted
cord; he repeated the experiment three times, then explained his idea
again. A week later Lodovico too was prepared to climb down this old
tower with a knotted cord; it was then that the Duchessa communicated
the idea to Fabrizio.

In the final days before this attempt, which might lead to the death of
the prisoner, and in more ways than one, the Duchessa could not secure a
moment's rest unless she had Ferrante by her side; the courage of this
man electrified her own; but it can be understood that she had to hide
from the Conte this singular companionship. She was afraid, not that he
would be revolted, but she would have been afflicted by his objections,
which would have increased her uneasiness. "What! Take as an intimate
adviser a madman known to be mad, and under sentence of death! And,"
added the Duchessa, speaking to herself, "a man who, in consequence,
might do such strange things!" Ferrante happened to be in the Duchessa's
drawing-room at the moment when the Conte came to give her a report of
the Prince's conversation with Rassi; and, when the Conte had left her,
she had great difficulty in preventing Ferrante from going straight away
to the execution of a frightful plan.

"I am strong now," cried this madman; "I have no longer any doubt as to
the lawfulness of the act!"

"But, in the moment of indignation which must inevitably follow,
Fabrizio would be put to death!"

"Yes, but in that way we should spare him the danger of the climb: it is
possible, indeed easy," he added; "but the young man lacks experience."

The marriage was celebrated of the Marchese Crescenzi's sister, and it
was at the party given on this occasion that the Duchessa met Clelia,
and was able to speak to her without causing any suspicion among the
fashionable onlookers. The Duchessa herself handed to Clelia the parcel
of cords in the garden, where the two ladies had gone for a moment's
fresh air. These cords, prepared with the greatest care, of hemp and
silk in equal parts, were knotted, very slender and fairly flexible;
Lodovico had tested their strength, and, in every portion, they could
bear without breaking a load of sixteen hundredweight. They had been
packed in such a way as to form several packets each of the size and
shape of a quarto volume; Clelia took charge of them, and promised the
Duchessa that everything that was humanly possible would be done to
deliver these packets in the Torre Farnese.

"But I am afraid of the timidity of your nature; and besides," the
Duchessa added politely, "what interest can you feel in a stranger?"

"Signor del Dongo is in distress, _and I promise you that he shall be
saved by me_!"

But the Duchessa, placing only a very moderate reliance on the presence
of mind of a young person of twenty, had taken other precautions, of
which she took care not to inform the governor's daughter. As might be
expected, this governor was present at the party given for the marriage
of the Marchese Crescenzi's sister. The Duchessa said to herself that,
if she could make him be given a strong narcotic, it might be supposed,
at first, that he had had an attack of apoplexy, and then, instead of
his being placed in his carriage to be taken back to the citadel, it
might, with a little arrangement, be possible to have the suggestion
adopted of using a litter, which would happen to be in the house where
the party was being given. There, too, would be gathered a body of
intelligent men, dressed as workmen employed for the party, who, in the
general confusion, would obligingly offer their services to transport
the sick man to his _palazzo_, which stood at such a height. These men,
under the direction of Lodovico, carried a sufficient quantity of cords,
cleverly concealed beneath their clothing. One sees that the Duchessa's
mind had become really unbalanced since she had begun to think seriously
of Fabrizio's escape. The peril of this beloved creature was too much
for her heart, and besides was lasting too long. By her excess of
precaution, she nearly succeeded in preventing his escape, as we shall
presently see. Everything went off as she had planned, with this one
difference, that the narcotic produced too powerful an effect; everyone
believed, including the medical profession, that the General had had an
apoplectic stroke.

Fortunately, Clelia, who was in despair, had not the least suspicion of
so criminal an attempt on the part of the Duchessa. The confusion was
such at the moment when the litter, in which the General, half dead, was
lying, entered the citadel, that Lodovico and his men passed in without
challenge; they were subjected to a formal scrutiny only at the Slave's
Bridge. When they had carried the General to his bedroom, they were
taken to the kitchens, where the servants entertained them royally; but
after this meal, which did not end until it was very nearly morning, it
was explained to them that the rule of the prison required that, for the
rest of the night, they should be locked up in the lower rooms of the
_palazzo_; in the morning at daybreak they would be released by the
governor's deputy.

These men had found an opportunity of handing to Lodovico the cords with
which they had been loaded, but Lodovico had great difficulty in
attracting Clelia's attention for a moment. At length, as she was
passing from one room to another, he made her observe that he was laying
down packets of cords in a dark corner of one of the drawing-rooms of
the first floor. Clelia was profoundly struck by this strange
circumstance; at once she conceived atrocious suspicions.

"Who are you?" she asked Lodovico.

And, on receiving his highly ambiguous reply, she added:

"I ought to have you arrested; you or your masters have poisoned my
father! Confess this instant what is the nature of the poison you have
used, so that the doctor of the citadel can apply the proper remedies;
confess this instant, or else, you and your accomplices shall never go
out of this citadel!"

"The Signorina does wrong to be alarmed," replied Lodovico, with a grace
and politeness that were perfect; "there is no question of poison;
someone has been rash enough to administer to the General a dose of
laudanum, and it appears that the servant who was responsible for this
crime poured a few drops too many into the glass; this we shall
eternally regret; but the Signorina may be assured that, thank heaven,
there is no sort of danger; the Signore must be treated for having
taken, by mistake, too strong a dose of laudanum; but, I have the honour
to repeat to the Signorina, the lackey responsible for the crime made no
use of real poisons, as Barbone did, when he tried to poison Monsignor
Fabrizio. There was no thought of revenge for the peril that Monsignor
Fabrizio ran; nothing was given to this clumsy lackey but a bottle in
which there was laudanum, that I swear to the Signorina! But it must be
clearly understood that, if I were questioned officially, I should deny
everything.

"Besides, if the Signorina speaks to anyone in the world of laudanum and
poison, even to the excellent Don Cesare, Fabrizio is killed by the
Signorina's own hand. She makes impossible for ever all the plans of
escape; and the Signorina knows better than I that it is not with
laudanum that they wish to poison Monsignore; she knows, too, that a
certain person has granted only a month's delay for that crime, and that
already more than a week has gone by since the fatal order was received.
So, if she has me arrested, or if she merely says a word to Don Cesare
or to anyone else, she retards all our activities far more than a month,
and I am right in saying that she kills Monsignor Fabrizio with her own
hand."

Clelia was terrified by the strange tranquillity of Lodovico.

"And so," she said to herself, "here I am conversing formally with my
father's poisoner, who employs polite turns of speech to address me! And
it is love that has led me to all these crimes! . . ."

Her remorse scarcely allowed her the strength to speak; she said to
Lodovico.

"I am going to lock you into this room. I shall run and tell the doctor
that it is only laudanum; but, great God, how shall I tell him that I
discovered this? I shall come back afterwards to release you. But," said
Clelia, running back from the door, "did Fabrizio know anything of the
laudanum?"

"Heavens, no, Signorina, he would never have consented to that. And,
besides, what good would it have done to make an unnecessary confidence?
We are acting with the strictest prudence. It is a question of saving
the life of Monsignore, who will be poisoned in three weeks from now;
the order has been given by a person who is not accustomed to find any
obstacle to his wishes; and, to tell the Signorina everything, they say
that it was the terrible Fiscal General Rassi who received these
instructions."

Clelia fled in terror; she could so count on the perfect probity of Don
Cesare that, taking certain precautions, she had the courage to tell him
that the General had been given laudanum, and nothing else. Without
answering, without putting any question, Don Cesare ran to the doctor.

Clelia returned to the room in which she had shut up Lodovico, with the
intention of plying him with questions about the laudanum. She did not
find him: he had managed to escape. She saw on the table a purse full of
sequins and a box containing different kinds of poison. The sight of
these poisons made her shudder. "How can I be sure," she thought, "that
they have given nothing but laudanum to my father, and that the Duchessa
has not sought to avenge herself for Barbone's attempt?

"Great God!" she cried, "here am I in league with my father's poisoners.
And I allow them to escape! And perhaps that man, when put to the
question, would have confessed something else than laudanum!"

Clelia at once fell on her knees, burst into tears, and prayed to the
Madonna with fervour.

Meanwhile the doctor of the citadel, greatly surprised by the
information he had received from Don Cesare, according to which he had
to deal only with laudanum, applied the appropriate remedies, which
presently made the more alarming symptoms disappear. The General came to
himself a little as day began to dawn. His first action that shewed any
sign of consciousness was to hurl insults at the Colonel who was second
in command of the citadel, and had taken upon himself to give certain
orders, the simplest in the world, while the General was unconscious.

The governor next flew into a towering rage with a kitchenmaid who, when
bringing him his soup, had been so rash as to utter the word apoplexy.

"Am I of an age," he cried, "to have apoplexies? It is only my deadly
enemies who can find pleasure in spreading such reports. And besides,
have I been bled, that slander itself dare speak of apoplexy?"

Fabrizio, wholly occupied with the preparations for his escape, could
not understand the strange sounds that filled the citadel at the moment
when the governor was brought in half dead. At first he had some idea
that his sentence had been altered, and that they were coming to put him
to death. Then, seeing that no one came to his cell, he thought that
Clelia had been betrayed, that on her return to the fortress they had
taken from her the cords which probably she was bringing back, and so,
that his plans of escape were for the future impossible. Next day, at
dawn, he saw come into his room a man unknown to him, who, without
saying a word, laid down a basket of fruit: beneath the fruit was hidden
the following letter:


"Penetrated by the keenest remorse for what has been done, not, thank
heaven, by my consent, but as the outcome of an idea which I had, I have
made a vow to the Blessed Virgin that if, by the effect of Her holy
intercession my father is saved, I will never refuse to obey any of his
orders; I will marry the Marchese as soon as he requires me to do so,
and I will never see you again. However, I consider it my duty to finish
what has been begun. Next Sunday, when you return from mass, to which
you will be taken at my request (remember to prepare your soul, you may
kill yourself in the difficult enterprise); when you return from mass, I
say, put off as long as possible going back to your room; you will find
there what is necessary for the enterprise that you have in mind. If you
perish, my heart will be broken! Will you be able to accuse me of having
contributed to your death? Has not the Duchessa herself repeated to me
upon several occasions that the Raversi faction is winning? They seek to
bind the Prince by an act of cruelty that must separate him for ever
from Conte Mosca. The Duchessa, with floods of tears, has sworn to me
that there remains only this resource: you will perish unless you make
an attempt. I cannot look at you again, I have made my vow; but if on
Sunday, towards evening, you see me dressed entirely in black, at the
usual window, it will be the signal that everything will be ready that
night so far as my feeble means allow. After eleven, perhaps at midnight
or at one o'clock, a little lamp will appear in my window, that will be
the decisive moment; commend yourself to your Holy Patron, dress
yourself in haste in the priestly habit with which you are provided, and
be off.

"Farewell, Fabrizio, I shall be at my prayers, and shedding the most
bitter tears, as you may well believe, while you are running such great
risks. If you perish, I shall not outlive you a day; Great God! What am
I saying? But if you succeed, I shall never see you again. On Sunday,
after mass, you will find in your prison the money, the poison, the
cords, sent by that terrible woman who loves you with passion, and who
has three times over assured me that this course must be adopted. May
God preserve you, and the Blessed Madonna!"


Fabio Conti was a gaoler who was always uneasy, always unhappy, always
seeing in his dreams one of his prisoners escaping: he was loathed by
everyone in the citadel; but misfortune inspiring the same resolutions
in all men, the poor prisoners, even those who were chained in dungeons
three feet high, three feet wide and eight feet long, in which they
could neither stand nor sit, all the prisoners, even these, I say, had
the idea of ordering a _Te Deum_ to be sung at their own expense, when
they knew that their governor was out of danger. Two or three of these
wretches composed sonnets in honour of Fabio Conti. Oh, the effect of
misery upon men! May he who would blame them be led by his destiny to
spend a year in a cell three feet high, with eight ounces of bread a day
and _fasting_ on Fridays!




_JUSTICE_


Clelia, who left her father's room only to pray in the chapel, said that
the governor had decided that the rejoicings should be confined to
Sunday. On the morning of this Sunday, Fabrizio was present at mass and
at the _Te Deum_; in the evening there were fireworks, and in the lower
rooms of the _palazzo_ the soldiers received a quantity of wine four
times that which the governor had allowed; an unknown hand had even sent
several barrels of brandy which the soldiers broached. The generous
spirit of the soldiers who were becoming intoxicated would not allow the
five of their number who were on duty as sentries outside the _palazzo_
to suffer accordingly; as soon as they arrived at their sentry-boxes, a
trusted servant gave them wine, and it was not known from what hand
those who came on duty at midnight and for the rest of the night
received also a glass each of brandy, while the bottle was in each case
forgotten and left by the sentry-box (as was proved in the subsequent
investigations).

The disorder lasted longer than Clelia had expected, and it was not
until nearly one o'clock that Fabrizio, who, more than a week earlier,
had sawn through two bars of his window, the window that did not look
out on the aviary, began to take down the screen; he was working almost
over the heads of the sentries who were guarding the governor's
_palazzo_, they heard nothing. He had made some fresh knots only in the
immense cord necessary for descending from that terrible height of one
hundred and eighty feet. He arranged this cord as a bandolier about his
body: it greatly embarrassed him, its bulk was enormous; the knots
prevented it from being wound close, and it projected more than eighteen
inches from his body. "This is the chief obstacle," said Fabrizio.

This cord once arranged as well as possible, Fabrizio took the other
with which he counted on climbing down the thirty-five feet which
separated his window from the terrace on which the governor's _palazzo_
stood. But inasmuch as, however drunken the sentries might be, he could
not descend exactly over their heads, he climbed out, as we have said,
by the second window of his room, that which looked over the roof of a
sort of vast guard-room. By a sick man's whim, as soon as General Fabio
Conti was able to speak, he had ordered up two hundred soldiers into
this old guard-room, disused for over a century. He said that after
poisoning him, they would seek to murder him in his bed, and these two
hundred soldiers were to guard him. One may judge of the effect which
this unforeseen measure had on the heart of Clelia: that pious girl was
fully conscious to what an extent she was betraying her father, and a
father who had just been almost poisoned in the interests of the
prisoner whom she loved. She almost saw in the unexpected arrival of
these two hundred men an act of Providence which forbade her to go any
farther and to give Fabrizio his freedom.

But everyone in Parma was talking of the immediate death of the
prisoner. This grim subject had been discussed again at the party given
on the occasion of the marriage of Donna Giulia Crescenzi. Since for
such a mere trifle as a clumsy sword-thrust given to an actor, a man of
Fabrizio's birth was not set at liberty at the end of nine months'
imprisonment, and when he had the protection of the Prime Minister, it
must be because politics entered into the case. And in that event, it
was useless to think any more about him, people said; if it was not
convenient to authority to put him to death in a public place, he would
soon die of sickness. A locksmith who had been summoned to General Fabio
Conti's _palazzo_ spoke of Fabrizio as of a prisoner long since
dispatched, whose death was being kept secret from motives of policy.
This man's words decided Clelia.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


During the day Fabrizio was attacked by certain serious and disagreeable
reflexions; but as he heard the hours strike that brought him nearer to
the moment of action, he began to feel alert and ready. The Duchessa had
written that he would feel the shock of the fresh air, and that once he
was out of his prison he might find it impossible to walk; in that case
it was better to run the risk of being caught than to let himself fall
from a height of a hundred and eighty feet. "If I have that misfortune,"
said Fabrizio, "I shall lie down beneath the parapet, I shall sleep for
an hour, then I shall start again. Since I have sworn to Clelia that I
will make the attempt, I prefer to fall from the top of a rampart,
however high, rather than always to have to think about the taste of the
bread I eat. What horrible pains one must feel before the end, when one
dies of poison! Fabio Conti will stand on no ceremony, he will make them
give me the arsenic with which he kills the rats in his citadel."

Towards midnight, one of those thick white fogs in which the Po
sometimes swathes its banks, spread first of all over the town, and then
reached the esplanade and the bastions from the midst of which rises the
great tower of the citadel. Fabrizio estimated that from the parapet of
the platform it would be impossible to make out the young acacias that
surrounded the gardens laid out by the soldiers at the foot of the
hundred and eighty foot wall. "That, now, is excellent," he thought.




_THE ESCAPE_


Shortly after half past twelve had struck, the signal of the little lamp
appeared at the aviary window. Fabrizio was ready for action; he crossed
himself, then fastened to his bed the fine cord intended to enable him
to descend the thirty-five feet that separated him from the platform on
which the _palazzo_ stood. He arrived without meeting any obstacle on
the roof of the guard-room occupied overnight by the reinforcement of
two hundred soldiers of whom we have spoken. Unfortunately, the
soldiers, at a quarter to one in the morning, as it now was, had not yet
gone to sleep; while he was creeping on tiptoe over the roof of large
curved tiles, Fabrizio could hear them saying that the devil was on the
roof, and that they must try to kill him with a shot from a musket.
Certain voices insisted that this desire savoured of great impiety;
others said that if a shot were fired without killing anything, the
governor would put them all in prison for having alarmed the garrison
without cause. The upshot of this discussion was that Fabrizio walked
across the roof as quickly as possible and made a great deal more noise.
The fact remains that at the moment when, hanging by his cord, he passed
opposite the windows, mercifully at a distance of four or five feet
owing to the projection of the roof, they were bristling with bayonets.
Some accounts suggest that Fabrizio, mad as ever, had the idea of acting
the part of the devil, and that he flung these soldiers a handful of
sequins. One thing certain is that he had scattered sequins upon the
floor of his room, and that he scattered more on the platform on his way
from the Torre Farnese to the parapet, so as to give himself the chance
of distracting the attention of the soldiers who might come in pursuit
of him.

Landing upon the platform where he was surrounded by soldiers, who
ordinarily called out every quarter of an hour a whole sentence: "All's
well around my post!" he directed his steps towards the western parapet
and sought for the new stone.

The thing that appears incredible and might make one doubt the truth of
the story if the result had not had a whole town for witnesses, is that
the sentries posted along the parapet did not see and arrest Fabrizio;
as a matter of fact the fog was beginning to rise, and Fabrizio said
afterwards that when he was on the platform the fog seemed to him to
have come already halfway up the Torre Farnese. But this fog was by no
means thick, and he could quite well see the sentries, some of whom were
moving. He added that, impelled as though by a supernatural force, he
went to take up his position boldly between two sentries who were quite
near one another. He calmly unwound the big cord which he had round his
body, and which twice became entangled; it took him a long time to
unravel it and spread it out on the parapet. He heard the soldiers
talking on all sides of him, and was quite determined to stab the first
who advanced upon him. "I was not in the least anxious," he added, "I
felt as though I were performing a ceremony."

He fastened his cord, when it was finally unravelled, through an opening
cut in the parapet for the escape of rain-water, climbed on to the said
parapet and prayed to God with fervour; then, like a hero of the days of
chivalry, he thought for a moment of Clelia. "How different I am," he
said to himself, "from the fickle, libertine Fabrizio of nine months
ago!" At length he began to descend that astounding height. He acted
mechanically, he said, and as he would have done in broad daylight,
climbing down a wall before friends, to win a wager. About halfway down,
he suddenly felt his arms lose their strength; he thought afterwards
that he had even let go the cord for an instant, but he soon caught hold
of it again; possibly, he said, he had held on to the bushes into which
he slipped, receiving some scratches from them. He felt from time to
time an agonising pain between his shoulders; it actually took away his
breath. There was an extremely unpleasant swaying motion; he was
constantly flung from the cord to the bushes. He was brushed by several
birds which he aroused, and which dashed at him in their flight. At
first, he thought that he was being clutched by men who had come down
from the citadel by the same way as himself in pursuit, and he prepared
to defend his life. Finally he arrived at the base of the great tower
without any inconvenience save that of having blood on his hands. He
relates that, from the middle of the tower, the slope which it forms was
of great use to him; he hugged the wall all the way down, and the plants
growing between the stones gave him great support. On reaching the foot,
among the soldiers' gardens, he fell upon an acacia which, looked at
from above, had seemed to him to be four or five feet high, but was
really fifteen or twenty. A drunken man who was lying asleep beneath it
took him for a robber. In his fall from this tree, Fabrizio nearly
dislocated his right arm. He started to run towards the rampart; but, as
he said, his legs felt like cotton, he had no longer any strength. In
spite of the danger, he sat down and drank a little brandy which he had
left. He dozed off for a few minutes to the extent of not knowing where
he was; on awaking, he could not understand how, lying in bed in his
cell, he saw trees. Then the terrible truth came back to his mind. At
once he stepped out to the rampart, and climbed it by a big stair. The
sentry who was posted close beside this stair was snoring in his box. He
found a cannon lying in the grass; he fastened his third cord to it; it
proved to be a little too short, and he fell into a muddy ditch in which
there was perhaps a foot of water. As he was picking himself up and
trying to take his bearings, he felt himself seized by two men; he was
afraid for a moment; but presently heard a voice close to his ear
whisper very softly: "Ah! Monsignore, Monsignore!" He gathered vaguely
that these men belonged to the Duchessa; at once he fell in a dead
faint. A minute later, he felt that he was being carried by men who were
marching in silence and very fast; then they stopped, which caused him
great uneasiness. But he had not the strength either to speak or to open
his eyes; he felt that he was being clasped in someone's arm; suddenly
he recognised the scent of the Duchessa's clothing. This scent revived
him; he opened his eyes; he was able to utter the words: "Ah! Dear
friend!" Then once again he fainted away.

The faithful Bruno, with a squad of police all devoted to the Conte, was
in reserve at a distance of two hundred yards; the Conte himself was
hidden in a small house close to the place where the Duchessa was
waiting. He would not have hesitated, had it been necessary, to take his
sword in his hand, with a party of half-pay officers, his intimate
friends; he regarded himself as obliged to save the life of Fabrizio,
who seemed to him to be exposed to great risk, and would long ago have
had his pardon signed by the Prince, if he, Mosca, had not been so
foolish as to seek to avoid making the Sovereign write a foolish thing.

Since midnight the Duchessa, surrounded by men armed to the teeth, had
been pacing in deep silence outside the ramparts of the citadel; she
could not stay in one place, she thought that she would have to fight to
rescue Fabrizio from the men who would pursue him. This ardent
imagination had taken a hundred precautions, too long to be given here
in detail, and of an incredible imprudence. It was calculated that more
than eighty agents were afoot that night, in readiness to fight for
something extraordinary. Fortunately Ferrante and Lodovico were at the
head of all these men, and the Minister of Police was not hostile; but
the Conte himself remarked that the Duchessa was not betrayed by anyone,
and that he himself, as Minister, knew nothing.

The Duchessa lost her head altogether on seeing Fabrizio again; she
clasped him convulsively in her arms, then was in despair on seeing
herself covered in blood: it was the blood from Fabrizio's hands; she
thought that he was dangerously wounded. With the assistance of one of
her men, she was taking off his coat to bandage him when Lodovico, who
fortunately happened to be on the spot, firmly put her and Fabrizio in
one of the little carriages which were hidden in a garden near the gate
of the town, and they set off at full gallop to cross the Po near Sacca.
Ferrante, with a score of well-armed men, formed the rearguard, and had
sworn on his head to stop the pursuit. The Conte, alone and on foot, did
not leave the neighbourhood of the citadel until two hours later, when
he saw that no one was stirring. "Look at me, committing high treason,"
he said to himself, mad with joy.

Lodovico had the excellent idea of placing in one of the carriages a
young surgeon attached to the Duchessa's household, who was of much the
same build as Fabrizio.

"Make your escape," he told him, "in the direction of Bologna; be as
awkward as possible, try to have yourself arrested; then contradict
yourself in your answers, and finally admit that you are Fabrizio del
Dongo; above all, gain time. Use your skill in being awkward, you will
get off with a month's imprisonment, and the Signora will give you fifty
sequins."

"Does one think of money when one is serving the Signora?"

He set off, and was arrested a few hours later, an event which gave
great joy to General Fabio Conti and also to Rassi, who, with Fabrizio's
peril, saw his Barony taking flight.

The escape was not known at the citadel until about six o'clock in the
morning, and it was not until ten that they dared inform the Prince. The
Duchessa had been so well served that, in spite of Fabrizio's deep
sleep, which she mistook for a dead faint, with the result that she
stopped the carriage three times, she crossed the Po in a boat as four
was striking. There were relays on the other side, they covered two
leagues more at great speed, then were stopped for more than an hour for
the examination of their passports. The Duchessa had every variety of
these for herself and Fabrizio; but she was mad that day, and took it
into her head to give ten napoleons to the clerk of the Austrian police,
and to clasp his hand and burst into tears. This clerk, greatly alarmed,
began the examination afresh. They took post; the Duchessa paid in so
extravagant a fashion that everywhere she aroused suspicions, in that
land where every stranger is suspect. Lodovico came to the rescue again:
he said that the Signora Duchessa was beside herself with grief at the
protracted fever of young Conte Mosca, son of the Prime Minister of
Parma, whom she was taking with her to consult the doctors of Pavia.

It was not until they were ten leagues beyond the Po that the prisoner
really awoke; he had a dislocated shoulder and a number of slight cuts.
The Duchessa again behaved in so extraordinary a fashion that the
landlord of a village inn where they dined thought he was entertaining a
Princess of the Imperial House, and was going to pay her the honours
which he supposed to be due to her when Lodovico told him that the
Princess would without fail have him put in prison if he thought of
ordering the bells to be rung.

At length, about six o'clock in the evening, they reached Piedmontese
territory. There for the first time Fabrizio was in complete safety; he
was taken to a little village off the high road, the cuts on his hands
were dressed, and he slept for several hours more.




_MADNESS_


It was in this village that the Duchessa allowed herself to take a step
that was not only horrible from the moral point of view, but also fatal
to the tranquillity of the rest of her life. Some weeks before
Fabrizio's escape; on a day when the whole of Parma had gone to the gate
of the citadel; hoping to see in the courtyard the scaffold that was
being erected for his benefit; the Duchessa had shown to Lodovico, who
had become the factotum of her household, the secret by which one raised
from a little iron frame, very cunningly concealed, one of the stones
forming the floor of the famous reservoir of the _palazzo_ Sanseverina,
a work of the thirteenth century, of which we have spoken already. While
Fabrizio was lying asleep in the _trattoria_ of this little village, the
Duchessa sent for Lodovico. He thought that she had gone mad, so strange
was the look that she gave him.

"You probably expect," she said to him, "that I am going to give you
several thousand francs; well, I am not; I know you, you are a poet, you
would soon squander it all. I am giving you the small _podere_ of La
Ricciarda, a league from Casalmaggiore." Lodovico flung himself at her
feet, mad with joy, and protesting in heartfelt accents that it was not
with any thought of earning money that he had helped to save Monsignor
Fabrizio; that he had always loved him with a special affection since he
had had the honour to drive him once, in his capacity as the Signora's
third coachman. When this man, who was genuinely warm-hearted, thought
that he had taken up enough of the time of so great a lady, he took his
leave; but she, with flashing eyes, said to him:

"Wait!"

She paced without uttering a word the floor of this inn room, looking
from time to time at Lodovico with incredible eyes. Finally the man,
seeing that this strange exercise showed no sign of coming to an end,
took it upon himself to address his mistress.

"The Signora has made me so extravagant a gift, one so far beyond
anything that a poor man like me could imagine, and moreover so much
greater than the humble services which I have had the honour to render,
that I feel, on my conscience, that I cannot accept the _podere_ of La
Ricciarda. I have the honour to return this land to the Signora, and to
beg her to grant me a pension of four hundred francs."

"How many times in your life," she said to him with the most sombre
pride, "how many times have you heard it said that I had abandoned a
project once I had made it?"

After uttering this sentence, the Duchessa continued to walk up and down
the room for some minutes; then suddenly stopping, cried:

"It is by accident, and because he managed to attract that little girl,
that Fabrizio's life has been saved! If he had not been attractive, he
would now be dead. Can you deny that?" she asked, advancing on Lodovico
with eyes in which the darkest fury blazed. Lodovico recoiled a few
steps and thought her mad, which gave him great uneasiness as to the
possession of his _podere_ of La Ricciarda.

"Very well!" the Duchessa went on, in the most winning and light-hearted
tone, completely changed, "I wish my good people of Sacca to have a mad
holiday which they will long remember. You are going to return to Sacca;
have you any objection? Do you think that you will be running any risk?"

"None to speak of, Signora: none of the people of Sacca will ever say
that I was in Monsignor Fabrizio's service. Besides, if I may venture to
say so to the Signora, I am burning to see _my_ property at La Ricciarda:
it seems so odd for me to be a landowner!"

"Your gaiety pleases me. The farmer at La Ricciarda owes me, I think,
three or four years' rent; I make him a present of half of what he owes
me, and the other half of all these arrears I give to you, but on this
condition: you will go to Sacca, you will say there that the day after
to-morrow is the _festa_ of one of my patron saints, and, on the evening
after your arrival, you will have my house illuminated in the most
splendid fashion. Spare neither money nor trouble; remember that the
occasion is the greatest happiness of my life. I have prepared for this
illumination long beforehand; more than three months ago, I collected in
the cellars of the house everything that can be used for this noble
_festa_; I have put the gardener in charge of all the fireworks
necessary for a magnificent display: you will let them off from the
terrace overlooking the Po. I have eighty-nine large barrels of wine in
my cellars, you will set up eighty-nine fountains of wine in my park. If
next day there remains a single bottle which has not been drunk, I shall
say that you do not love Fabrizio. When the fountains of wine, the
illumination and the fireworks are well started, you will slip away
cautiously, for it is possible, and it is my hope, that at Parma all
these fine doings may appear an insolence."

"It is not possible, it is only a certainty; as it is certain too that
the Fiscal Rassi, who signed Monsignore's sentence, will burst with
rage. And indeed," added Lodovico timidly, "if the Signora wished to
give more pleasure to her poor servant than by bestowing on him half the
arrears of La Ricciarda, she would allow me to play a little joke on
that Rassi. . . ."

"You are a stout fellow!" cried the Duchessa in a transport; "but I
forbid you absolutely to do anything to Rassi: I have a plan of having
him publicly hanged, later on. As for you, try not to have yourself
arrested at Sacca; everything would be spoiled if I lost you."

"I, Signora! After I have said that I am celebrating the _festa_ of one
of the Signora's patrons, if the police sent thirty constables to upset
things, you may be sure that before they had reached the Croce Rossa in
the middle of the village, not one of them would be on his horse.
They're no fools, the people of Sacca; finished smugglers all of them,
and they worship the Signora."

"Finally," went on the Duchessa with a singularly detached air, "if I
give wine to my good people of Sacca, I wish to flood the inhabitants of
Parma; the same evening on which my house is illuminated, take the best
horse in my stable, dash to my _palazzo_ in Parma, and open the
reservoir."

"Ah! What an excellent idea of the Signora!" cried Lodovico, laughing
like a madman; "wine for the good people of Sacca, water for the cits of
Parma, who were so sure, the wretches, that Monsignor Fabrizio was going
to be poisoned like poor L----."

Lodovico's joy knew no end; the Duchessa complacently watched his wild
laughter; he kept on repeating "Wine for the people of Sacca and water
for the people of Parma! The Signora no doubt knows better than I that
when they rashly emptied the reservoir, twenty years ago, there was as
much as a foot of water in many of the streets of Parma."

"And water for the people of Parma," retorted the Duchessa with a laugh.
"The avenue past the citadel would have been filled with people if they
had cut off Fabrizio's head. . . . They all call him _the great
culprit_. . . . But, above all, do everything carefully, so that not a
living soul knows that the flood was started by you or ordered by me.
Fabrizio, the Conte himself must be left in ignorance of this mad prank.
. . . But I was forgetting the poor of Sacca: go and write a letter to
my agent, which I shall sign; you will tell him that, for the _festa_ of
my holy patron, he must distribute a hundred sequins among the poor of
Sacca, and tell him to obey you in everything to do with the
illumination, the fireworks and the wine; and especially that there must
not be a full bottle in my cellars next day."




_DISAPPOINTMENT_


"The Signora's agent will have no difficulty except in one thing: in the
five years that the Signora has had the villa, she has not left ten poor
persons in Sacca."

"_And water for the people of Parma_!" the Duchessa went on chanting.
"How will you carry out this joke?"

"My plans are all made: I leave Sacca about nine o'clock, at half past
ten my horse is at the inn of the Tre Ganasce, on the road to
Casalmaggiore and to _my podere_ of La Ricciarda; at eleven, I am in my
room in the _palazzo_, and at a quarter past eleven water for the people
of Parma, and more than they wish, to drink to the health of the great
culprit. Ten minutes later, I leave the town by the Bologna road. I
make, as I pass it, a profound bow to the citadel, which Monsignore's
courage and the Signora's spirit have succeeded in disgracing; I take a
path across country, which I know well, and I make my entry into La
Ricciarda."

Lodovico raised his eyes to the Duchessa and was startled. She was
staring fixedly at the blank wall six paces away from her, and, it must
be admitted, her expression was terrible. "Ah! My poor _podere_!"
thought Lodovico. "The fact of the matter is, she is mad!" The Duchessa
looked at him and read his thoughts.

"Ah! Signor Lodovico the great poet, you wish a deed of gift in writing:
run and find me a sheet of paper." Lodovico did not wait to be told
twice, and the Duchessa wrote out in her own hand a long form of
receipt, ante-dated by a year, in which she declared that she had
received from Lodovico San Micheli the sum of 80,000 francs, and had
given him in pledge the lands of La Ricciarda. If after the lapse of
twelve months the Duchessa had not restored the said 80,000 francs to
Lodovico, the lands of La Ricciarda were to remain his property.

"It is a fine action," the Duchessa said to herself, "to give to a
faithful servant nearly a third of what I have left for myself."

"Now then," she said to Lodovico, "after the joke of the reservoir, I
give you just two days to enjoy yourself at Casalmaggiore. For the
conveyance to hold good, say that it is a transaction which dates back
more than a year. Come back and join me at Belgirate, and as quickly as
possible; Fabrizio is perhaps going to England, where you will follow
him."

Early the next day the Duchessa and Fabrizio were at Belgirate.

They took up their abode in that enchanting village; but a killing grief
awaited the Duchessa on Lake Maggiore. Fabrizio was entirely changed;
from the first moments in which he had awoken from his sleep, still
somewhat lethargic, after his escape, the Duchessa had noticed that
something out of the common was occurring in him. The deep-lying
sentiment, which he took great pains to conceal, was distinctly odd, it
was nothing less than this: he was in despair at being out of his
prison. He was careful not to admit this cause of his sorrow, which
would have led to questions which he did not wish to answer.

"What!" said the Duchessa, in amazement, "that horrible sensation when
hunger forced you to feed, so as not to fall down, on one of those
loathsome dishes supplied by the prison kitchen, that sensation: 'Is
there some strange taste in this, am I poisoning myself at this
moment?'--did not that sensation fill you with horror?"

"I thought of death," replied Fabrizio, "as I suppose soldiers think of
it: it was a possible thing which I thought to avoid by taking care."




_REGRET_


And so, what uneasiness, what grief for the Duchessa! This adored,
singular, vivid, original creature was now before her eyes a prey to an
endless train of fancies; he actually preferred solitude to the pleasure
of talking of all manner of things, and with an open heart, to the best
friend that he had in the world. Still he was always good, assiduous,
grateful towards the Duchessa; he would, as before, have given his life
a hundred times over for her; but his heart was elsewhere. They often
went four or five leagues over that sublime lake without uttering a
word. The conversation, the exchange of cold thoughts that from then
onwards was possible between them might perhaps have seemed pleasant to
others; but they remembered still, the Duchessa especially, what their
conversation had been before that fatal fight with Giletti which had set
them apart. Fabrizio owed the Duchessa an account of the nine months
that he had spent in a horrible prison, and it appeared that he had
nothing to say of this detention but brief and unfinished sentences.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," the Duchessa told herself with
a gloomy sadness. "Grief has aged me, or else he is really in love, and
I have now only the second place in his heart." Demeaned, cast down by
the greatest of all possible griefs, the Duchessa said to herself at
times: "If, by the will of Heaven, Ferrante should become mad
altogether, or his courage should fail, I feel that I should be less
unhappy." From that moment this half-remorse poisoned the esteem that
the Duchessa had for her own character. "So," she said to herself
bitterly, "I am repenting of a resolution I have already made. Then I am
no longer a del Dongo!"

"It is the will of Heaven," she would say: "Fabrizio is in love, and
what right have I to wish that he should not be in love? Has one single
word of genuine love ever passed between us?"

This idea, reasonable as it was, kept her from sleeping, and in short, a
thing which shewed how old age and a weakening of the heart had come
over her, she was a hundred times more unhappy than at Parma. As for the
person who could be responsible for Fabrizio's strange abstraction, it
was hardly possible to entertain any reasonable doubt: Clelia Conti,
that pious girl, had betrayed her father since she had consented to make
the garrison drunk, and never once did Fabrizio speak of Clelia! "But,"
added the Duchessa, beating her breast in desperation, "if the garrison
had not been made drunk, all my stratagems, all my exertions became
useless; so it is she that saved him!"

It was with extreme difficulty that the Duchessa obtained from Fabrizio
any details of the events of that night, which, she said to herself,
"would at one time have been the subject of an endlessly renewed
discussion between us! In those happy times he would have talked for a
whole day, with a force and gaiety endlessly renewed, of the smallest
trifle which I thought of bringing forward."

As it was necessary to think of everything, the Duchessa had installed
Fabrizio at the port of Locarno, a Swiss town at the head of Lake
Maggiore. Every day she went to fetch him in a boat for long excursions
over the lake. Well, on one occasion when she took it into her head to
go up to his room, she found the walls lined with a number of views of
the town of Parma, for which he had sent to Milan or to Parma itself, a
place which he ought to be holding in abomination. His little
sitting-room, converted into a studio, was littered with all the
apparatus of a painter in water-colours, and she found him finishing a
third sketch of the Torre Farnese and the governor's _palazzo_.




_LOVE_


"The only thing for you to do now," she said to him with an air of
vexation, "is to make a portrait from memory of that charming governor
whose only wish was to poison you. But, while I think of it," she went
on, "you ought to write him a letter of apology for having taken the
liberty of escaping and making his citadel look foolish."

The poor woman little knew how true her words were: no sooner had he
arrived in a place of safety than Fabrizio's first thought had been to
write General Fabio Conti a perfectly polite and in a sense highly
ridiculous letter; he asked his pardon for having escaped, offering as
an excuse that a certain subordinate in the prison had been ordered to
give him poison. Little did he care what he wrote, Fabrizio hoped that
Clelia's eyes would see this letter, and his cheeks were wet with tears
as he wrote it. He ended it with a very pleasant sentence: he ventured
to say that, finding himself at liberty, he frequently had occasion to
regret his little room in the Torre Farnese. This was the principal
thought in his letter, he hoped that Clelia would understand it. In his
writing vein, and always in the hope of being read by someone, Fabrizio
addressed his thanks to Don Cesare, that good chaplain who had lent him
books on theology. A few days later Fabrizio arranged that the small
bookseller of Locarno should make the journey to Milan, where this
bookseller, a friend of the celebrated bibliomaniac Reina, bought the
most sumptuous editions that he could find of the works that Don Cesare
had lent Fabrizio. The good chaplain received these books and a handsome
letter which informed him that, in moments of impatience, pardonable
perhaps to a poor prisoner, the writer had covered the margins of his
books with silly notes. He begged him, accordingly, to replace them in
his library with the volumes which the most lively gratitude took the
liberty of presenting to him.

Fabrizio was very modest in giving the simple name of notes to the
endless scribblings with which he had covered the margins of a folio
volume of the works of Saint Jerome. In the hope that he might be able
to send back this book to the good chaplain, and exchange it for
another, he had written day by day on the margins a very exact diary of
all that occurred to him in prison; the great events were nothing else
than ecstasies of _divine love_ (this word _divine_ took the place of
another which he dared not write). At one moment this divine love led
the prisoner to a profound despair, at other times a voice heard in the
air restored some hope and caused transports of joy. All this,
fortunately, was written with prison ink, made of wine, chocolate and
soot, and Don Cesare had done no more than cast an eye over it as he put
back on his shelves the volume of Saint Jerome. If he had studied the
margins, he would have seen that one day the prisoner, believing himself
to have been poisoned, was congratulating himself on dying at a distance
of less than forty yards from what he had loved best in the world. But
another eye than the good chaplain's had read this page since his
escape. That fine idea: _To die near what one loves_! expressed in a
hundred different fashions, was followed by a sonnet in which one saw
that this soul, parted, after atrocious torments, from the frail body in
which it had dwelt for three-and-twenty years, urged by that instinct
for happiness natural to everything that has once existed, would not
mount to heaven to mingle with the choirs of angels as soon as it should
be free, and should the dread Judgment grant it pardon for its sins; but
that, more fortunate after death than it had been in life, it would go a
little way from the prison, where for so long it had groaned, to unite
itself with all that it had loved in this world. And "So," said the last
line of the sonnet, "I should find my earthly paradise."




_SELF-SACRIFICE_


Although they spoke of Fabrizio in the citadel of Parma only as of an
infamous traitor who had outraged the most sacred ties of duty, still
the good priest Don Cesare was delighted by the sight of the fine books
which an unknown hand had conveyed to him; for Fabrizio had decided to
write to him only a few days after sending them, for fear lest his name
might make the whole parcel be rejected with indignation. Don Cesare
said no word of this kind attention to his brother, who flew into a rage
at the mere name of Fabrizio; but since the latter's flight, he had
returned to all his old intimacy with his charming niece; and as he had
once taught her a few words of Latin, he let her see the fine books that
he had received. Such had been the traveller's hope. Suddenly Clelia
blushed deeply, she had recognized Fabrizio's handwriting. Long and very
narrow strips of yellow paper were placed by way of markers in various
parts of the volume. And as it is true to say that in the midst of the
sordid pecuniary interests, and of the colourless coldness of the vulgar
thoughts which fill our lives, the actions inspired by a true passion
rarely fail to produce their effect; as though a propitious deity were
taking the trouble to lead them by the hand, Clelia, guided by this
instinct, and by the thought of one thing only in the world, asked her
uncle to compare the old copy of Saint Jerome with the one that he had
just received. How can I describe her rapture in the midst of the gloomy
sadness in which Fabrizio's absence had plunged her, when she found on
the margins of the old Saint Jerome the sonnet of which we have spoken,
and the records, day by day, of the love that he had felt for her.

From the first day she knew the sonnet by heart; she would sing it,
leaning on her window-sill, before the window, henceforward empty, where
she had so often seen a little opening appear in the screen. This screen
had been taken down to be placed in the office of the criminal court,
and to serve as evidence in a ridiculous prosecution which Rassi was
drawing up against Fabrizio, accused of the crime of having escaped, or,
as the Fiscal said, laughing himself as he said it, _of having removed
himself from the clemency of a magnanimous Prince_!

Each stage in Clelia's actions was for her a matter for keen remorse,
and now that she was unhappy, her remorse was all the keener. She sought
to mitigate somewhat the reproaches that she addressed to herself by
reminding herself of the vow _never to see Fabrizio again_, which she
had made to the Madonna at the time when the General was nearly
poisoned, and since then had renewed daily.

Her father had been made ill by Fabrizio's escape, and, moreover, had
been on the point of losing his post, when the Prince, in his anger,
dismissed all the gaolers of the Torre Farnese, and sent them as
prisoners to the town gaol. The General had been saved partly by the
intercession of Conte Mosca, who preferred to see him shut up at the top
of his citadel, rather than as an active and intriguing rival in court
circles.

It was during the fortnight of uncertainty as to the disgrace of General
Fabio Conti, who was really ill, that Clelia had the courage to carry
out this sacrifice which she had announced to Fabrizio. She had had the
sense to be ill on the day of the general rejoicings, which was also
that of the prisoner's flight, as the reader may perhaps remember; she
was ill also on the following day, and, in a word, managed things so
well that, with the exception of Grillo, whose special duty it was to
look after Fabrizio, no one had any suspicion of her complicity, and
Grillo held his tongue.

But as soon as Clelia had no longer any anxiety in that direction, she
was even more cruelly tormented by her just remorse. "What argument in
the world," she asked herself, "can mitigate the crime of a daughter who
betrays her father?"

One evening, after a day spent almost entirely in the chapel, and in
tears, she begged her uncle, Don Cesare, to accompany her to the
General, whose outbursts of rage alarmed her all the more since into
every topic he introduced imprecations against Fabrizio, that abominable
traitor.

Having come into her father's presence, she had the courage to say to
him that if she had always refused to give her hand to the Marchese
Crescenzi, it was because she did not feel any inclination towards him,
and was certain of finding no happiness in such a union. At these words
the General flew into a rage; and Clelia had some difficulty in making
herself heard. She added that if her father, tempted by the Marchese's
great fortune, felt himself bound to give her a definite order to marry
him, she was prepared to obey. The General was quite astonished by this
conclusion, which he had been far from expecting; he ended, however,
by rejoicing at it. "So," he said to his brother, "I shall not be
reduced to a lodging on a second floor, if that scoundrel Fabrizio makes
me lose my post through his vile conduct."

Conte Mosca did not fail to shew himself profoundly scandalised by the
flight of that _scapegrace_ Fabrizio, and repeated when the occasion
served the expression invented by Rassi to describe the base conduct of
the young man--a very vulgar young man, to boot--who had removed himself
from the clemency of the Prince. This witty expression, consecrated by
good society, did not take hold at all of the people. Left to their own
good sense, while fully believing in Fabrizio's guilt they admired the
determination that he must have had to let himself down from so high a
wall. Not a creature at court admired this courage. As for the police,
greatly humiliated by this rebuff, they had officially discovered that a
band of twenty soldiers, corrupted by the money distributed by the
Duchessa, that woman of such atrocious ingratitude whose name was no
longer uttered save with a sigh, had given Fabrizio four ladders tied
together, each forty-five feet long; Fabrizio, having let down a cord
which they had tied to these ladders, had had only the quite commonplace
distinction of pulling the ladders up to where he was. Certain Liberals,
well known for their imprudence, and among them Doctor C----, an agent
paid directly by the Prince, added, but compromised themselves by adding
that these atrocious police had had the barbarity to shoot eight of the
unfortunate soldiers who had facilitated the flight of that wretch
Fabrizio. Thereupon he was blamed even by the true Liberals, as having
caused by his imprudence the death of eight poor soldiers. It is thus
that petty despotisms reduce to nothing the value of public opinion.




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Amid this general uproar, Archbishop Landriani alone shewed himself
loyal to the cause of his young friend; he made bold to repeat, even at
the Princess's court, the legal maxim according to which, in every case,
one ought to keep an ear free from all prejudice to hear the plea of an
absent party.

The day after Fabrizio's escape a number of people had received a sonnet
of no great merit which celebrated this flight as one of the fine
actions of the age, and compared Fabrizio to an angel arriving on the
earth with outspread wings. On the evening of the following day, the
whole of Parma was repeating a sublime sonnet. It was Fabrizio's
monologue as he let himself slide down the cord, and passed judgment on
the different incidents of his life. This sonnet gave him a place in
literature by two magnificent lines; all the experts recognised the
style of Ferrante Palla.

But here I must seek the epic style: where can I find colours in which
to paint the torrents of indignation that suddenly flooded every
orthodox heart, when they learned of the frightful insolence of this
illumination of the house at Sacca? There was but one outcry against the
Duchessa; even the true Liberals decided that such an action compromised
in a barbarous fashion the poor suspects detained in the various
prisons, and needlessly exasperated the heart of the sovereign. Conte
Mosca declared that there was but one thing left for the Duchessa's
former friends--to forget her. The concert of execration was therefore
unanimous: a stranger passing through the town would have been struck by
the energy of public opinion. But in the country, where they know how to
appreciate the pleasure of revenge, the illumination and the admirable
feast given in the park to more than six thousand _contadini_ had an
immense success. Everyone in Parma repeated that the Duchessa had
distributed a thousand sequins among her _contadini_; thus they
explained the somewhat harsh reception given to a party of thirty
constables whom the police had been so foolish as to send to that small
village, thirty-six hours after the sublime evening and the general
intoxication that had followed it. The constables, greeted with showers
of stones, had turned and fled, and two of their number, who fell from
their horses, were flung into the Po.

As for the bursting of the great reservoir of the _palazzo_ Sanseverina,
it had passed almost unnoticed: it was during the night that several
streets had been more or less flooded, next morning one would have said
that it had _rained_. Lodovico had taken care to break the panes of a
window in the _palazzo_, so as to account for the entry of robbers.

They had even found a little ladder. Only Conte Mosca recognised his
friend's inventive genius.

Fabrizio was fully determined to return to Parma as soon as he could; he
sent Lodovico with a long letter to the Archbishop, and this faithful
servant came back to post at the first village in Piedmont, San Nazzaro,
to the west of Pavia, a Latin epistle which the worthy prelate addressed
to his young client. We may add here a detail which, like many others no
doubt, will seem otiose in countries where there is no longer any need
of precaution. The name of Fabrizio del Dongo was never written; all the
letters that were intended for him were addressed to Lodovico San
Micheli, at Locarno in Switzerland, or at Belgirate in Piedmont. The
envelope was made of a coarse paper, the seal carelessly applied, the
address barely legible and sometimes adorned with recommendations worthy
of a cook; all the letters were dated from Naples six days before their
actual date.




_REVENGE_


From the Piedmontese village of San Nazzaro, near Pavia, Lodovico
returned in hot haste to Parma; he was charged with a mission to which
Fabrizio attached the greatest importance; this was nothing less than to
convey to Clelia Conti a handkerchief on which was printed a sonnet of
Petrarch. It is true that a word was altered in this sonnet: Clelia
found it on the table two days after she had received the thanks of the
Marchese Crescenzi, who professed himself the happiest of men; and there
is no need to say what impression this token of a still constant
remembrance produced on her heart.

Lodovico was to try to procure all possible details as to what was
happening at the citadel. He it was who told Fabrizio the sad news that
the Marchese Crescenzi's marriage seemed now to be definitely settled;
scarcely a day passed without his giving a _festa_ for Clelia, inside
the citadel. A decisive proof of the marriage was that the Marchese,
immensely rich and in consequence very avaricious, as is the custom
among the opulent people of Northern Italy, was making immense
preparations, and yet he was marrying a girl without a _portion_. It was
true that General Fabio Conti, his vanity greatly shocked by this
observation, the first to spring to the minds of all his compatriots,
had just bought a property worth more than 300,000 francs, and for this
property he, who had nothing, had paid in ready money, evidently with
the Marchese's gold. Moreover, the General had said that he was giving
this property to his daughter on her marriage. But the charges for the
documents and other matters, which amounted to more than 12,000 francs,
seemed a most ridiculous waste of money to the Marchese, a man of
eminently logical mind. For his part he was having woven at Lyons a set
of magnificent tapestries of admirably blended colours, calculated to
charm the eye, by the famous Pallagi, the Bolognese painter. These
tapestries, each of which embodied some deed of arms by the Crescenzi
family, which, as the whole world knows, is descended from the famous
Crescentius, Roman Consul in the year 985, were to furnish the seventeen
saloons which composed the ground floor of the Marchese's _palazzo_. The
tapestries, clocks and lustres sent to Parma cost more than 350,000
francs; the price of the new mirrors, in addition to those which the
house already possessed, came to 200,000 francs. With the exception of
two rooms, famous works of the Parmigianino, the greatest of local
painters after the divine Correggio, all those of the first and second
floors were now occupied by the leading painters of Florence, Rome and
Milan, who were decorating them with paintings in fresco. Fokelberg, the
great Swedish sculptor, Tenerani of Rome and Marchesi of Milan had been
at work for the last year on ten bas-reliefs representing as many brave
deeds of Crescentius, that truly great man. The majority of the
ceilings, painted in fresco, also offered some allusion to his life. The
ceiling most generally admired was that on which Hayez of Milan had
represented Crescentius being received in the Elysian Fields by
Francesco Sforza, Lorenzo the Magnificent, King Robert, the Tribune Cola
di Rienzi, Machiavelli, Dante and the other great men of the middle
ages. Admiration for these chosen spirits is supposed to be an epigram
at the expense of the men in power.

All these sumptuous details occupied the exclusive attention of the
nobility and burgesses of Parma, and pierced our hero's heart when he
read of them, related with an artless admiration, in a long letter of
more than twenty pages which Lodovico had dictated to a _doganiere_ of
Casalmaggiore.




_THE PALAZZO_


"And I, who am so poor!" said Fabrizio, "an income of four thousand lire
in all and for all! It is truly an impertinence in me to dare to be in
love with Clelia Conti for whom all these miracles are being performed."

A single paragraph in Lodovico's long letter, but written, this, in his
own villainous hand, announced to his master that he had met, at night
and apparently in hiding, the unfortunate Grillo, his former gaoler, who
had been put in prison and then released. The man had asked him for a
sequin in charity, and Lodovico had given him four in the Duchessa's
name. The old gaolers recently set at liberty, twelve in number, were
preparing an entertainment with their knives (_un trattamento di
cortellate_) for the new gaolers their successors, should they ever
succeed in meeting them outside the citadel. Grillo had said that almost
every day there was a serenade at the fortress, that Signorina Clelia
was extremely pale, often ill, and _other things of the sort_. This
absurd expression caused Lodovico to receive, by courier after courier,
the order to return to Locarno. He returned, and the details which he
supplied by word of mouth were even more depressing for Fabrizio.

One may judge what consideration he was shewing for the poor Duchessa;
he would have suffered a thousand deaths rather than utter in her
hearing the name of Clelia Conti. The Duchessa abhorred Parma; whereas,
for Fabrizio, everything which recalled that city was at once sublime
and touching.

Less than ever had the Duchessa forgotten her revenge; she had been so
happy before the incident of Giletti's death and now, what a fate was
hers! She was living in expectation of a dire event of which she was
careful not to say a word to Fabrizio, she who before, at the time of
her arrangement with Ferrante, thought she would so delight Fabrizio by
telling him that one day he would be avenged.

One can now form some idea of the pleasantness of Fabrizio's
conversations with the Duchessa: a gloomy silence reigned almost
invariably between them. To enhance the pleasantness of their relations,
the Duchessa had yielded to the temptation to play a trick on this too
dear nephew. The Conte wrote to her almost every day; evidently he was
sending couriers as in the days of their infatuation, for his letters
always bore the postmark of some little town in Switzerland. The poor
man was torturing his mind so as not to speak too openly of his
affection, and to construct amusing letters; barely did a distracted eye
glance over them. What avails, alas, the fidelity of a respected lover
when one's heart is pierced by the coldness of the other whom one sets
above him?

In the space of two months the Duchessa answered him only once, and that
was to engage him to explore how the land lay round the Princess, and to
see whether, despite the impertinence of the fireworks, a letter from
her, the Duchessa, would be received with pleasure. The letter which he
was to present, if he thought fit, requested the post of _Cavaliere
d'onore_ to the Princess, which had recently fallen vacant, for the
Marchese Crescenzi, and desired that it should be conferred upon him in
consideration of his marriage. The Duchessa's letter was a masterpiece;
it was a message of the most tender respect, expressed in the best
possible terms; the writer had not admitted to this courtly style a
single word the consequences, even the remotest consequences of which
could be other than agreeable to the Princess. The reply also breathed a
tender friendship, which was being tortured by the absence of its
recipient.




_THE PRINCESS_


"My son and I," the Princess told her, "have not spent one evening that
could be called tolerable since your sudden departure. Does my dear
Duchessa no longer remember that it was she who caused me to be
consulted in the nomination of the officers of my household? Does she
then think herself obliged to give me reasons for the Marchese's
appointment, as if the expression of her desire was not for me the chief
of reasons? The Marchese shall have the post, if I can do anything; and
there will always be one in my heart, and that the first, for my dear
Duchessa. My son employs absolutely the same expressions, a little
strong perhaps on the lips of a great boy of one-and-twenty, and asks
you for specimens of the minerals of the Val d'Orta, near Belgirate. You
may address your letters, which will, I hope, be frequent, to the Conte,
who still adores you and who is especially dear to me on account of
these sentiments. The Archbishop also has remained faithful to you. We
all hope to see you again one day: remember that it is your duty. The
Marchesa Ghisleri, my Grand Mistress, is preparing to leave this world
for a better: the poor woman has done me much harm; she displeases me
still further by departing so inopportunely; her illness makes me think
of the name which I should once have set with so much pleasure in the
place of hers, if, that is, I could have obtained that sacrifice of her
independence from that matchless woman who, in fleeing from us, has
taken with her all the joy of my little court," and so forth.


It was therefore with the consciousness of having sought to hasten, so
far as it lay in her power, the marriage which was filling Fabrizio with
despair, that the Duchessa saw him every day. And so they spent
sometimes four or five hours in drifting together over the lake, without
exchanging a single word. The good feeling was entire and perfect on
Fabrizio's part; but he was thinking of other things, and his innocent
and simple nature furnished him with nothing to say. The Duchessa saw
this, and it was her punishment.

We have forgotten to mention in the proper place that the Duchessa had
taken a house at Belgirate, a charming village and one that contains
everything which its name promises (to wit a beautiful bend in the
lake). From the window-sill of her drawing-room, the Duchessa could set
foot in her boat. She had taken a quite simple one for which four rowers
would have sufficed; she engaged twelve, and arranged things so as to
have a man from each of the villages situated in the neighbourhood of
Belgirate. The third or fourth time that she found herself in the middle
of the lake with all of these well chosen men, she stopped the movement
of their oars.

"I regard you all as friends," she said to them, "and I wish to confide
a secret in you. My nephew Fabrizio has escaped from prison; and
possibly by treachery they will seek to recapture him, although he is on
your lake, in a place of freedom. Keep your ears open, and inform me of
all that you may hear. I authorise you to enter my room by day or
night."

The rowers replied with enthusiasm; she knew how to make herself loved.
But she did not think that there was any question of recapturing
Fabrizio: it was for herself that all these precautions were taken, and,
before the fatal order to open the reservoir of the _palazzo_
Sanseverina, she would not have dreamed of them.

Her prudence had led her also to take an apartment at the port of
Locarno for Fabrizio; every day he came to see her, or she herself
crossed into Switzerland. One may judge of the pleasantness of their
perpetual companionship by the following detail. The Marchesa and her
daughter came twice to see them, and the presence of these strangers
gave them pleasure; for, in spite of the ties of blood, we may call
"stranger" a person who knows nothing of our dearest interests and whom
we see but once in a year.




_LAKE MAGGIORE_


The Duchessa happened to be one evening at Locarno, in Fabrizio's rooms,
with the Marchesa and her two daughters. The Archpriest of the place and
the curate had come to pay their respects to these ladies: the
Archpriest, who had an interest in a business house, and kept closely in
touch with the news, was inspired to announce:

"The Prince of Parma is dead!"

The Duchessa turned extremely pale; she had barely the strength to say:

"Do they give any details?"

"No," replied the Archpriest; "the report is confined to the
announcement of his death, which is certain."

The Duchessa looked at Fabrizio. "I have done this for him," she said to
herself; "I would have done things a thousand times worse, and there he
is standing before me indifferent, and dreaming of another!" It was
beyond the Duchessa's strength to endure this frightful thought; she
fell in a dead faint. Everyone hastened to her assistance; but, on
coming to herself, she observed that Fabrizio was less active than the
Archpriest and curate; he was dreaming as usual.

"He is thinking of returning to Parma," the Duchessa told herself, "and
perhaps of breaking off Clelia's marriage to the Marchese; but I shall
manage to prevent him." Then, remembering the presence of the two
priests, she made haste to add:

"He was a good Prince, and has been greatly maligned! It is an immense
loss for us!"

The priests took their leave, and the Duchessa, to be alone, announced
that she was going to bed.

"No doubt," she said to herself, "prudence ordains that I should wait a
month or two before returning to Parma; but I feel that I shall never
have the patience; I am suffering too keenly here. Fabrizio's continual
dreaming, his silence, are an intolerable spectacle for my heart. Who
would ever have said that I should find it tedious to float on this
charming lake, alone with him, and at the moment when I have done, to
avenge him, more than I can tell him! After such a spectacle, death is
nothing. It is now that I am paying for the transports of happiness and
childish joy which I found in my _palazzo_ at Parma when I welcomed
Fabrizio there on his return from Naples. If I had said a word, all was
at an end, and it may be that, tied to me, he would not have given a
thought to that little Clelia; but that word filled me with a horrible
repugnance. Now she has prevailed over me. What more simple? She is
twenty; and I, altered by my anxieties, sick, I am twice her age! . . .
I must die, I must make an end of things! A woman of forty is no longer
anything save to the men who have loved her in her youth! Now I shall
find nothing more but the pleasures of vanity; and are they worth the
trouble of living? All the more reason for going to Parma, and amusing
myself. If things took a certain turn, I should lose my life. Well,
where is the harm? I shall make a magnificent death, and, before the
end, but then only, I shall say to Fabrizio: 'Wretch! It is for you!'
Yes, I can find no occupation for what little life remains to me save at
Parma. I shall play the great lady there. What a blessing if I could be
sensible now of all those distinctions which used to make the Raversi so
unhappy! Then, in order to see my happiness, I had to look into the eyes
of envy. . . . My vanity has one satisfaction; with the exception of the
Conte perhaps, no one can have guessed what the event was that put an
end to the life of my heart. . . . I shall love Fabrizio, I shall be
devoted to his interests; but he must not be allowed to break off
Clelia's marriage, and end by taking her himself. . . . No, that shall
not be!"

The Duchessa had reached this point in her melancholy monologue, when
she heard a great noise in the house.

"Good!" she said to herself, "they are coming to arrest me; Ferrante has
let himself be caught, he must have spoken. Well, all the better! I am
going to have an occupation, I am going to fight them for my head. But
in the first place, I must not let myself be taken."

The Duchessa, half clad, fled to the bottom of her garden: she was
already thinking of climbing a low wall and escaping across country; but
she saw someone enter her room. She recognised Bruno, the Conte's
confidential man; he was alone with her maid. She went up to the window.
The man was telling her maid of the injuries he had received. The
Duchessa entered the house. Bruno almost flung himself at her feet,
imploring her not to tell the Conte of the preposterous hour at which he
had arrived.

"Immediately after the Prince's death," he went on, "the Signor Conte
gave the order to all the posts not to supply horses to subjects of the
States of Parma. So that I had to go as far as the Po with the horses of
the house, but on leaving the boat my carriage was overturned, broken,
smashed, and I had such bad bruises that I could not get on a horse, as
was my duty."

"Very well," said the Duchessa, "it is three o'clock in the morning: I
shall say that you arrived at noon; but you must not go and give me
away."

"I am very grateful for the Signora's kindness."

Politics in a work of literature are like a pistol-shot in the middle of
a concert, something loud and vulgar and yet a thing to which it is not
possible to refuse one's attention.

We are about to speak of very ugly matters, as to which, for more than
one reason, we should like to keep silence; but we are forced to do so
in order to come to happenings which are in our province, since they
have for their theatre the hearts of our characters.

"But, great God, how did that great Prince die?" said the Duchessa to
Bruno.

"He was out shooting the birds of passage, in the marshes, along by the
Po, two leagues from Sacca. He fell into a hole hidden by a tuft of
grass; he was all in a sweat, and caught cold; they carried him to a
lonely house where he died in a few hours. Some say that Signor Catena
and Signor Borone are dead as well, and that the whole accident arose
from the copper pans in the _contadino's_ house they went to, which were
full of verdigris. They took their luncheon there. In fact, the swelled
heads, the Jacobins, who say what they would like to be true, speak of
poison. I know that my friend Toto, who is a groom at court, would have
died but for the kind attention of a rustic who appeared to have a great
knowledge of medicine, and gave him some very singular remedies. But
they've ceased to talk of the Prince's death already; after all, he was
a cruel man. When I left, the people were gathering to kill the Fiscal
General Rassi: they were also proposing to set fire to the gates of the
citadel, to enable the prisoners to escape. But it was said that Fabio
Conti would fire his guns. Others were positive that the gunners at the
citadel had poured water on their powder, and refused to massacre their
fellow-citizens. But I can tell you something far more interesting:
while the surgeon of Sandolaro was mending my poor arm, a man arrived
from Parma who said that the mob had caught Barbone, the famous clerk
from the citadel, in the street, and had beaten him, and were then going
to hang him from the tree on the avenue nearest to the citadel. The mob
were marching to break that fine statue of the Prince in the gardens of
the court; but the Signor Conte took a battalion of the Guard, paraded
them in front of the statue, and sent word to the people that no one who
entered the gardens would go out of them alive, and the people took
fright. But, what is a very curious thing, which the man who had come
from Parma, who is an old constable, repeated several times, is that the
Signor Conte kicked General P----, the commander of the Prince's Guard,
and had him led out of the garden by two fusiliers, after tearing off
his epaulettes."




_THE ACCIDENT_


"I can see the Conte doing that," cried the Duchessa with a transport of
joy which she would not have believed possible a minute earlier: "he
will never allow anyone to insult our Princess; and as for General
P----, in his devotion to his rightful masters, he would never consent
to serve the usurper, while the Conte, with less delicacy, fought
through all the Spanish campaigns, and has often been reproached for it
at court."

The Duchessa had opened the Conte's letter, but kept stopping as she
read it to put a hundred questions to Bruno.

The letter was very pleasant; the Conte employed the most lugubrious
terms, and yet the keenest joy broke out in every word; he avoided any
detail of the Prince's death, and ended with the words:


"You will doubtless return, my dear angel, but I advise you to wait a
day or two for the courier whom the Princess will send you, as I hope,
to-day or to-morrow; your return must be as triumphant as your departure
was bold. As for the great criminal who is with you, I count upon being
able to have him tried by twelve judges selected from all parties in
this State. But, to have the monster punished as he deserves, I must
first be able to make spills of the other sentence, if it exists."


The Conte had opened his letter to add:


"Now for a very different matter: I have just issued ammunition to the
two battalions of the Guard; I am going to fight, and shall do my best
to deserve the title of Cruel with which the Liberals have so long
honoured me. That old mummy General P---- has dared to speak in the
barracks of making a parley with the populace, who are more or less in
revolt. I write to you from the street; I am going to the Palace, which
they shall not enter save over my dead body. Good-bye! If I die, it will
be worshipping you _all the same_, as I have lived. Do not forget to
draw three hundred thousand francs which are deposited in my name with
D---- of Lyons.

"Here is that poor devil Rassi, pale as death, and without his wig; you
have no idea what he looks like. The people are absolutely determined to
hang him; it would be doing him a great injustice, he deserves to be
quartered. He took refuge in my _palazzo_ and has run after me into the
street; I hardly know what to do with him. . . . I do not wish to take
him to the Prince's Palace, that would make the revolt break out there.
F---- shall see whether I love him; my first word to Rassi was: I must
have the sentence passed on Signor del Dongo, and all the copies that
you may have of it; and say to all those unjust judges, who are the
cause of this revolt, that I will have them all hanged, and you as well,
my dear friend, if they breathe a word of that sentence, which never
existed. In Fabrizio's name, I am sending a company of grenadiers to the
Archbishop. Good-bye, dear angel! My _palazzo_ is going to be burned, and
I shall lose the charming portraits I have of you. I must run to the
Palace to degrade that wretched General P----, who is at his tricks; he
is basely flattering the people, as he used to flatter the late Prince.
All these Generals are in the devil of a fright; I am going, I think, to
have myself made Commander in Chief."


The Duchessa was unkind enough not to send to waken Fabrizio; she felt
for the Conte a burst of admiration which was closely akin to love.
"When all is said and done," she decided, "I shall have to marry him."
She wrote to him at once and sent off one of her men. That night the
Duchessa had no time to be unhappy.




_THE RISING_


Next day, about noon, she saw a boat manned by ten rowers which was
swiftly cleaving the waters of the lake; Fabrizio and she soon
recognised a man wearing the livery of the Prince of Parma: it was, in
fact, one of his couriers who, before landing, cried to the Duchessa:
"The revolt is suppressed!" This courier gave her several letters from
the Conte, an admirable letter from the Princess, and an order from
Prince Ranuccio-Ernesto V, on parchment, creating her Duchessa di San
Giovanni and Grand Mistress to the Princess Dowager. The young Prince,
an expert in mineralogy, whom she regarded as an imbecile, had had the
intelligence to write her a little note; but there was love at the end
of it. The note began thus:


"The Conte says, Signora Duchessa, that he is pleased with me; the fact
is that I stood under fire by his side, and that my horse was hit:
seeing the stir that is made about so small a matter, I am keen to take
part in a real battle, but not against my subjects. I owe everything to
the Conte; all my Generals, who have never been to war, ran like hares;
I believe two or three have fled as far as Bologna. Since a great and
deplorable event set me in power, I have signed no order which has given
me so much pleasure as this which appoints you Grand Mistress to my
mother. My mother and I both remembered a day when you admired the fine
view one has from the _palazzetto_ of San Giovanni, which once belonged
to Petrarch, or so they say at least; my mother wished to give you that
little property: and I, not knowing what to give you, and not venturing
to offer you all that is rightly yours, have made you Duchessa in my
country; I do not know whether you are learned enough in these matters
to be aware that Sanseverina is a Roman title. I have just given the
Grand Cordon of my Order to our worthy Archbishop, who has shown a
firmness very rare in men of seventy. You will not be angry with me for
having recalled all the ladies from exile. I am told that I must now
sign only after writing the words _your affectionate_; it annoys me that
I should be made to scatter broadcast what is completely true only when
I write to you.

    "_Your affectionate_

                  "RANUCCIO-ERNESTO."


Who would not have said, from such language, that the Duchessa was about
to enjoy the highest favour? And yet she found something very strange in
other letters from the Conte, which she received an hour or two later.
He offered no special reason, but advised her to postpone for some days
her return to Parma, and to write to the Princess that she was seriously
unwell. The Duchessa and Fabrizio set off, nevertheless, for Parma
immediately after dinner. The Duchessa's object, which however she did
not admit to herself, was to hasten the Marchese Crescenzi's marriage;
Fabrizio, for his part, spent the journey in wild transports of joy,
which seemed to his aunt absurd. He was in hopes of seeing Clelia again
soon; he fully counted upon carrying her off, against her will, if there
should be no other way of preventing her marriage.




_ERNESTO V_


The Duchessa and her nephew made a very gay journey. At a post before
Parma, Fabrizio stopped for a minute to change into the ecclesiastical
habit; ordinarily he dressed as a layman in mourning. When he returned
to the Duchessa's room:

"I find something suspicious and inexplicable," she said to him, "in the
Conte's letters. If you would take my advice you would spend a few hours
here; I shall send you a courier after I have spoken to that great
Minister."

It was with great reluctance that Fabrizio consented to accept this
sensible warning. Transports of joy worthy of a boy of fifteen were the
note of the reception which the Conte gave to the Duchessa, whom he
called his wife. It was long before he would speak of politics, and when
at last they came down to cold reason:

"You did very well to prevent Fabrizio from arriving officially; we are
in the full swing of reaction here. Just guess the colleague that the
Prince has given me as Minister of Justice! Rassi, my dear, Rassi, whom
I treated like the ruffian that he is, on the day of our great
adventure. By the way, I must warn you that we have suppressed
everything that has happened here. If you read our _Gazette_ you will
see that a clerk at the citadel, named Barbone, has died as the result
of falling from a carriage. As for the sixty odd rascals whom I
dispatched with powder and shot, when they were attacking the Prince's
statue in the gardens, they are in the best of health, only they are
travelling abroad. Conte Zurla, the Minister of the Interior, has gone
in person to the house of each of these unfortunate heroes, and has
handed fifteen sequins to his family or his friends, with the order to
say that the deceased is abroad, and a very definite threat of
imprisonment should they let it be understood that he is dead. A man
from my own Ministry, the Foreign Office, has been sent on a mission to
the journalists of Milan and Turin, so that they shall not speak of the
_unfortunate event_--that is the recognised expression; he is to go on
to Paris and London, to insert a correction in all the newspapers,
semi-officially, of anything that they may say about our troubles.
Another agent has posted off to Bologna and Florence. I have shrugged my
shoulders.

"But the delightful thing, at my age, is that I felt a moment of
enthusiasm when I was speaking to the soldiers of the Guard, and when I
tore the epaulettes off that contemptible General P----. At that moment,
I would have given my life, without hesitating, for the Prince: I admit
now that it would have been a very stupid way of ending it. To-day the
Prince, excellent young fellow as he is, would give a hundred scudi to
see me die in my bed; he has not yet dared to ask for my resignation,
but we speak to each other as seldom as possible, and I send him a
number of little reports in writing, as I used to do with the late
Prince, after Fabrizio's imprisonment. By the way, I have not yet made
spills out of the sentence they passed on Fabrizio, for the simple
reason that scoundrel Rassi has not let me have it. So you are very
wise to prevent Fabrizio from arriving here officially. The sentence
still holds good; at the same time I do not think that Rassi would dare
to have our nephew arrested now, but it is possible that he will in
another fortnight. If Fabrizio absolutely insists on returning to town,
let him come and stay with me."




_REACTION_


"But the reason for all this?" cried the Duchessa in astonishment.

"They have persuaded the Prince that I am giving myself the airs of a
dictator and a saviour of the country, and that I wish to lead him about
like a boy; what is more, in speaking of him, I seem to have uttered the
fatal words: _that boy_. It may be so, I was excited that day; for
instance, I looked on him as a great man, because he was not unduly
frightened by the first shots he had ever heard fired in his life. He is
not lacking in spirit, indeed he has a better tone than his father; in
fact, I cannot repeat it too often, in his heart of hearts he is honest
and good; but that sincere and youthful heart shudders when they tell
him of any dastardly trick, and he thinks he must have a very dark soul
himself to notice such things: think of the upbringing he has had!"

"Your Excellency ought to have remembered that one day he would be
master, and to have placed an intelligent man with him."

"For one thing, we have the example of the Abbé de Condillac, who, when
appointed by the Marchese di Felino, my predecessor, could make nothing
more of his pupil than a King of fools. He succeeded in due course, and,
in 1796, he had not the sense to treat with General Bonaparte, who would
have tripled the area of his States. In the second place, I never
expected to remain Minister for ten years in succession. Now that I have
lost all interest in the business, as I have for the last month, I
intend to amass a million before leaving this bedlam I have rescued to
its own devices. But for me, Parma would have been a Republic for two
months, with the poet Ferrante Palla as Dictator."

This made the Duchessa blush; the Conte knew nothing of what had
happened.

"We are going to fall back into the ordinary Monarchy of the eighteenth
century; the confessor and the mistress. At heart the Prince cares for
nothing but mineralogy, and perhaps yourself, Signora. Since he began to
reign, his valet, whose brother I have just made a captain, this brother
having nine months' service, his valet, I say, has gone and stuffed into
his head that he ought to be the happiest of men because his profile is
going to appear on the scudi. This bright idea has been followed by
boredom.

"What he now needs is an aide-de-camp, as a remedy for boredom. Well,
even if he were to offer me that famous million which is necessary for
us to live comfortably in Naples or Paris, I would not be his remedy for
boredom, and spend four or five hours every day with His Highness.
Besides, as I have more brains than he, at the end of a month he would
regard me as a monster.

"The late Prince was evil-minded and jealous, but he had been on service
and had commanded army corps, which had given him a bearing; he had the
stuff in him of which Princes are made, and I could be his Minister, for
better or worse. With this honest fellow of a son, who is candid and
really good, I am forced to be an intriguer. You see me now the rival of
the humblest little woman in the Castle, and a very inferior rival, for
I shall scorn all the hundred essential details. For instance, three
days ago, one of those women who put out the clean towels every morning
in the rooms, took it into her head to make the Prince lose the key of
one of his English desks. Whereupon His Highness refused to deal with
any of the business the papers of which happened to be in this desk; as
a matter of fact, for twenty francs, they could have taken off the
wooden bottom, or used skeleton keys; but Ranuccio-Ernesto V told me
that would be teaching the court locksmith bad habits.




_A MORAL PRINCE_


"Up to the present, it has been absolutely impossible for him to adhere
to any decision for three days running. If he had been born Marchese
so-and-so, with an ample fortune, this young Prince would have been one
of the most estimable men at court, a sort of Louis XVI; but how, with
his pious simplicity, is he to resist all the cunningly laid snares that
surround him? And so the drawing-room of your enemy the Marchesa Raversi
is more powerful than ever; they have discovered there that I, who gave
the order to fire on the people, and was determined to kill three
thousand men if necessary, rather than let them outrage the statue of
the Prince who had been my master, am a red-hot Liberal, that I wished
him to sign a Constitution, and a hundred such absurdities. With all
this talk of a Republic, the fools would prevent us from enjoying the
best of Monarchies. In short, Signora, you are the only member of the
present Liberal Party of which my enemies make me the head, at whose
expense the Prince has not expressed himself in offensive terms; the
Archbishop, always perfectly honest, for having spoken in reasonable
language of what I did on the _unhappy day_, is in deep disgrace.

"On the morrow of the day which was not then called _unhappy_, when it
was still true that the revolt had existed, the Prince told the
Archbishop that, so that you should not have to take an inferior title
on marrying me, he would make me a Duca. To-day I fancy that it is
Rassi, ennobled by me when he sold me the late Prince's secrets, who is
going to be made Conte. In the face of such a promotion as that, I shall
cut a sorry figure."

"And the poor Prince will bespatter himself with mud."

"No doubt; but after all he is _master_, a position which, in less than a
fortnight, makes the _ridiculous_ element disappear. So, dear Duchessa, as
at the game of tric-trac, _let us get out_."

"But we shall not be exactly rich."

"After all, neither you nor I have any need of luxury. If you give me,
at Naples, a seat in a box at San Carlo and a horse, I am more than
satisfied; it will never be the amount of luxury with which we live that
will give you and me our position, it is the pleasure which the
intelligent people of the place may perhaps find in coming to take a
dish of tea with you."

"But," the Duchessa went on, "what would have happened, on the _unhappy
day_, if you had held aloof, as I hope you will in future?"

"The troops would have fraternised with the people, there would have
been three days of bloodshed and incendiarism (for it would take a
hundred years in this country for the Republic to be anything more than
an absurdity), then a fortnight of pillage, until two or three regiments
supplied from abroad came to put a stop to it. Ferrante Palla was in the
thick of the crowd, full of courage and raging as usual; he had probably
a dozen friends who were acting in collusion with him, which Rassi will
make into a superb conspiracy. One thing certain is that, wearing an
incredibly dilapidated coat, he was scattering gold with both hands."

The Duchessa, bewildered by all this information, went in haste to thank
the Princess.

As she entered the room the Lady of the Bedchamber handed her a little
gold key, which is worn in the belt, and is the badge of supreme
authority in the part of the Palace which belongs to the Princess.
Clara-Paolina hastened to dismiss all the company; and, once she was
alone with her friend, persisted for some moments in giving only
fragmentary explanations. The Duchessa found it hard to understand what
she meant, and answered only with considerable reserve. At length the
Princess burst into tears, and, flinging herself into the Duchessa's
arms, cried: "The days of my misery are going to begin again; my son
will treat me worse than his father did!"




_THE RISING_


"That is what I shall prevent," the Duchessa replied with emphasis. "But
first of all," she went on, "I must ask Your Serene Highness to deign to
accept this offering of all my gratitude and my profound respect."

"What do you mean?" cried the Princess, full of uneasiness, and fearing
a resignation.

"I ask that whenever Your Serene Highness shall permit me to turn to the
right the head of that nodding mandarin on her chimneypiece, she will
permit me also to call things by their true names."

"Is that all, my dear Duchessa?" cried Clara-Paolina, rising from her
seat and hastening herself to put the mandarin's head in the right
position: "speak then, with the utmost freedom, Signora Maggiordoma,"
she said in a charming tone.

"Ma'am," the Duchessa went on, "Your Highness has grasped the situation
perfectly; you and I are both running the greatest risk; the sentence
passed on Fabrizio has not been quashed; consequently, on the day when
they wish to rid themselves of me and to insult you, they will put him
back in prison. Our position is as bad as ever. As for me personally, I
am marrying the Conte, and we are going to set up house in Naples or
Paris. The final stroke of ingratitude of which the Conte is at this
moment the victim has entirely disgusted him with public life, and but
for the interest Your Serene Highness takes in him, I should advise him
to remain in this mess only on condition of the Prince's giving him an
enormous sum. I shall ask leave of Your Highness, to explain that the
Conte, who had 180,000 francs when he came into office, has to-day an
income of barely 20,000 lire. In vain did I long urge him to think of
his pocket. In my absence, he has picked a quarrel with the Prince's
Farmers-General, who were rascals; he has replaced them with other
rascals, who have given him 800,000 francs."

"What!" cried the Princess in astonishment; "Heavens, I am extremely
annoyed to hear that!"

"Ma'am," replied the Duchessa with the greatest coolness, "must I turn
the mandarin's head back to the left?"

"Good heavens, no," exclaimed the Princess; "but I am annoyed that a man
of the Conte's character should have thought of enriching himself in
such a way."

"But for this peculation he would be despised by all the honest folk."

"Great heavens! Is it possible?"

"Ma'am," went on the Duchessa, "except for my friend, the Marchese
Crescenzi, who has an income of three or four hundred thousand lire,
everyone here steals; and how should they not steal in a country where
the recognition of the greatest services lasts for not quite a month? It
means that there is nothing real, nothing that survives disgrace, save
money. I am going to take the liberty, Ma'am, of saying some terrible
truths."

"You have my permission," said the Princess with a deep sigh, "and yet
they are painfully unpleasant to me."

"Very well, Ma'am, the Prince your son, a perfectly honest man, is
capable of making you far more unhappy than his father ever did; the
late Prince was a man of character more or less like everyone else. Our
present Sovereign is not sure of wishing the same thing for three days
on end, and so, in order that one may make sure of him, one must live
continually with him and not allow him to speak to anyone. As this truth
is not very difficult to guess, the new Ultra Party, ruled by those two
excellent heads, Rassi and the Marchesa Raversi, are going to try to
provide the Prince with a mistress. This mistress will have permission
to make her own fortune and to distribute various minor posts; but she
will have to answer to the Party for the constancy of the master's will.




_NECESSARY PECULATION_


"I, to be properly established at Your Highness's court, require that
Rassi be exiled and degraded; I desire, in addition, that Fabrizio be
tried by the most honest judges that can be found: if these gentlemen
admit, as I hope, that he is innocent, it will be natural to grant the
petition of His Grace the Archbishop that Fabrizio shall be his
Coadjutor with eventual succession. If I fail, the Conte and I retire;
in that case, I leave this parting advice with Your Serene Highness: she
must never pardon Rassi, nor must she ever leave her son's States. While
she is with him, that worthy son will never do her any serious harm."

"I have followed your arguments with the close attention they require,"
the Princess replied, smiling; "ought I, then, to take upon myself the
responsibility of providing my son with a mistress?"

"Not at all, Ma'am, but see first of all that your drawing-room is the
only one which he finds amusing."

The conversation on this topic was endless, the scales fell from the
eyes of the innocent and intelligent Princess.

One of the Duchessa's couriers went to tell Fabrizio that he might enter
the town, but must hide himself. He was barely noticed: he spent his
time disguised as a contadino in the wooden booth of a chestnut-seller,
erected opposite the gate of the citadel, beneath the trees of the
avenue.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


The Duchessa arranged a series of charming evenings at the Palace, which
had never seen such gaiety: never had she been more delightful than
during this winter, and yet she was living in the midst of the greatest
dangers; but at the same time, during this critical period, it so
happened that she did not think twice with any appreciable regret of the
strange alteration in Fabrizio. The young Prince used to appear very
early at his mother's parties, where she always said to him:

"Away with you and govern; I wager there are at least a score of reports
on your desk awaiting a definite answer, and I do not wish to have the
rest of Europe accuse me of making you a mere figurehead in order to
reign in your place."

These counsels had the disadvantage of being offered always at the most
inopportune moments, that is to say when His Highness, having overcome
his timidity, was taking part in some acted charade which amused him
greatly. Twice a week there were parties in the country to which on the
pretext of winning for the new Sovereign the affection of his people,
the Princess admitted the prettiest women of the middle classes. The
Duchessa, who was the life and soul of this joyous court, hoped that
these handsome women, all of whom looked with a mortal envy on the great
prosperity of the burgess Rassi, would inform the Prince of some of the
countless rascalities of that Minister. For, among other childish ideas,
the Prince claimed to have a moral Ministry.




_THE COURT_


Rassi had too much sense not to feel how dangerous these brilliant
evenings at the Princess's court, with his enemy in command of them,
were to himself. He had not chosen to return to Conte Mosca the
perfectly legal sentence passed on Fabrizio; it was inevitable therefore
that either the Duchessa or he must vanish from the court.

On the day of that popular movement, the existence of which it was now
in good taste to deny, someone had distributed money among the populace.
Rassi started from that point: worse dressed even than was his habit, he
climbed to the most wretched attics in the town, and spent whole hours
in serious conversation with their needy inhabitants. He was well
rewarded for all his trouble: after a fortnight of this kind of life he
had acquired the certainty that Ferrante Palla had been the secret head
of the insurrection, and furthermore, that this creature, a pauper all
his life as a great poet would be, had sent nine or ten diamonds to be
sold at Genoa.

Among others were mentioned five valuable stones which were really worth
more than 40,000 francs, and which, _ten days before the death of the
Prince_, had been sacrificed for 35,000 francs, because, the vendor
said, _he was in need of money_.

What words can describe the rapture of the Minister of Justice on making
this discovery? He had learned that every day he was being made a
laughing stock at the court of the Princess Dowager, and on several
occasions the Prince, when discussing business with him, laughed in his
face with all the frankness of his youth. It must be admitted that Rassi
had some singularly plebeian habits: for instance, as soon as a
discussion began to interest him, he would cross his legs and take his
foot in his hand; if the interest increased, he would spread his red
cotton handkerchief over his knee, and so forth. The Prince had laughed
heartily at the wit of one of the prettiest women of the middle class,
who, being aware incidentally that she had a very shapely leg, had begun
to imitate this elegant gesture of the Minister of Justice.

Rassi requested an extraordinary audience and said to the Prince:

"Would Your Highness be willing to give a hundred thousand francs to
know definitely in what manner his august father met his death? With
that sum, the authorities would be in a position to arrest the guilty
parties, if such exist."

The Prince's reply left no room for doubt.

A little while later, Cecchina informed the Duchessa that she had been
offered a large sum to allow her mistress's diamonds to be examined by a
jeweller; she had indignantly refused. The Duchessa scolded her for
having refused; and, a week later, Cecchina had the diamonds to shew. On
the day appointed for this exhibition of the diamonds, the Conte posted
a couple of trustworthy men at every jeweller's in Parma, and towards
midnight he came to tell the Duchessa that the inquisitive jeweller was
none other than Rassi's brother. The Duchessa, who was very gay that
evening (they were playing at the Palace _a commedia dell'arte_, that is
to say one in which each character invents the dialogue as he goes on,
only the plot of the play being posted up in the green-room), the
Duchessa, who was playing a part, had as her lover in the piece Conte
Baldi, the former friend of the Marchesa Raversi, who was present. The
Prince, the shyest man in his States, but an extremely good looking
youth and one endowed with the tenderest of hearts, was studying Conte
Baldi's part, which he intended to take at the second performance.

"I have very little time," the Duchessa told the Conte; "I am appearing
in the first scene of the second act: let us go into the guard-room."

There, surrounded by a score of the body-guard, all wide awake and
closely attentive to the conversation between the Prime Minister and the
Grand Mistress, the Duchessa said with a laugh to her friend:

"You always scold me when I tell you unnecessary secrets. It was I who
summoned Ernesto V to the throne; it was a question of avenging
Fabrizio, whom I loved then far more than I do to-day, although always
quite innocently. I know very well that you have little belief in my
innocence, but that does not matter, since you love me in spite of my
crimes. Very well, here is a real crime: I gave all my diamonds to a
sort of lunatic, a most interesting man, named Ferrante Palla, I even
kissed him so that he should destroy the man who wished to have Fabrizio
poisoned. Where is the harm in that?"

"Ah! So that is where Ferrante had found money for his rising!" said the
Conte, slightly taken aback; "and you tell me all this in the
guard-room!"

"It is because I am in a hurry, and now Rassi is on the track of the
crime. It is quite true that I never mentioned an insurrection, for I
abhor Jacobins. Think it over, and let me have your advice after the
play."

"I will tell you at once that you must make the Prince fall in love with
you. But perfectly honourably, please."

The Duchessa was called to return to the stage. She fled.

Some days later the Duchessa received by post a long and ridiculous
letter, signed with the name of a former maid of her own; the woman
asked to be employed at the court, but the Duchessa had seen from the
first glance that the letter was neither in her handwriting nor in her
style. On opening the sheet to read the second page, she saw fall at her
feet a little miraculous image of the Madonna, folded in a printed leaf
from an old book. After glancing at the image, the Duchessa read a few
lines of the printed page. Her eyes shone, she found on it these words:


"The Tribune has taken one hundred francs monthly, not more; with the
rest it was decided to rekindle the sacred fire in souls which had
become frozen by selfishness. The fox is upon my track, that is why I
have not sought to see for the last time the adored being. I said to
myself, she does not love the Republic, she who is superior to me in
mind as well as by her graces and her beauty. Besides, how is one to
create a Republic without Republicans? Can I be mistaken? In six months
I shall visit, microscope in hand, and on foot, the small towns of
America, I shall see whether I ought still to love the sole rival that
you have in my heart. If you receive this letter, Signora Baronessa, and
no profane eye has read it before yours, tell them to break one of the
young ash trees planted twenty paces from the spot where I dared to
speak to you for the first time. I shall then have buried, under the
great box tree in the garden to which you called attention once in my
happy days, a box in which will be found some of those things which lead
to the slandering of people of my way of thinking. You may be sure that
I should have taken care not to write if the fox were not on my track,
and there were not a risk of his reaching that heavenly being; examine
the box tree in a fortnight's time."


"Since he has a printing press at his command," the Duchessa said to
herself, "we shall soon have a volume of sonnets; heaven knows what name
he will give me!"

The Duchessa's coquetry led her to make a venture; for a week she was
indisposed, and the court had no more pleasant evenings. The Princess,
greatly shocked by all that her fear of her son was obliging her to do
in the first moments of her widowhood, went to spend this week in a
convent attached to the church in which the late Prince was buried. This
interruption of the evening parties threw upon the Prince an enormous
burden of leisure and brought a noteworthy check to the credit of the
Minister of Justice. Ernesto V. realised all the boredom that threatened
him if the Duchessa left his court, or merely ceased to diffuse joy in
it. The evenings began again, and the Prince shewed himself more and
more interested in the _commedia dell'arte_. He had the intention of
taking a part, but dared not confess this ambition. One day, blushing
deeply, he said to the Duchessa: "Why should not I act, also?"

"We are all at Your Highness's orders here; if he deigns to give me the
order, I will arrange the plot of a comedy, all the chief scenes in Your
Highness's part will be with me, and as, on the first evenings, everyone
falters a little, if Your Highness will please to watch me closely, I
will tell him the answers that he ought to make." Everything was
arranged, and with infinite skill. The very shy Prince was ashamed of
being shy, the pains that the Duchessa took not to let this innate
shyness suffer made a deep impression on the young Sovereign.

On the day of his first appearance, the performance began half an hour
earlier than usual, and there were in the drawing-room, when the party
moved into the theatre, only nine or ten elderly women. This audience
had but little effect on the Prince, and besides, having been brought up
at Munich on sound monarchical principles, they always applauded. Using
her authority as Grand Mistress, the Duchessa turned the key in the door
by which the common herd of courtiers were admitted to the performance.
The Prince, who had a _literary_ mind and a fine figure, came very well
out of his opening scenes; he repeated with intelligence the lines which
he read in the Duchessa's eyes, or with which she prompted him in an
undertone. At a moment when the few spectators were applauding with all
their might, the Duchessa gave a signal, the door of honour was thrown
open, and the theatre filled in a moment with all the pretty women of
the court, who, finding that the Prince cut a charming figure and seemed
thoroughly happy, began to applaud; the Prince flushed with joy. He was
playing the part of a lover to the Duchessa. So far from having to
suggest his speeches to him, she was soon obliged to request him to
curtail those speeches; he spoke of love with an enthusiasm which often
embarrassed the actress; his replies lasted five minutes. The Duchessa
was no longer the dazzling beauty of the year before: Fabrizio's
imprisonment, and, far more than that, her stay by Lake Maggiore with a
Fabrizio grown morose and silent, had added ten years to the fair Gina's
age. Her features had become marked, they shewed more intelligence and
less youth.

They had now only very rarely the playfulness of early youth; but on the
stage, with the aid of rouge and all the expedients which art supplies
to actresses, she was still the prettiest woman at court. The passionate
addresses uttered by the Prince put the courtiers on the alert; they
were all saying to themselves this evening: "There is the Balbi of this
new reign." The Conte felt himself inwardly revolted. The play ended,
the Duchessa said to the Prince before all the court:

"Your Highness acts too well; people will say that you are in love with
a woman of eight-and-thirty, which will put a stop to my arrangement
with the Conte. And so I will not act any more with Your Highness,
unless the Prince swears to me to address me as he would a woman of a
certain age, the Signora Marchesa Raversi, for example."

The same play was three times repeated; the Prince was madly happy; but
one evening he appeared very thoughtful.

"Either I am greatly mistaken," said the Grand Mistress to the Princess,
"or Rassi is seeking to play some trick upon us; I should advise Your
Highness to choose a play for to-morrow; the Prince will act badly, and
in his despair will tell you something."

The Prince did indeed act very badly; one could barely hear him, and he
no longer knew how to end his sentences. At the end of the first act he
almost had tears in his eyes; the Duchessa stayed beside him, but was
cold and unmoved. The Prince, finding himself alone with her for a
moment, in the actors' green-room, went to shut the door.

"I shall never," he said to her, "be able to play in the second and
third acts; I absolutely decline to be applauded out of kindness; the
applause they gave me this evening cut me to the heart. Give me your
advice, what ought I to do?"

"I shall appear on the stage, make a profound reverence to Her Highness,
another to the audience, like a real stage manager, and say that, the
actor who was playing the part of Lelio having suddenly been taken ill,
the performance will conclude with some pieces of music. Conte Rusca and
little Ghisolfi will be delighted to be able to shew off their harsh
voices to so brilliant an assembly."

The Prince took the Duchessa's hand, which he kissed with rapture.

"Why are you not a man?" he said to her; "you would give me good advice.
Rassi has just laid on my desk one hundred and eighty-two depositions
against the alleged assassins of my father. Apart from the depositions,
there is a formal accusation of more than two hundred pages; I shall
have to read all that, and, besides, I have given my word not to say
anything to the Conte. All this is leading straight to executions,
already he wants me to fetch back from France, from near Antibes,
Ferrante Palla, that great poet whom I admire so much. He is there under
the name of Poncet."

"The day on which you have a Liberal hanged, Rassi will be bound to the
Ministry by chains of iron, and that is what he wishes more than
anything: but Your Highness will no longer be able to speak of leaving
the Palace two hours in advance. I shall say nothing either to the
Princess or to the Conte of the cry of grief which has just escaped you;
but, since I am bound on oath to keep nothing secret from the Princess,
I should be glad if Your Highness would say to his mother the same
things that he has let fall with me."

This idea provided a diversion to the misery of the hissed actor which
was crushing the Sovereign.

"Very well, go and tell my mother; I shall be in her big cabinet."

The Prince left the stage, found his way to the drawing-room from which
one entered the theatre, harshly dismissed the Great Chamberlain and
the Aide-de-Camp on duty who were following him; the Princess,
meanwhile, hurriedly left the play; entering the big cabinet, the Grand
Mistress made a profound reverence to mother and son, and left them
alone. One may imagine the agitation of the court, these are the things
that make it so amusing. At the end of an hour the Prince himself
appeared at the door of the Cabinet and summoned the Duchessa; the
Princess was in tears; her son's expression had entirely altered.

"These are weak creatures who are out of temper," the Grand Mistress
said to herself, "and are seeking some good excuse to be angry with
somebody." At first the mother and son began both to speak at once to
tell the details to the Duchessa, who in her answers took great care not
to put forward any idea. For two mortal hours, the three actors in this
tedious scene did not step out of the parts which we have indicated. The
Prince went in person to fetch the two enormous portfolios which Rassi
had deposited on his desk; on leaving his mother's cabinet, he found the
whole court awaiting him. "Go away, leave me alone!" he cried in a most
impolite tone which was quite without precedent in him. The Prince did
not wish to be seen carrying the two portfolios himself, a Prince ought
not to carry anything. The courtiers vanished in the twinkling of an
eye. On his return the Prince encountered no one but the footmen who
were blowing out the candles; he dismissed them with fury, also poor
Fontana, the Aide-de-Camp on duty, who had been so tactless as to
remain, in his zeal.

"Everyone is doing his utmost to try my patience this evening," he said
crossly to the Duchessa, as he entered the cabinet; he credited her with
great intelligence, and was furious at her evident refusal to offer him
any advice. She, for her part, was determined to say nothing so long as
she was not asked for her advice _quite expressly_. Another long half hour
elapsed before the Prince, who had a sense of his own dignity, could
make up his mind to say to her: "But, Signora, you say nothing."

"I am here to serve the Princess, and to forget very quickly what is
said before me."

"Very well, Signora," said the Prince, blushing deeply, "I order you to
give me your opinion."

"One punishes crimes to prevent their recurrence. Was the late Prince
poisoned? That is a very doubtful question. Was he poisoned by the
Jacobins? That is what Rassi would dearly like to prove, for then he
becomes for Your Highness a permanently necessary instrument. In that
case Your Highness, whose reign is just beginning, can promise himself
many evenings like this. Your subjects say on the whole, what is quite
true, that Your Highness has a strain of goodness in his nature; so long
as he has not had any Liberal hanged, he will enjoy that reputation, and
most certainly no one will ever dream of planning to poison him."

"Your conclusion is evident," cried the Princess angrily; "you do not
wish us to punish my husband's assassins!"

"Apparently, Ma'am, because I am bound to them by ties of tender
affection."

The Duchessa could see in the Prince's eyes that he believed her to be
perfectly in accord with his mother as to dictating a plan of action to
him. There followed between the two women a fairly rapid succession of
bitter repartees, at the end of which the Duchessa protested that she
would not utter a single word more, and adhered to her resolution; but
the Prince, after a long discussion with his mother, ordered her once
more to express her opinion.

"That is what I swear to Your Highnesses that I will not do!"

"But this is really childish!" exclaimed the Prince.

"I beg you to speak, Signora Duchessa," said the Princess with an air of
dignity.

"That is what I implore you to excuse me from doing, Ma'am; but Your
Highness," the Duchessa went on, addressing the Prince, "reads French
perfectly: to calm our agitated minds, would he read _us_ a fable by La
Fontaine?"

The Princess thought this "_us_" extremely insolent, but assumed an air
at once of surprise and of amusement when the Grand Mistress, who had
gone with the utmost coolness to open the bookcase, returned with a
volume of La Fontaine's _Fables_; she turned the pages for some moments,
then said to the Prince, handing him the book:

"I beg your Highness to read the _whole_ of the fable."


_THE GARDENER AND THE LORD OF THE
MANOR[1]_

A devotee of gardening there was,
Between the peasant and the yeoman class,
Who on the outskirts of a certain village
Owned a neat garden with a bit of tillage.
He made a quickset hedge to fence it in,
And there grew lettuce, pink and jessamine,
Such as win prizes at the local show,
Or make a birthday bouquet for Margot.
  One day he called upon the neighbouring Squire
To ask his help with a marauding hare.
"The brute," says he, "comes guzzling everywhere,
And simply laughs at all my traps and wire.
No stick or stone will hit him--I declare
He's a magician." "Rubbish! I don't care
If he's the Deuce himself," replied the other,
"I warrant he shan't give you much more bother.
Miraut, in spite of all his cunning,
Won't take much time to get him running."
"But when?" "To-morrow, sure as here I stand."
   Next morning he rides up with all his band.
"Now then, we'll lunch! Those chickens don't look bad.

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

   The luncheon over, all was preparation,
Bustle and buzz and animation,
Horns blowing, hounds barking, such a hullabaloo,
The good man feared the worst. His fear came true!
The kitchen-garden was a total wreck
Under the trampling, not a speck
Of pot or frame survived. Good-bye
To onion, leek, and chicory,
Good-bye to marrows and their bravery,
Good-bye to all that makes soup savoury!

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

  The wretched owner saw no sense
In this grand style of doing things;
But no one marked his mutterings.
The hounds and riders in a single trice
Had wrought more havoc in his paradise
Than all the hares in the vicinity
Could have achieved throughout infinity.

So far the story--now the moral:
Each petty Prince should settle his own quarrel.
If once he gets a King for an ally,
He's certain to regret it by and by.


This reading was followed by a long silence. The Prince paced up and
down the cabinet, after going himself to put the volume back in its
place.

"Well, Signora," said the Princess, "will you deign to speak?"

"No, indeed, Ma'am, until such time as His Highness shall appoint me his
Minister; by speaking here, I should run the risk of losing my place as
Grand Mistress."

A fresh silence, lasting a full quarter of an hour; finally the Princess
remembered the part that had been played in the past by Marie de'
Medici, the mother of Louis XIII: for the last few days the Grand
Mistress had made the _lettrice_ read aloud the excellent _History of
Louis XIII_, by M. Bazin. The Princess, although greatly annoyed,
thought that the Duchessa might easily leave the country, and then
Rassi, who filled her with mortal terror, might quite well imitate
Richelieu and have her banished by her son. At this moment the Princess
would have given everything in the world to humiliate her Grand
Mistress; but she could not. She rose, and came, with a smile that was
slightly exaggerated, to take the Duchessa's hand and say to her:

"Come, Signora, give me a proof of your friendship by speaking."

"Very well! Two words, and no more: burn, in the grate there, all the
papers collected by that viper Rassi, and never reveal to him that they
have been burned."

She added in a whisper, and in a familiar tone, in the Princess's ear:

"Rassi may become Richelieu!"

"But, damn it, those papers are costing me more than 80,000 francs!" the
Prince exclaimed angrily.

"Prince," replied the Duchessa with emphasis, "that is what it costs to
employ scoundrels of low birth. Would to God you could lose a million
and never put your trust in the base rascals who kept your father from
sleeping during the last six years of his reign."

The words _low birth_ had greatly delighted the Princess, who felt that
the Conte and his friend had too exclusive a regard for brains, always
slightly akin to Jacobinism.

During the short interval of profound silence, filled by the Princess's
reflexions, the castle clock struck three. The Princess rose, made a
profound reverence to her son, and said to him: "My health does not
allow me to prolong the discussion further. Never have a Minister of
_low birth_; you will not disabuse me of the idea that your Rassi has
stolen half the money he has made you spend on spies." The Princess took
two candles from the brackets and put them in the fireplace in such a
way that they should not blow out; then, going up to her son, she added:
"La Fontaine's fable prevails, in my mind, over the lawful desire to
avenge a husband. Will Your Highness permit me to burn _these
writings_?" The Prince remained motionless.

"His face is really stupid," the Duchessa said to herself; "the Conte is
right: the late Prince would not have kept us out of our beds until
three o'clock in the morning, before making up his mind."

The Princess, still standing, went on:

"That little attorney would be very proud, if he knew that his papers
stuffed with lies, and arranged so as to secure his own advancement, had
occupied the two greatest personages in the State for a whole night."

The Prince dashed at one of the portfolios like a madman, and emptied
its contents into the fireplace. The mass of papers nearly extinguished
the two candles; the room filled with smoke. The Princess saw in her
son's eyes that he was tempted to seize a jug of water and save these
papers, which were costing him eighty thousand francs.

"Open the window!" she cried angrily to the Duchessa. The Duchessa made
haste to obey; at once all the papers took light together; there was a
great roar in the chimney, and it soon became evident that it was on
fire.

The Prince had a petty nature in all matters of money; he thought he saw
his Palace in flames, and all the treasures that it contained destroyed;
he ran to the window and called the guard in a voice completely altered.
The soldiers in a tumult rushed into the courtyard at the sound of the
Prince's voice, he returned to the fireplace which was sucking in the
air from the open window with a really alarming sound; he grew
impatient, swore, took two or three turns up and down the room like a
man out of his mind, and finally ran out.

The Princess and the Grand Mistress remained standing, face to face, and
preserving a profound silence.

"Is the storm going to begin again?" the Duchessa asked herself; "upon
my word, my cause is won." And she was preparing to be highly
impertinent in her replies, when a sudden thought came to her; she saw
the second portfolio intact. "No, my cause is only half won!" She said
to the Princess, in a distinctly cold tone:

"Does Ma'am order me to burn the rest of these papers?"

"And where will you burn them?" asked the Princess angrily.

"In the drawing-room fire; if I throw them in one after another, there
is no danger."

The Duchessa put under her arm the portfolio bursting with papers, took
a candle and went into the next room. She looked first to see that the
portfolio was that which contained the depositions, put in her shawl
five or six bundles of papers, burned the rest with great care, then
disappeared without taking leave of the Princess.

"There is a fine piece of impertinence," she said to herself, with a
laugh, "but her affectations of inconsolable widowhood came very near to
making me lose my head on a scaffold."

On hearing the sound of the Duchessa's carriage, the Princess was beside
herself with rage at her Grand Mistress.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, the Duchessa sent for the Conte;
he was at the fire at the Castle, but soon appeared with the news that
it was all over. "That little Prince has really shewn great courage, and
I have complimented him on it effusively."

"Examine these depositions quickly, and let us burn them as soon as
possible."

The Conte read them, and turned pale.

"Upon my soul, they have come very near the truth; their procedure has
been very cleverly managed, they are positively on the track of Ferrante
Palla; and, if he speaks, we have a difficult part to play."

"But he will not speak," cried the Duchessa; "he is a man of honour:
burn them, burn them."

"Not yet. Allow me to take down the names of a dozen or fifteen
dangerous witnesses, whom I shall take the liberty of removing, if Rassi
ever thinks of beginning again."

"I may remind Your Excellency that the Prince has given his word to say
nothing to his Minister of Justice of our midnight escapade."

"From cowardice and fear of a scene he will keep it."

"Now, my friend, this is a night that has greatly hastened our marriage;
I should not have wished to bring you as my portion a criminal trial,
still less for a sin which I was led to commit by my interest in another
man."

The Conte was in love; he took her hand with an exclamation; tears stood
in his eyes.

"Before you go, give me some advice as to the way I ought to behave with
the Princess; I am utterly worn out, I have been play-acting for an hour
on the stage and for five in her cabinet."

"You have avenged yourself quite sufficiently for the Princess's sour
speeches, which were due only to weakness, by the impertinence with
which you left her. Address her to-morrow in the tone you used this
morning; Rassi is not yet in prison or in exile, and we have not yet
torn up Fabrizio's sentence.

"You were asking the Princess to come to a decision, which is a thing
that always annoys Princes and even Prime Ministers; also you are her
Grand Mistress, that is to say her little servant. By a reversion which
is inevitable in weak people, in three days Rassi will be more in favour
than ever; he will try to have someone hanged: so long as he has not
compromised the Prince, he is sure of nothing.

"There has been a man injured in to-night's fire; he is a tailor, who,
upon my word, shewed an extraordinary intrepidity. To-morrow I am going
to ask the Prince to take my arm and come with me to pay the tailor a
visit; I shall be armed to the teeth and shall keep a sharp look-out;
but anyhow, this young Prince is not hated at all as yet. I wish to make
him accustomed to walking in the streets, it is a trick I am playing on
Rassi, who is certainly going to succeed me, and will not be able to
allow such imprudences. On our way back from the tailor's, I shall take
the Prince past his father's statue; he will notice the marks of the
stones which have broken the Roman toga in which the idiot of a sculptor
dressed it up; and, in short, he will have to be a great fool if he does
not on his own initiative make the comment: 'This is what one gains by
having Jacobins hanged.' To which I shall reply: 'You must hang either
ten thousand or none at all: the Saint-Bartholomew destroyed the
Protestants in France.'

"To-morrow, dear friend, before this excursion, send your name in to the
Prince, and say to him: 'Yesterday evening, I performed the duties of a
Minister to you, and, by your orders, have incurred the Princess's
displeasure. You will have to pay me.' He will expect a demand for
money, and will knit his brows; you will leave him plunged in this
unhappy thought for as long as you can; then you will say: 'I beg Your
Highness to order that Fabrizio be tried in _contradittorio_' (which
means, in his presence) 'by the twelve most respected judges in your
States.' _And_, without losing any time, you will present for his
signature a little order written out by your own fair hand, which I am
going to dictate to you; I shall of course include the clause that the
former sentence is quashed. To this there is only one objection; but, if
you press the matter warmly, it will not occur to the Prince's mind. He
may say to you: 'Fabrizio must first make himself a prisoner in the
citadel.' To which you will reply: 'He will make himself a prisoner in
the town prison' (you know that I am the master there; every evening
your nephew will come to see us). If the Prince answers: 'No, his escape
has tarnished the honour of my citadel, and I desire, for form's sake,
that he return to the cell in which he was'; you in turn will reply:
'No, for there he would be at the disposal of my enemy Rassi;' and, in
one of those feminine sentences which you utter so effectively, you will
give him to understand that, to make Rassi yield, you have only to tell
him of to-night's _auto-da-fè_; if he insists, you will announce that
you are going to spend a fortnight at your place at Sacca.

"You will send for Fabrizio, and consult him as to this step which may
land him in prison. If, to anticipate everything while he is under lock
and key, Rassi should grow too impatient and have me poisoned, Fabrizio
may run a certain risk. But that is hardly probable; you know that I
have imported a French cook, who is the merriest of men, and makes puns;
well, punning is incompatible with poison. I have already told our
friend Fabrizio that I have managed to find all the witnesses of his
fine and courageous action; it was evidently that fellow Giletti who
tried to murder him. I have not spoken to you of these witnesses,
because I wished to give you a surprise, but the plan has failed; the
Prince refused to sign. I have told our friend Fabrizio that certainly I
should procure him a high ecclesiastical dignity; but I shall have great
difficulty if his enemies can raise the objection in the Roman Curia of
a charge of murder.

"Do you realise, Signora, that, if he is not tried and judged in the
most solemn fashion, all his life long the name of Giletti will be a
reproach to him? It would be a great act of cowardice not to have
oneself tried, when one is sure of one's innocence. Besides, even if he
were guilty, I should make them acquit him. When I spoke to him, the
fiery youngster would not allow me to finish, he picked up the official
almanac, and we went through it together choosing the twelve most
upright and learned judges; when we had made the list, we cancelled six
names for which we substituted those of six counsel, my personal
enemies, and, as we could find only two enemies, we filled up the gaps
with four rascals who are devoted to Rassi."

This proposal filled the Duchessa with a mortal anxiety, and not without
cause; at length she yielded to reason, and, at the Minister's
dictation, wrote out the order appointing the judges.

The Conte did not leave her until six o'clock in the morning; she
endeavoured to sleep, but in vain. At nine o'clock, she took breakfast
with Fabrizio, whom she found burning with a desire to be tried; at ten,
she waited on the Princess, who was not visible; at eleven, she saw the
Prince, who was holding his levee, and signed the order without the
slightest objection. The Duchessa sent the order to the Conte, and
retired to bed.

It would be pleasant perhaps to relate Rassi's fury when the Conte
obliged him to countersign, in the Prince's presence, the order signed
that morning by the Prince himself; but we must go on with our story.

The Conte discussed the merits of each judge, and offered to change the
names. But the reader is perhaps a little tired of all these details of
procedure, no less than of all these court intrigues. From the whole
business one can derive this moral, that the man who mingles with a
court compromises his happiness, if he is happy, and, in any event,
makes his future depend on the intrigues of a chambermaid.

On the other hand in America, in the Republic, one has to spend the
whole weary day paying serious court to the shopkeepers in the street,
and must become as stupid as they are; and there, one has no Opera.

The Duchessa, when she rose in the evening, had a moment of keen
anxiety: Fabrizio was not to be found; finally, towards midnight, during
the performance at court, she received a letter from him. Instead of
making himself a prisoner _in the town prison_, where the Conte was in
control, he had gone back to occupy his old cell in the citadel, only
too happy to be living within a few feet of Clelia.

This was an event of vast consequence: in this place he was exposed to
the risk of poison more than ever. This act of folly filled the Duchessa
with despair; she forgave the cause of it, a mad love for Clelia,
because unquestionably in a few days' time that young lady was going to
marry the rich Marchese Crescenzi. This folly restored to Fabrizio all
the influence he had originally enjoyed over the Duchessa's heart.

"It is that cursed paper which I went and made the Prince sign that will
be his death! What fools men are with their ideas of honour! As if one
needed to think of honour under absolute governments, in countries where
a Rassi is Minister of Justice! He ought to have accepted the pardon
outright, which the Prince would have signed just as readily as the
order convening this extraordinary tribunal. What does it matter, after
all, that a man of Fabrizio's birth should be more or less accused of
having himself, sword in hand, killed an actor like Giletti?"

No sooner had she received Fabrizio's note than the Duchessa ran to the
Conte, whom she found deadly pale.

"Great God! Dear friend, I am most unlucky in handling that boy, and you
will be vexed with me again. I can prove to you that I made the gaoler
of the town prison come here yesterday evening; every day your nephew
would have come to take tea with you. What is so terrible is that it is
impossible for you and me to say to the Prince that there is fear of
poison, and of poison administered by Rassi; the suspicion would seem to
him the height of immorality. However, if you insist, I am ready to go
up to the Palace; but I am certain of the answer. I am going to say
more; I offer you a stratagem which I would not employ for myself. Since
I have been in power in this country, I have not caused the death of a
single man, and you know that I am so sensitive in that respect that
sometimes, at the close of day, I still think of those two spies whom I
had shot, rather too light-heartedly, in Spain. Very well, do you wish
me to get rid of Rassi? The danger in which he is placing Fabrizio is
unbounded; he has there a sure way of sending me packing."

This proposal pleased the Duchessa extremely, but she did not adopt it.

"I do not wish," she said to the Conte, "that in our retirement, beneath
the beautiful sky of Naples, you should have dark thoughts in the
evenings."

"But, dear friend, it seems to me that we have only the choice between
one dark thought and another. What will you do, what will I do myself,
if Fabrizio is carried off by an illness?"

The discussion returned to dwell upon this idea, and the Duchessa ended
it with this speech:

"Rassi owes his life to the fact that I love you more than Fabrizio; no,
I do not wish to poison all the evenings of the old age which we are
going to spend together."

The Duchessa hastened to the fortress; General Fabio Conti was delighted
at having to stop her with the strict letter of the military
regulations: no one might enter a state prison without an order signed
by the Prince.

"But the Marchese Crescenzi and his musicians come every day to the
citadel?"

"Because I obtained an order for them from the Prince."

The poor Duchessa did not know the full tale of her troubles. General
Fabio Conti had regarded himself as personally dishonoured by Fabrizio's
escape: when he saw him arrive at the citadel, he ought not to have
admitted him, for he had no order to that effect. "But," he said to
himself, "it is Heaven that is sending him to me to restore my honour,
and to save me from the ridicule which would assail my military career.
This opportunity must not be missed: doubtless they are going to acquit
him, and I have only a few days for my revenge."


[Footnote 1: For this translation of La Fontaine's fable I am indebted
to my friend Mr. Edward Marsh, who allows me to reprint the lines from
his _Forty-two Fables of La Fontaine_ (William Heinemann, Ltd., 1924).

C. K. S. M.]




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


The arrival of our hero threw Clelia into despair: the poor girl, pious
and sincere with herself, could not avoid the reflexion that there would
never be any happiness for her apart from Fabrizio; but she had made a
vow to the Madonna, at the time when her father was nearly poisoned,
that she would offer him the sacrifice of marrying the Marchese
Crescenzi. She had made the vow that she would never see Fabrizio, and
already she was a prey to the most fearful remorse over the admission
she had been led to make in the letter she had written Fabrizio on the
eve of his escape. How is one to depict what occurred in that sorrowful
heart when, occupied in a melancholy way with watching her birds flit to
and fro, and raising her eyes from habit, and with affection, towards
the window from which formerly Fabrizio used to look at her, she saw him
there once again, greeting her with tender respect.

She imagined it to be a vision which Heaven had allowed for her
punishment; then the atrocious reality became apparent to her reason.
"They have caught him again," she said to herself, "and he is lost!" She
remembered the things that had been said in the fortress after the
escape; the humblest of the gaolers regarded themselves as mortally
insulted. Clelia looked at Fabrizio, and in spite of herself that look
portrayed in full the passion that had thrown her into despair.

"Do you suppose," she seemed to be saying to Fabrizio, "that I shall
find happiness in that sumptuous palace which they are making ready for
me? My father repeats to me till I am weary that you are as poor as
ourselves; but, great God, with what joy would I share that poverty!
But, alas, we must never see one another again!"

Clelia had not the strength to make use of the alphabets: as she looked
at Fabrizio she felt faint and sank upon a chair that stood beside the
window. Her head rested upon the ledge of this window, and as she had
been anxious to see him until the last moment, her face was turned
towards Fabrizio, who had a perfect view of it. When, after a few
moments, she opened her eyes again, her first glance was at Fabrizio:
she saw tears in his eyes, but those tears were the effect of extreme
happiness; he saw that absence had by no means made him forgotten. The
two poor young things remained for some time as though spell-bound by
the sight of each other. Fabrizio ventured to sing, as if he were
accompanying himself on the guitar, a few improvised lines which said:
"_It is to see you again_ that I have returned to prison; _they are
going to try me_."

These words seemed to awaken all Clelia's dormant virtue: she rose
swiftly, and hid her eyes; and, by the most vivid gestures, sought to
express to him that she must never see him again; she had promised this
to the Madonna, and had looked at him just now in a moment of
forgetfulness. Fabrizio venturing once more to express his love, Clelia
fled from the room indignant, and swearing to herself that never would
she see him again, for such were the precise words of her vow to the
Madonna: "_My eyes shall never see him again._" She had written them on
a little slip of paper which her uncle Don Cesare had allowed her to
burn upon the altar at the moment of the oblation, while he was saying
mass.




_HONOUR_


But, oaths or no oaths, Fabrizio's presence in the Torre Farnese had
restored to Clelia all her old habits and activities. Normally she
passed all her days in solitude, in her room. No sooner had she
recovered from the unforeseen disturbance in which the sight of Fabrizio
had plunged her, than she began to wander through the _palazzo_, and, so
to speak, to renew her acquaintance with all her humble friends. A very
loquacious old woman, employed in the kitchen, said to her with an air
of mystery: "This time, Signor Fabrizio will not leave the citadel."

"He will not make the mistake of going over the walls again," said
Clelia, "but he will leave by the door if he is acquitted."

"I say, and I can assure Your Excellency that he will go out of the
citadel feet first."

Clelia turned extremely pale, a change which was remarked by the old
woman and stopped the flow of her eloquence. She said to herself that
she had been guilty of an imprudence in speaking thus before the
governor's daughter, whose duty it would be to tell everybody that
Fabrizio had died a natural death. As she went up to her room, Clelia
met the prison doctor, an honest sort of man but timid, who told her
with a terrified air that Fabrizio was seriously ill. Clelia could
hardly keep on her feet; she sought everywhere for her uncle, the good
Don Cesare, and at length found him in the chapel, where he was praying
fervently: from his face he appeared upset. The dinner bell rang. At
table, not a word was exchanged between the brothers; only, towards the
end of the meal, the General addressed a few very harsh words to his
brother. The latter looked at the servants, who left the room.

"General," said Don Cesare to the governor, "I have the honour to inform
you that I am leaving the citadel: I give you my resignation."

"_Bravo! Bravissimo!_ So that I shall be suspect! . . . And your reason,
if you please?"

"My conscience."

"Go on, you're only a frock! You know nothing about honour."

"Fabrizio is dead," thought Clelia; "they have poisoned him at dinner,
or it is arranged for to-morrow." She ran to the aviary, resolved to
sing, accompanying herself on the piano. "I shall go to confession," she
said to herself, "and I shall be forgiven for having broken my vow to
save a man's life." What was her consternation when, on reaching the
aviary, she saw that the screens had been replaced by planks fastened to
the iron bars. In desperation she tried to give the prisoner a warning
in a few words shouted rather than sung. There was no response of any
sort: a deathly silence already reigned in the Torre Farnese. "It is all
over," she said to herself. Beside herself, she went downstairs, then
returned to equip herself with the little money she had and some small
diamond earrings; she took also, on her way out, the bread that remained
from dinner, which had been placed in a sideboard. "If he still lives,
my duty is to save him." She advanced with a haughty air to the little
door of the tower; this door stood open, and eight soldiers had just
been posted in the pillared room on the ground floor. She faced these
soldiers boldly; Clelia counted on speaking to the serjeant who would be
in charge of them: this man was absent. Clelia rushed on to the little
iron staircase which wound in a spiral round one of the pillars; the
soldiers looked at her with great stupefaction but, evidently on account
of her lace shawl and her hat, dared not say anything to her. On the
first landing there was no one; but, when she reached the second, at the
entrance to the corridor which, as the reader may remember, was closed
by three barred gates and led to Fabrizio's cell, she found a turnkey
who was a stranger to her, and said to her with a terrified air:




_THE TORRE FARNESE_


"He has not dined yet."

"I know that," said Clelia haughtily. The man dared not stop her. Twenty
paces farther, Clelia found sitting upon the first of the six wooden
steps which led to Fabrizio's cell, another turnkey, elderly and very
cross, who said to her firmly:

"Signorina, have you an order from the governor?"

"Do you mean to say that you do not know me?"

Clelia, at that moment, was animated by a supernatural force, she was
beside herself. "I am going to save my husband," she said to herself.

While the old turnkey was exclaiming: "But my duty does not allow
me. . . ." Clelia hastened up the six steps; she hurled herself against
the door: an enormous key was in the lock; she required all her strength
to make it turn. At that moment, the old turnkey, who was half intoxicated,
seized the hem of her gown, she went quickly into the room, shut the
door behind her, tearing her gown, and, as the turnkey was pushing the
door to follow her, closed it with a bolt which lay to her hand. She
looked into the cell and saw Fabrizio seated at a small table upon which
his dinner was laid. She dashed at the table, overturned it, and,
seizing Fabrizio by the arm, said to him:

"_Hai mangiato?_"

This use of the singular form delighted Fabrizio. In her confusion,
Clelia forgot for the first time her feminine reserve, and let her love
appear.

Fabrizio had been going to begin the fatal meal; he took her in his arms
and covered her with kisses. "This dinner was poisoned," was his
thought: "if I tell her that I have not touched it, religion regains its
hold, and Clelia flies. If, on the other hand, she regards me as a dying
man, I shall obtain from her a promise not to leave me. She wishes to
find some way of breaking off her abominable marriage and here chance
offers us one: the gaolers will collect, they will break down the door,
and then there will be such a scandal that perhaps the Marchese
Crescenzi will fight shy, and the marriage be broken off."

During the moment of silence occupied by these reflexions Fabrizio felt
that already Clelia was seeking to free herself from his embrace.

"I feel no pain as yet," he said to her, "but presently it will
prostrate me at your feet; help me to die."

"O my only friend!" was her answer, "I will die with thee." She clasped
him in her arms with a convulsive movement.

She was so beautiful, half unclad and in this state of intense passion,
that Fabrizio could not resist an almost unconscious impulse. No
resistance was offered him.

In the enthusiasm of passion and generous instincts which follows an
extreme happiness, he said to her fatuously:

"I must not allow an unworthy falsehood to soil the first moments of our
happiness: but for your courage, I should now be only a corpse, or
writhing in atrocious pain, but I was going to begin my dinner when you
came in, and I have not touched these dishes at all."

Fabrizio dwelt upon these appalling images to conjure away the
indignation which he could already read in Clelia's eyes. She looked at
him for some moments, while two violent and conflicting sentiments
fought within her, then flung herself into his arms. They heard a great
noise in the corridor, the three iron doors were violently opened and
shut, voices shouted.

"Ah! If I had arms!" cried Fabrizio; "they made me give them up before
they would let me in. No doubt they are coming to kill me. Farewell, my
Clelia, I bless my death since it has been the cause of my happiness."
Clelia embraced him and gave him a little dagger with an ivory handle,
the blade of which was scarcely longer than that of a pen-knife.

"Do not let yourself be killed," she said to him, "and defend yourself
to the last moment; if my uncle the Priore hears the noise, he is a man
of courage and virtue, he will save you." So saying she rushed to the
door.

"If you are not killed," she said with exaltation, holding the bolt of
the door in her hand and turning her head towards him, "let yourself die
of hunger rather than touch anything. Carry this bread always on you."
The noise came nearer, Fabrizio seized her round the body, stepped into
her place by the door, and, opening it with fury, dashed down the six
steps of the wooden staircase. He had in his hand the little dagger with
the ivory handle, and was on the point of piercing with it the waistcoat
of General Fontana, Aide-de-Camp to the Prince, who recoiled with great
alacrity, crying in a panic: "But I am coming to save you, Signor del
Dongo."

Fabrizio went up the six steps, called into the cell: "Fontana has come
to save me"; then, returning to the General, on the wooden steps,
discussed matters coldly with him. He begged him at great length to
pardon him a movement of anger. "They wished to poison me; the dinner
that is there on my table is poisoned; I had the sense not to touch it,
but I may admit to you that this procedure has given me a shock. When I
heard you on the stair, I thought that they were coming to finish me off
with their dirks. Signor Generale, I request you to order that no one
shall enter my cell: they would remove the poison, and our good Prince
must know all."

The General, very pale and completely taken aback, passed on the orders
suggested by Fabrizio to the picked body of gaolers who were following
him: these men, greatly dismayed at finding the poison discovered,
hastened downstairs; they went first, ostensibly so as not to delay the
Prince's Aide-de-Camp on the narrow staircase, actually in order to
escape themselves and vanish. To the great surprise of General Fontana,
Fabrizio kept him for fully a quarter of an hour on the little iron
staircase which ran round the pillar of the ground floor; he wished to
give Clelia time to hide on the floor above.

It was the Duchessa who, after various wild attempts, had managed to get
General Fontana sent to the citadel; it was only by chance that she
succeeded. On leaving Conte Mosca, as alarmed as she was herself, she
had hastened to the Palace. The Princess, who had a marked repugnance
for energy, which seemed to her vulgar, thought her mad and did not
appear at all disposed to attempt any unusual measures on her behalf.
The Duchessa, out of her senses, was weeping hot tears, she could do
nothing but repeat, every moment:

"But, Ma'am, in a quarter of an hour Fabrizio will be dead, poisoned."

Seeing the Princess remain perfectly composed, the Duchessa became mad
with grief. She completely overlooked the moral reflexion which would
not have escaped a woman brought up in one of those Northern religions
which allow self-examination: "I was the first to use poison, and I am
perishing by poison." In Italy reflexions of that sort, in moments of
passion, appear in the poorest of taste, as a pun would seem in Paris in
similar circumstances.




_THE CAVALIERE D'ONORE_


The Duchessa, in desperation, risked going into the drawing-room where
she found the Marchese Crescenzi, who was in waiting that day. On her
return to Parma he had thanked her effusively for the place of
_Cavaliere d'onore_, to which, but for her, he would never have had any
claim. Protestations of unbounded devotion had not been lacking on his
part. The Duchessa appealed to him in these words:

"Rassi is going to have Fabrizio, who is in the citadel, poisoned. Take
in your pocket some chocolate and a bottle of water which I shall give
you. Go up to the citadel, and save my life by saying to General Fabio
Conti that you will break off your marriage with his daughter if he does
not allow you to give the water and the chocolate to Fabrizio with your
own hands."

The Marchese turned pale, and his features, so far from shewing any
animation at these words, presented a picture of the dullest
embarrassment; he could not believe in the possibility of so shocking a
crime in a town as moral as Parma, and one over which so great a Prince
reigned, and so forth; these platitudes, moreover, he uttered slowly. In
a word, the Duchessa found an honest man, but the weakest imaginable,
and one who could not make up his mind to act. After a score of similar
phrases interrupted by cries of impatience from Signora Sanseverina, he
hit upon an excellent idea: the oath which he had given as _Cavaliere
d'onore_ forbade him to take part in any action against the Government.

Who can conceive the anxiety and despair of the Duchessa, who felt that
time was flying?

"But, at least, see the governor; tell him that I shall pursue
Fabrizio's murderers to hell itself!"

Despair increased the Duchessa's natural eloquence, but all this fire
only made the Marchese more alarmed and doubled his irresolution; at the
end of an hour he was less disposed to act than at the first moment.

This unhappy woman, who had reached the utmost limits of despair and
knew well that the governor would refuse nothing to so rich a
son-in-law, went so far as to fling herself at his feet; at this the
Marchese's pusillanimity seemed to increase still further; he himself,
at the sight of this strange spectacle, was afraid of being compromised
unawares; but a singular thing happened: the Marchese, a good man at
heart, was touched by the tears and by the posture, at his feet, of so
beautiful and, above all, so influential a woman.

"I myself, noble and rich as I am," he said to himself, "will perhaps
one day be at the feet of some Republican!" The Marchese burst into
tears, and finally it was agreed that the Duchessa, in her capacity as
Grand Mistress, should present him to the Princess, who would give him
permission to convey to Fabrizio a little hamper, of the contents of
which he would declare himself to know nothing.

The previous evening, before the Duchessa knew of Fabrizio's act of
folly in going to the citadel, they had played at court a _commedia
dell'arte_, and the Prince, who always reserved for himself the lover's
part to be played with the Duchessa, had been so passionate in speaking
to her of his affection that he would have been absurd, if, in Italy, an
impassioned man or a Prince could ever be thought so.

The Prince, extremely shy, but always intensely serious in matters of
love, met, in one of the corridors of the Castle, the Duchessa who was
carrying off the Marchese Crescenzi, in great distress, to the Princess.
He was so surprised and dazzled by the beauty, full of emotion, which
her despair gave the Grand Mistress, that for the first time in his life
he shewed character. With a more than imperious gesture he dismissed the
Marchese, and began to make a declaration of love, according to all the
rules, to the Duchessa. The Prince had doubtless prepared this speech
long beforehand, for there were things in it that were quite reasonable.




_ERNESTO V_


"Since the conventions of my rank forbid me to give myself the supreme
happiness of marrying you, I will swear to you upon the Blessed
Sacrament never to marry without your permission in writing. I am well
aware," he added, "that I am making you forfeit the hand of a Prime
Minister, a clever and extremely amiable man; but after all he is
fifty-six, and I am not yet two-and-twenty. I should consider myself to
be insulting you, and to deserve your refusal if I spoke to you of the
advantages that there are apart from love; but everyone who takes an
interest in money at my court speaks with admiration of the proof of his
love which the Conte gives you, in leaving you the custodian of all that
he possesses. I shall be only too happy to copy him in that respect. You
will make a better use of my fortune than I, and you shall have the
entire disposal of the annual sum which my Ministers hand over to the
Intendant General of my Crown; so that it will be you, Signora Duchessa,
who will decide upon the sums which I may spend each month." The
Duchessa found all these details very long; Fabrizio's dangers pierced
her heart.

"Then you do not know, Prince," she cried, "that at this moment they are
poisoning Fabrizio in your citadel! Save him! I accept everything."

The arrangement of this speech was perfect in its clumsiness. At the
mere mention of poison all the ease, all the good faith which this poor,
moral Prince was putting into the conversation vanished in the twinkling
of an eye; the Duchessa did not notice her tactlessness until it was too
late to remedy it, and her despair was intensified, a thing she had
believed to be impossible. "If I had not spoken of poison," she said to
herself, "he would grant me Fabrizio's freedom. . . . O my dear
Fabrizio," she added, "so it is fated that it is I who must pierce your
heart by my foolishness!"

It took the Duchessa all her time and all her coquetry to get the Prince
back to his talk of passionate love; but even then he remained deeply
offended. It was his mind alone that spoke; his heart had been frozen by
the idea first of all of poison, and then by the other idea, as
displeasing as the first was terrible: "They administer poison in my
States, and without telling me! So Rassi wishes to dishonour me in the
eyes of Europe! And God knows what I shall read next month in the Paris
newspapers!"

Suddenly the heart of this shy young man was silent, his mind arrived at
an idea.

"Dear Duchessa! You know whether I am attached to you. Your terrible
ideas about poison are unfounded, I prefer to think; still, they give me
food for thought, they make me almost forget for an instant the passion
that I feel for you, which is the only passion that I have ever felt in
all my life. I know that I am not attractive; I am only a boy,
hopelessly in love; still, put me to the test."

The Prince grew quite animated in using this language.

"Save Fabrizio, and I accept everything! No doubt I am carried away by
the foolish fears of a mother's heart; but send this moment to fetch
Fabrizio from the citadel, that I may see him. If he is still alive,
send him from the Palace to the town prison, where he can remain for
months on end, if Your Highness requires, until his trial."

The Duchessa saw with despair that the Prince, instead of granting with
a word so simple a request, had turned sombre; he was very red, he
looked at the Duchessa, then lowered his eyes, and his cheeks grew pale.
The idea of poison put forward at the wrong moment, had suggested to him
an idea worthy of his father or of Philip II; but he dared not express
it in words.

"Listen, Signora," he said at length, as though forcing himself to
speak, and in a tone that was by no means gracious, "you look down on me
as a child and, what is more, a creature without graces: very well, I am
going to say something which is horrible, but which has just been
suggested to me by the deep and true passion that I feel for you. If I
believed for one moment in this poison, I should have taken action
already, as in duty bound; but I see in your request only a passionate
fancy, and one of which, I beg leave to state, I do not see all the
consequences. You desire that I should act without consulting my
Ministers, I who have been reigning for barely three months! You ask of
me a great exception to my ordinary mode of action, which I regard as
highly reasonable. It is you, Signora, who are here and now the Absolute
Sovereign, you give me reason to hope in a matter which is everything to
me; but, in an hour's time, when this imaginary poison, when this
nightmare has vanished, my presence will become an annoyance to you, I
shall forfeit your favour, Signora. Very well, I require an oath: swear
to me, Signora, that if Fabrizio is restored to you safe and sound I
shall obtain from you, in three months from now, all that my love can
desire; you will assure the happiness of my entire life by placing at my
disposal an hour of your own, and you will be wholly mine."

At that moment, the Castle clock struck two. "Ah! It is too late,
perhaps," thought the Duchessa.

"I swear it," she cried, with a wild look in her eyes.

At once the Prince became another man; he ran to the far end of the
gallery, where the Aide-de-Camp's room was.

"General Fontana, dash off to the citadel this instant, go up as quickly
as possible to the room in which they have put Signor del Dongo, and
bring him to me; I must speak to him within twenty minutes, fifteen if
possible."

"Ah, General," cried the Duchessa, who had followed the Prince, "one
minute may decide my life. A report which is doubtless false makes me
fear poison for Fabrizio: shout to him, as soon as you are within
earshot, not to eat. If he has touched his dinner, make him swallow an
emetic, tell him that it is I who wish it, employ force if necessary;
tell him that I am following close behind you, and I shall be obliged to
you all my life."

"Signora Duchessa, my horse is saddled, I am generally considered a
pretty good horseman, and I shall ride hell for leather; I shall be at
the citadel eight minutes before you."

"And I, Signora Duchessa," cried the Prince, "I ask of you four of those
eight minutes."

The Aide-de-Camp had vanished, he was a man who had no other merit than
that of his horsemanship. No sooner had he shut the door than the young
Prince, who seemed to have acquired some character, seized the
Duchessa's hand.

"Condescend, Signora," he said to her with passion, "to come with me to
the chapel." The Duchessa, at a loss for the first time in her life,
followed him without uttering a word. The Prince and she passed rapidly
down the whole length of the great gallery of the Palace, the chapel
being at the other end. On entering the chapel, the Prince fell on his
knees, almost as much before the Duchessa as before the altar.

"Repeat the oath," he said with passion: "if you had been fair, if the
wretched fact of my being a Prince had not been against me, you would
have granted me out of pity for my love what you now owe me because you
have sworn it."

"If I see Fabrizio again not poisoned, if he is alive in a week from
now, if His Highness will appoint him Coadjutor with eventual succession
to Archbishop Landriani, my honour, my womanly dignity, everything shall
be trampled under foot, and I will give myself to His Highness."

"But, _dear friend_," said the Prince with a blend of timid anxiety and
affection which was quite pleasing, "I am afraid of some ambush which I
do not understand, and which might destroy my happiness; that would kill
me. If the Archbishop opposes me with one of those ecclesiastical
reasons which keep things dragging on for year after year, what will
become of me? You see that I am behaving towards you with entire good
faith; are you going to be a little Jesuit with me?"

"No: in good faith, if Fabrizio is saved, if, so far as lies in your
power, you make him Coadjutor and a future Archbishop, I dishonour
myself and I am yours."

"Your Highness undertakes to write _approved_ on the margin of a request
which His Grace the Archbishop will present to you in a week from now."

"I will sign you a blank sheet; reign over me and over my States," cried
the Prince, colouring with happiness and really beside himself. He
demanded a second oath. He was so deeply moved that he forgot the
shyness that came so naturally to him, and, in this Palace chapel in
which they were alone, murmured in an undertone to the Duchessa things
which, uttered three days earlier, would have altered the opinion that
she held of him. But in her the despair which Fabrizio's danger had
caused her had given place to horror at the promise which had been wrung
from her.

The Duchessa was completely upset by what she had just done. If she did
not yet feel all the fearful bitterness of the word she had given, it
was because her attention was occupied in wondering whether General
Fontana would be able to reach the citadel in time.

To free herself from the madly amorous speeches of this boy, and to
change the topic of conversation, she praised a famous picture by the
Parmigianino, which hung over the high altar of the chapel.

"Be so good as to permit me to send it to you," said the Prince.

"I accept," replied the Duchessa; "but allow me to go and meet
Fabrizio."

With a distracted air she told her coachman to put his horses into a
gallop. On the bridge over the moat of the citadel she met General
Fontana and Fabrizio, who were coming out on foot.

"Have you eaten?"

"No, by a miracle."

The Duchessa flung her arms round Fabrizio's neck and fell in a faint
which lasted for an hour, and gave fears first for her life and
afterwards for her reason.

The governor Fabio Conti had turned white with rage at the sight of
General Fontana: he had been so slow in obeying the Prince's orders that
the Aide-de-Camp, who supposed that the Duchessa was going to occupy the
position of reigning mistress, had ended by losing his temper. The
governor reckoned upon making Fabrizio's illness last for two or three
days, and "now," he said to himself, "the General, a man from the court,
will find that insolent fellow writhing in the agony which is my revenge
for his escape."

Fabio Conti, lost in thought, stopped in the guard-room on the ground
floor of the Torre Farnese, from which he hastily dismissed the
soldiers: he did not wish to have any witnesses of the scene which was
about to be played. Five minutes later he was petrified with
astonishment on hearing Fabrizio's voice, on seeing him, alive and
alert, giving General Fontana an account of his imprisonment. He
vanished.

Fabrizio shewed himself a perfect "gentleman" in his interview with the
Prince. For one thing, he did not wish to assume the air of a boy who
takes fright at nothing. The Prince asked him kindly how he felt: "Like
a man, Serene Highness, who is dying of hunger, having fortunately
neither broken my fast nor dined." After having had the honour to thank
the Prince, he requested permission to visit the Archbishop before
surrendering himself at the town prison. The Prince had turned
prodigiously pale, when his boyish head had been penetrated by the idea
that this poison was not altogether a chimaera of the Duchessa's
imagination. Absorbed in this cruel thought, he did not at first reply
to the request to see the Archbishop which Fabrizio addressed to him;
then he felt himself obliged to atone for his distraction by a profusion
of graciousness.

"Go out alone, Signore, walk through the streets of my capital
unguarded. About ten or eleven o'clock you will return to prison, where
I hope that you will not long remain."

On the morrow of this great day, the most remarkable of his life, the
Prince fancied himself a little Napoleon; he had read that great
man had been kindly treated by several of the beauties of his court.
Once established as a Napoleon in love, he remembered that he had been
one also under fire. His heart was still quite enraptured by the
firmness of his conduct with the Duchessa. The consciousness of having
done something difficult made him another man altogether for a
fortnight; he became susceptible to generous considerations; he had some
character.

He began this day by burning the patent of Conte made out in favour of
Rassi, which had been lying on his desk for a month. He degraded General
Fabio Conti, and called upon Colonel Lange, his successor, for the truth
as to the poison. Lange, a gallant Polish officer, intimidated the
gaolers, and reported that there had been a design to poison Signor del
Dongo's breakfast; but too many people would have had to be taken into
confidence. Arrangements to deal with his dinner were more successful;
and, but for the arrival of General Fontana, Signor del Dongo was a dead
man. The Prince was dismayed; but, as he was really in love, it was a
consolation for him to be able to say to himself: "It appears that I
really did save Signor del Dongo's life, and the Duchessa will never
dare fail to keep the word she has given me." Another idea struck him:
"My business is a great deal more difficult than I thought; everyone is
agreed that the Duchessa is a woman of infinite cleverness, here my
policy and my heart go together. It would be divine for me if she would
consent to be my Prime Minister."

That evening, the Prince was so infuriated by the horrors that he had
discovered that he would not take part in the play.

"I should be more than happy," he said to the Duchessa, "if you would
reign over my States as you reign over my heart. To begin with, I am
going to tell you how I have spent my day." He then told her everything,
very exactly: the burning of Conte Rassi's patent, the appointment of
Lange, his report on the poisoning, and so forth. "I find that I have
very little experience for ruling. The Conte humiliates me by his jokes.
He makes jokes even at the Council; and, in society, he says things the
truth of which you are going to disprove; he says that I am a boy whom
he leads wherever he chooses. Though one is a Prince, Signora, one is
none the less a man, and these things annoy one. In order to give an air
of improbability to the stories which Signor Mosca may repeat, they have
made me summon to the Ministry that dangerous scoundrel Rassi, and now
there is that General Conti who believes him to be still so powerful
that he dare not admit that it was he or the Raversi who ordered him to
destroy your nephew; I have a good mind simply to send General Fabio
Conti before the court; the judges will see whether he is guilty of
attempted poisoning."

"But, Prince, have you judges?"

"What!" said the Prince in astonishment.

"You have certain learned counsel who walk the streets with a solemn
air; apart from that they always give the judgment that will please the
dominant party at your court."

While the young Prince, now scandalised, uttered expressions which
shewed his candour far more than his sagacity, the Duchessa was saying
to herself:

"Does it really suit me to let Conti be disgraced? No, certainly not;
for then his daughter's marriage with that honest simpleton the Marchese
Crescenzi becomes impossible."

On this topic there was an endless discussion between the Duchessa and
the Prince. The Prince was dazed with admiration. In consideration of
the marriage of Clelia Conti to the Marchese Crescenzi, but on that
express condition, which he laid down in an angry scene with the
ex-governor, the Prince pardoned his attempt to poison; but, on the
Duchessa's advice, banished him until the date of his daughter's
marriage. The Duchessa imagined that it was no longer love that she felt
for Fabrizio, but she was still passionately anxious for the marriage of
Clelia Conti to the Marchese; there lay in that the vague hope that
gradually she might see Fabrizio's preoccupation disappear.

The Prince, rapturously happy, wished that same evening publicly to
disgrace the Minister Rassi. The Duchessa said to him with a laugh:

"Do you know a saying of Napoleon? A man placed in an exalted position,
with the eyes of the whole world on him, ought never to allow himself to
make violent movements. But this evening it is too late, let us leave
business till to-morrow."

She wished to give herself time to consult the Conte, to whom she
repeated very accurately the whole of the evening's conversation,
suppressing however the frequent allusions to a promise which was
poisoning her life. The Duchessa hoped to make herself so indispensable
that she would be able to obtain an indefinite adjournment by saying to
the Prince: "If you have the barbarity to insist upon subjecting me to
that humiliation, which I will never forgive you, I leave your States
the day after."

Consulted by the Duchessa as to the fate of Rassi, the Conte shewed
himself most philosophic. General Fabio Conti and he went for a tour of
Piedmont.

A singular difficulty arose in the trial of Fabrizio: the judges wished
to acquit him by acclamation, and at the first sitting of the court. The
Conte was obliged to use threats to enforce that the trial should last
for at least a week, and the judges take the trouble to hear all the
witnesses. "These fellows are always the same," he said to himself.

The day after his acquittal, Fabrizio del Dongo at last took possession
of the place of Grand Vicar to the worthy Archbishop Landriani. On the
same day the Prince signed the dispatches necessary to obtain Fabrizio's
nomination as Coadjutor with eventual succession, and less than two
months afterwards he was installed in that office.




_THE VOW_


Everyone complimented the Duchessa on her nephew's air of gravity; the
fact was that he was in despair. The day after his deliverance, followed
by the dismissal and banishment of General Fabio Conti and the
Duchessa's arrival in high favour, Clelia had taken refuge with Contessa
Contarini, her aunt, a woman of great wealth and great age, occupied
exclusively in looking after her health. Clelia could, had she wished,
have seen Fabrizio; but anyone acquainted with her previous commitments
who had seen her behaviour now might well have thought that with her
lover's danger her love for him also had ceased. Not only did Fabrizio
pass as often as he decently could before the _palazzo_ Contarini, he
had also succeeded, after endless trouble, in taking a little apartment
opposite the windows of its first floor. On one occasion Clelia, having
gone to the window without thinking, to see a procession pass, drew back
at once, as though terror-stricken; she had caught sight of Fabrizio,
dressed in black, but as a workman in very humble circumstances, looking
at her from one of the windows of this rookery, which had panes of oiled
paper, like his cell in the Torre Farnese. Fabrizio would fain have been
able to persuade himself that Clelia was shunning him in consequence of
her father's disgrace, which current report put down to the Duchessa?
but he knew only too well another cause for this aloofness, and nothing
could distract him from his melancholy.

He had been left unmoved by his acquittal, his installation in a fine
office, the first that he had had to fill in his life, by his fine
position in society, and finally by the assiduous court that was paid to
him by all the ecclesiastics and all the devout laity in the diocese.
The charming apartment that he occupied in the _palazzo_ Sanseverina was
no longer adequate. Greatly to her delight, the Duchessa was obliged to
give up to him all the second floor of her _palazzo_ and two fine rooms
on the first, which were always filled with people awaiting their turn
to pay their respects to the young Coadjutor. The clause securing his
eventual succession had created a surprising effect in the country;
people now ascribed to Fabrizio as virtues all those firm qualities in
his character which before had so greatly scandalised the poor, foolish
courtiers.

It was a great lesson in philosophy to Fabrizio to find himself
perfectly insensible of all these honours, and far more unhappy in this
magnificent apartment, with ten flunkeys wearing his livery, than he had
been in his wooden cell in the Torre Farnese, surrounded by hideous
gaolers, and always in fear for his life. His mother and sister, the
Duchessa V----, who came to Parma to see him in his glory, were struck
by his profound melancholy. The Marchesa del Dongo, now the least
romantic of women, was so greatly alarmed by it that she imagined that
they must, in the Torre Farnese, have given him some slow poison.
Despite her extreme discretion, she felt it her duty to speak of so
extraordinary a melancholy, and Fabrizio replied only by tears.

A swarm of advantages, due to his brilliant position, produced no other
effect on him than to make him ill-tempered. His brother, that vain soul
gangrened by the vilest selfishness, wrote him what was almost an
official letter of congratulation, and in this letter was enclosed a
draft for fifty thousand francs, in order that he might, said the new
Marchese, purchase horses and a carriage worthy of his name. Fabrizio
sent this money to his younger sister, who was poorly married.





_THE GENEALOGY_


Conte Mosca had ordered a fine translation to be made, in Italian, of
the genealogy of the family Valserra del Dongo, originally published in
Latin by Fabrizio, Archbishop of Parma. He had it splendidly printed,
with the Latin text on alternate pages; the engravings had been
reproduced by superb lithographs made in Paris. The Duchessa had asked
that a fine portrait of Fabrizio should be placed opposite that of the
old Archbishop. This translation was published as being the work of
Fabrizio during his first imprisonment. But all the spirit was crushed
out of our hero; even the vanity so natural to mankind; he did not deign
to read a single page of this work which was attributed to himself. His
social position made it incumbent upon him to present a magnificently
bound copy to the Prince, who felt that he owed him some compensation
for the cruel death to which he had come so near, and accorded him the
grand entry into his bedchamber, a favour which confers the rank of
_Excellency_.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


The only moments in which Fabrizio had any chance of escaping from his
profound melancholy were those which he spent hidden behind a pane, the
glass of which he had had replaced by a sheet of oiled paper, in the
window of his apartment opposite the _palazzo_ Contarini, in which, as
we know, Clelia had taken refuge; on the few occasions on which he had
seen her since his leaving the citadel, he had been profoundly
distressed by a striking change, and one that seemed to him of the most
evil augury. Since her fall, Clelia's face had assumed a character of
nobility and seriousness that was truly remarkable; one would have
called her a woman of thirty. In this extraordinary change, Fabrizio
caught the reflexion of some firm resolution. "At every moment of the
day," he said to himself, "she is swearing to herself to be faithful to
the vow she made to the Madonna, and never to see me again."

Fabrizio guessed a part only of Clelia's miseries; she knew that her
father, having fallen into deep disgrace, could not return to Parma and
reappear at court (without which life for him was impossible) until the
day of her marriage to the Marchese Crescenzi; she wrote to her father
that she desired this marriage. The General had then retired to Turin,
where he was ill with grief. Truly, the counter-effect of that desperate
remedy had been to add ten years to her age.




_THE PALAZZO CONTARINI_


She had soon discovered that Fabrizio had a window opposite the
_palazzo_ Contarini; but only once had she had the misfortune to behold
him; as soon as she saw the poise of a head or a man's figure that in
any way resembled his, she at once shut her eyes. Her profound piety and
her confidence in the help of the Madonna were from then onwards her
sole resources. She had the grief of feeling no respect for her father;
the character of her future husband seemed to her perfectly lifeless and
on a par with the emotional manners of high society; finally she adored
a man whom she must never see again, and who at the same time had
certain rights over her. She would need, after her marriage, to go and
live two hundred leagues from Parma.

Fabrizio was aware of Clelia's intense modesty, he knew how greatly any
extraordinary enterprise, that might form a subject for gossip, were it
discovered, was bound to displease her. And yet, driven to extremes by
the excess of his melancholy and by Clelia's constantly turning away her
eyes from him, he made bold to try to purchase two of the servants of
Signora Contarini, her aunt. One day, at nightfall, Fabrizio, dressed as
a prosperous countryman, presented himself at the door of the _palazzo_,
where one of the servants whom he had bribed was waiting for him; he
announced himself as coming from Turin and bearing letters for Clelia
from her father. The servant went to deliver the message, and took him
up to an immense ante-room on the first floor of the _palazzo_. It was
here that Fabrizio passed what was perhaps the most anxious quarter of
an hour in his life. If Clelia rejected him, there was no more hope of
peace for his mind. "To put an end to the incessant worries which my new
dignity heaps upon me, I shall remove from the Church an unworthy
priest, and, under an assumed name, seek refuge in some Charterhouse."
At length the servant came to inform him that Signorina Clelia Conti was
willing to receive him. Our hero's courage failed him completely; he
almost collapsed with fear as he climbed the stair to the second floor.

Clelia was sitting at a little table on which stood a single candle. No
sooner had she recognised Fabrizio under his disguise than she rose and
fled, hiding at the far end of the room.

"This is how you care for my salvation!" she cried to him, hiding her
face in her hands. "You know very well, when my father was at the point
of death after taking poison, I made a vow to the Madonna that I would
never see you. I have never failed to keep that vow save on that day,
the most wretched day of my life, when I felt myself bound by conscience
to snatch you from death. It is already far more than you deserve if, by
a strained and no doubt criminal interpretation of my vow, I consent to
listen to you."

This last sentence so astonished Fabrizio that it took him some moments
to grasp its joyful meaning. He had expected the most fiery anger, and
to see Clelia fly from the room; at length his presence of mind
returned, and he extinguished the one candle. Although he believed that
he had understood Clelia's orders, he was trembling all over as he
advanced towards the end of the room, where she had taken refuge behind
a sofa; he did not know whether it would offend her if he kissed her
hand; she was all tremulous with love and threw herself into his arms.

"Dear Fabrizio," she said to him, "how long you have been in coming! I
can only speak to you for a moment, for I am sure it is a great sin; and
when I promised never to see you, I am sure I meant also to promise not
to hear you speak. But how could you pursue with such barbarity the idea
of vengeance that my poor father had? For, after all, it was he who was
first nearly poisoned to assist your escape. Ought you not to do
something for me, who have exposed my reputation to such risks in order
to save you? And besides you are now bound absolutely in Holy Orders;
you could not marry me any longer, even though I should find a way of
getting rid of that odious Marchese. And then how did you dare, on the
afternoon of the procession, have the effrontery to look at me in broad
daylight, and so violate, in the most flagrant fashion, the holy promise
that I had made to the Madonna?"

Fabrizio clasped her in his arms, carried out of himself by his surprise
and joy.

A conversation which began with such a quantity of things to be said
could not finish for a long time. Fabrizio told her the exact truth as
to her father's banishment; the Duchessa had had no part in it
whatsoever, for the simple reason that she had never for a single
instant believed that the idea of poison had originated with General
Conti; she had always thought that it was a little game on the part of
the Raversi faction, who wished to drive Conte Mosca from Parma. This
historical truth developed at great length made Clelia very happy; she
was wretched at having to hate anyone who belonged to Fabrizio. Now she
no longer regarded the Duchessa with a jealous eye.

The happiness established by this evening lasted only a few days.

The worthy Don Cesare arrived from Turin; and, taking courage in the
perfect honesty of his heart, ventured to send in his name to the
Duchessa. After asking her to give him her word that she would not abuse
the confidence he was about to repose in her, he admitted that his
brother, led astray by a false point of honour, and thinking himself
challenged and lowered in public opinion by Fabrizio's escape, had felt
bound to avenge himself.

Don Cesare had not been speaking for two minutes before his cause was
won: his perfect goodness had touched the Duchessa, who was by no means
accustomed to such a spectacle. He appealed to her as a novelty.

"Hasten the marriage between the General's daughter and the Marchese
Crescenzi, and I give you my word that I will do all that lies in my
power to ensure that the General is received as though he were returning
from a tour abroad. I shall invite him to dinner; does that satisfy you?
No doubt there will be some coolness at the beginning, and the General
must on no account be in a hurry to ask for his place as governor of the
citadel. But you know that I have a friendly feeling for the Marchese,
and I shall retain no rancour towards his father-in-law."

Fortified by these words, Don Cesare came to tell his niece that she
held in her hands the life of her father, who was ill with despair. For
many months past he had not appeared at any court.

Clelia decided to go to visit her father, who was hiding under an
assumed name in a village near Turin; for he had supposed that the court
of Parma would demand his extradition from that of Turin, to put him on
his trial. She found him ill and almost insane. That same evening she
wrote Fabrizio a letter threatening an eternal rupture. On receiving
this letter, Fabrizio, who was developing a character closely resembling
that of his mistress, went into retreat in the convent of Velleja,
situated in the mountains, ten leagues from Parma. Clelia wrote him a
letter of ten pages: she had sworn to him, before, that she would never
marry the Marchese without his consent; now she asked this of him, and
Fabrizio granted it from his retreat at Velleja, in a letter full of the
purest friendship.

On receiving this letter, the friendliness of which, it must be
admitted, irritated her, Clelia herself fixed the day of her wedding,
the festivities surrounding which enhanced still further the brilliance
with which the court of Parma, that winter, shone.




_THE COURT_


Ranuccio-Ernesto V was a miser at heart; but he was desperately in love,
and he hoped to establish the Duchessa permanently at his court; he
begged his mother to accept a very considerable sum of money, and to
give entertainments. The Grand Mistress contrived to make an admirable
use of this increase of wealth; the entertainments at Parma, that
winter, recalled the great days of the court of Milan and of that
charming Prince Eugène, Viceroy of Italy, whose virtues have left so
lasting a memory.

His duties as Coadjutor had summoned Fabrizio back to Parma; but he
announced that, for spiritual reasons, he would continue his retreat in
the small apartment which his protector, Monsignor Landriani, had forced
him to take in the Archbishop's Palace; and he went to shut himself up
there, accompanied by a single servant. Thus he was present at none of
the brilliant festivities of the court, an abstention which won for him
at Parma, and throughout his future diocese, an immense reputation for
sanctity. An unforeseen consequence of this retreat, inspired in
Fabrizio solely by his profound and hopeless sorrow, was that the good
Archbishop Landriani, who had always loved him, began to be slightly
jealous of him. The Archbishop felt it his duty (and rightly) to attend
all the festivities at court, as is the custom in Italy. On these
occasions he wore a ceremonial costume, which was, more or less, the
same as that in which he was to be seen in the choir of his Cathedral.
The hundreds of servants gathered in the colonnaded ante-chamber of the
Palace never failed to rise and ask for a blessing from Monsignore, who
was kind enough to stop and give it them. It was in one of these moments
of solemn silence that Monsignor Landriani heard a voice say: "Our
Archbishop goes out to balls, and Monsignor del Dongo never leaves his
room!"

From that moment the immense favour that Fabrizio had enjoyed in the
Archbishop's Palace was at an end; but he could now fly with his own
wings. All this conduct, which had been inspired only by the despair in
which Clelia's marriage plunged him, was regarded as due to a simple and
sublime piety, and the faithful read, as a work of edification, the
translation of the genealogy of his family, which reeked of the most
insane vanity. The booksellers prepared a lithographed edition of his
portrait, which was bought up in a few days, and mainly by the humbler
classes; the engraver, in his ignorance, had reproduced round Fabrizio's
portrait a number of the ornaments which ought only to be found on the
portraits of Bishops, and to which a Coadjutor could have no claim. The
Archbishop saw one of these portraits, and his rage knew no bounds; he
sent for Fabrizio and addressed him in the harshest words, and in terms
which his passion rendered at times extremely coarse. Fabrizio required
no effort, as may well be imagined, to conduct himself as Fénelon would
have done in similar circumstances; he listened to the Archbishop with
all the humility and respect possible; and, when the prelate had ceased
speaking, told him the whole story of the translation of the genealogy
made by Conte Mosca's orders, at the time of his first imprisonment. It
had been published with a worldly object, which had always seemed to him
hardly befitting a man of his cloth. As for the portrait, he had been
entirely unconcerned with the second edition, as with the first; and the
bookseller having sent to him, at the Archbishop's Palace, during his
retreat, twenty-four copies of this second edition, he had sent his
servant to buy a twenty-fifth; and, having learned in this way that the
portrait was being sold for thirty soldi, he had sent a hundred francs
in payment of the twenty-four copies.




_THE DUCHESSA_


All these arguments, albeit set forth in the most reasonable terms by a
man who had many other sorrows in his heart, lashed the Archbishop's
anger to madness; he went so far as to accuse Fabrizio of hypocrisy.

"That is what these common people are like," Fabrizio said to himself,
"even when they have brains!"

He had at the time a more serious anxiety; this was his aunt's letters,
in which she absolutely insisted on his coming back to occupy his
apartment in the _palazzo_ Sanseverina, or at least coming to see her
sometimes. There Fabrizio was certain of hearing talk of the splendid
festivities given by the Marchese Crescenzi on the occasion of his
marriage; and this was what he was not sure of his ability to endure
without creating a scene.

When the marriage ceremony was celebrated, for eight whole days in
succession Fabrizio vowed himself to the most complete silence, after
ordering his servant and the members of the Archbishop's household with
whom he had any dealings never to utter a word to him.

Monsignor Landriani having learned of this new affectation sent for
Fabrizio far more often than usual, and tried to engage him in long
conversations; he even obliged him to attend conferences with certain
Canons from the country, who complained that the Archbishop had
infringed their privileges. Fabrizio took all these things with the
perfect indifference of a man who has other thoughts on his mind. "It
would be better for me," he thought, "to become a Carthusian; I should
suffer less among the rocks of Velleja."

He went to see his aunt, and could not restrain his tears as he embraced
her. She found him so greatly altered, his eyes, still more enlarged by
his extreme thinness, had so much the air of starting from his head, and
he himself presented so pinched and unhappy an appearance, that at this
first encounter the Duchessa herself could not restrain her tears
either; but a moment later, when she had reminded herself that all this
change in the appearance of this handsome young man had been caused by
Clelia's marriage, her feelings were almost equal in vehemence to those
of the Archbishop, although more skilfully controlled. She was so
barbarous as to discourse at length of certain picturesque details which
had been a feature of the charming entertainments given by the Marchese
Crescenzi. Fabrizio made no reply; but his eyes closed slightly with a
convulsive movement, and he became even paler than he already was, which
at first sight would have seemed impossible. In these moments of keen
grief, his pallor assumed a greenish hue.

Conte Mosca joined them, and what he then saw, a thing which seemed to
him incredible, finally and completely cured him of the jealousy which
Fabrizio had never ceased to inspire in him. This able man employed the
most delicate and ingenious turns of speech in an attempt to restore to
Fabrizio some interest in the things of this world. The Conte had always
felt for him a great esteem and a certain degree of friendship; this
friendship, being no longer counterbalanced by jealousy, became at that
moment almost devotion. "There's no denying it, he has paid dearly for
his fine fortune," he said to himself, going over the tale of Fabrizio's
misadventures. On the pretext of letting him see the picture by the
Parmigianino which the Prince had sent to the Duchessa, the Conte drew
Fabrizio aside.

"Now, my friend, let us speak as man to man: can I help you in any way?
You need not be afraid of any questions on my part; still, can money be
of use to you, can power help you? Speak, I am at your orders; if you
prefer to write, write to me."




_AMBITION_


Fabrizio embraced him tenderly and spoke of the picture.

"Your conduct is a masterpiece of the finest policy," the Conte said to
him, returning to the light tone of their previous conversation; "you
are laying up for yourself a very agreeable future, the Prince respects
you, the people venerate you, your little worn black coat gives
Monsignor Landriani some bad nights. I have some experience of life, and
I can swear to you that I should not know what advice to give you to
improve upon what I see. Your first step in the world at the age of
twenty-five has carried you to perfection. People talk of you a great
deal at court; and do you know to what you owe that distinction, unique
at your age? To the little worn black coat. The Duchessa and I have at
our disposal, as you know, Petrarch's old house on that fine slope in
the middle of the forest, near the Po; if ever you are weary of the
little mischief-makings of envy, it has occurred to me that you might be
the successor of Petrarch, whose fame will enhance your own." The Conte
was racking his brains to make a smile appear on that anchorite face,
but failed. What made the change more striking was that, before this
latest phase, if Fabrizio's features had a defect, it was that of
presenting sometimes, at the wrong moment, an expression of gaiety and
pleasure.

The Conte did not let him go without telling him that, notwithstanding
his retreat, it would be perhaps an affectation if he did not appear at
court the following Saturday, which was the Princess's birthday. These
words were a dagger-thrust to Fabrizio. "Great God!" he thought, "what
have I let myself in for here?" He could not think without shuddering of
the meeting that might occur at court. This idea absorbed every other;
he thought that the only thing left to him was to arrive at the Palace
at the precise moment at which the doors of the rooms would be opened.

And so it happened that the name of Monsignor del Dongo was one of the
first to be announced on the evening of the gala reception, and the
Princess greeted him with the greatest possible distinction. Fabrizio's
eyes were fastened on the clock, and, at the instant at which it marked
the twentieth minute of his presence in the room, he was rising to take
his leave, when the Prince joined his mother. After paying his respects
to him for some moments, Fabrizio was again, by a skilful stratagem,
making his way to the door, when there befell at his expense one of
those little trifling points of court etiquette which the Grand Mistress
knew so well how to handle: the Chamberlain in waiting ran after him to
tell him that he had been put down to make up the Prince's table at
whist. At Parma this was a signal honour, and far above the rank which
the Coadjutor held in society. To play whist with the Prince was a
marked honour even for the Archbishop. At the Chamberlain's words
Fabrizio felt his heart pierced, and although a lifelong enemy of
anything like a scene in public, he was on the point of going to tell
him that he had been seized with a sudden fit of giddiness; but he
reflected that he would be exposed to questions and polite expressions
of sympathy, more intolerable even than the game. That day he had a
horror of speaking.

Fortunately the General of the Friars Minor happened to be one of the
prominent personages who had come to pay their respects to the Princess.
This friar, a most learned man, a worthy rival of the Fontanas and the
Duvoisins, had taken his place in a far corner of the room: Fabrizio
took up a position facing him, so that he could not see the door, and
began to talk theology. But he could not prevent his ear from hearing a
servant announce the Signor Marchese and Signora Marchesa Crescenzi.
Fabrizio, to his surprise, felt a violent impulse of anger.




_WHIST_


"If I were Borso Valserra," he said to himself (this being one of the
generals of the first Sforza), "I should go and stab that lout of a
Marchese, and with that very same dagger with the ivory handle which
Clelia gave me on that happy day, and I should teach him to have the
insolence to present himself with his Marchesa in a room in which I am."

His expression altered so greatly that the General of the Friars Minor
said to him:

"Does Your Excellency feel unwell?"

"I have a raging headache . . . these lights are hurting me . . . and I
am staying here only because I have been put down for the Prince's
whist-table."

On hearing this the General of the Friars Minor, who was of plebeian
origin, was so disconcerted that, not knowing what to do, he began to
bow to Fabrizio, who, for his part, far more seriously disturbed than
the General, started to talk with a strange volubility: he noticed that
there was a great silence in the room behind him, but would not turn
round to look. Suddenly a baton tapped a desk; a _ritornello_ was
played, and the famous Signora P---- sang that air of Cimarosa, at one
time so popular: _Quelle pupille tenere_!

Fabrizio stood firm throughout the opening bars, but presently his anger
melted away, and he felt a compelling need to shed tears. "Great God!"
he said to himself, "what a ridiculous scene! and with my cloth, too!"
He felt it wiser to talk about himself.

"These violent headaches, when I do anything to thwart them, as I am
doing this evening," he said to the General of the Minorites, "end in
floods of tears which provide food for scandal in a man of our calling;
and so I request Your Illustrious Reverence to allow me to look at him
while I cry, and not to pay any attention."

"Our Father Provincial at Catanzaro suffers from the same disability,"
said the General of the Minorites. And he began in an undertone a long
narrative.

The absurdity of this story, which included the details of the Father
Provincial's evening meals, made Fabrizio smile, a thing which had not
happened to him for a long time; but presently he ceased to listen to
the General of the Minorites. Signora P---- was singing, with divine
talent, an air of Pergolese (the Duchessa had a fondness for old music).
She was interrupted by a slight sound, a few feet away from Fabrizio;
for the first time in the evening, he turned his head, to look. The
chair that had been the cause of this faint creak in the woodwork of the
floor was occupied by the Marchesa Crescenzi whose eyes, filled with
tears, met the direct gaze of Fabrizio's which were in much the same
state. The Marchesa bent her head; Fabrizio continued to gaze at her for
some moments: he made a thorough study of that head loaded with
diamonds; but his gaze expressed anger and disdain. Then, saying to
himself: "_and my eyes shall never look upon you_," he turned back to
his Father General, and said to him:

"There, now, my weakness is taking me worse than ever."

And indeed, Fabrizio wept hot tears for more than half an hour.
Fortunately, a Symphony of Mozart, horribly mutilated, as is the way in
Italy, came to his rescue and helped him to dry his tears.




_CLELIA_


He stood firm and did not turn his eyes towards the Marchesa Crescenzi;
but Signora P---- sang again, and Fabrizio's soul, soothed by his tears,
arrived at a state of perfect repose. Then life appeared to him in a new
light. "Am I pretending," he asked himself, "to be able to forget her in
the first few moments? Would such a thing be possible?" The idea came to
him: "Can I be more unhappy than I have been for the last two months?
Then, if nothing can add to my anguish, why resist the pleasure of
seeing her? She has forgotten her vows; she is fickle: are not all women
so? But who could deny her a heavenly beauty? She has a look in her eyes
that sends me into ecstasies, whereas I have to make an effort to force
myself to look at the women who are considered the greatest beauties!
Very well, why not let myself be enraptured? It will be at least a
moment of respite."

Fabrizio had some knowledge of men, but no experience of the passions,
otherwise he would have told himself that this momentary pleasure, to
which he was about to yield, would render futile all the efforts that he
had been making for the last two months to forget Clelia.

That poor woman would not have come to this party save under compulsion
from her husband; even then she wished to slip away after half an hour,
on the excuse of her health, but the Marchese assured her that to send
for her carriage to go away, when many carriages were still arriving,
would be a thing absolutely without precedent, which might even be
interpreted as an indirect criticism of the party given by the Princess.

"In my capacity as _Cavaliere d'onore_," the Marchese added, "I have to
remain in the drawing-room at the Princess's orders, until everyone has
gone. There may be and no doubt will be orders to be given to the
servants, they are so careless! And would you have a mere Gentleman
Usher usurp that honour?"

Clelia resigned herself; she had not seen Fabrizio; she still hoped that
he might not have come to this party. But at the moment when the concert
was about to begin, the Princess having given the ladies leave to be
seated, Clelia, who was not at all alert in that sort of thing, let all
the best places near the Princess be snatched from her, and was obliged
to go and look for a chair at the end of the room, in the very corner to
which Fabrizio had withdrawn. When she reached her chair, the costume,
unusual in such a place, of the General of the Friars Minor caught her
eye, and at first she did not observe the other man, slim and dressed in
a plain black coat, who was talking to him; nevertheless a certain
secret impulse brought her gaze to rest on this man. "Everyone here is
wearing uniform, or a richly embroidered coat: who can that young man be
in such a plain black coat?" She was looking at him, profoundly
attentive, when a lady, taking her seat beside her, caused her chair to
move. Fabrizio turned his head: she did not recognise him, he had so
altered. At first she said to herself: "That is like him, it must be his
elder brother; but I thought there were only a few years between them,
and that is a man of forty." Suddenly she recognised him by a movement
of his lips.

"Poor man, how he has suffered!" she said to herself. And she bent her
head, bowed down by grief, and not in fidelity to her vow. Her heart was
convulsed with pity; "after nine months in prison, he did not look
anything like that." She did not look at him again; but, without
actually turning her eyes in his direction, she could see all his
movements.

After the concert, she saw him go up to the Prince's card-table, placed
a few feet from the throne; she breathed a sigh of relief when Fabrizio
was thus removed to a certain distance from her.

But the Marchese Crescenzi had been greatly annoyed to see his wife
relegated to a place so far from the throne; all evening he had been
occupied in persuading a lady seated three chairs away from the
Princess, whose husband was under a financial obligation to him, that
she would do well to change places with the Marchesa. The poor woman
resisting, as was natural, he went in search of the debtor husband, who
let his better half hear the sad voice of reason, and finally the
Marchese had the pleasure of effecting the exchange; he went to find his
wife. "You are always too modest," he said to her. "Why walk like that
with downcast eyes? Anyone would take you for one of those cits' wives
astonished at finding themselves here, whom everyone else is astonished,
too, to see here. That fool of a Grand Mistress does nothing else but
collect them! And they talk of retarding the advance of Jacobinism!
Remember that your husband occupies the first position, among the
gentlemen, at the Princess's court; and that even should the Republicans
succeed in suppressing the court, and even the nobility, your husband
would still be the richest man in this State. That is an idea which you
do not keep sufficiently in your head."

The chair on which the Marchese had the pleasure of installing his wife
was but six paces from the Prince's card-table: she saw Fabrizio only in
profile, but she found him grown so thin, he had, above all, the air of
being so far above everything that might happen in this world, he who
before would never let any incident pass without making his comment,
that she finally arrived at the terrible conclusion: Fabrizio had
altogether changed; he had forgotten her; if he had grown so thin, that
was the effect of the severe fasts to which his piety subjected him.
Clelia was confirmed in this sad thought by the conversation of all her
neighbours: the name of the Coadjutor was on every tongue; they sought a
reason for the signal favour which they saw conferred upon him: for him,
so young, to be admitted to the Prince's table! They marvelled at the
polite indifference and the air of pride with which he threw down his
cards, even when he had His Highness for a partner.

"But this is incredible!" cried certain old courtiers; "his aunt's
favour has quite turned his head. . . . But, mercifully, it won't last;
our Sovereign does not like people to put on these little airs of
superiority." The Duchessa approached the Prince; the courtiers, who
kept at a most respectful distance from the card-table, so that they
could hear only a few stray words of the Prince's conversation, noticed
that Fabrizio blushed deeply. "His aunt has been teaching him a lesson,"
they said to themselves, "about those grand airs of indifference."
Fabrizio had just caught the sound of Clelia's voice, she was replying
to the Princess, who, in making her tour of the ball-room, had addressed
a few words to the wife of her _Cavaliere d'onore_. The moment arrived
when Fabrizio had to change his place at the whist-table; he then found
himself directly opposite Clelia, and gave himself up repeatedly to the
pleasure of contemplating her. The poor Marchesa, feeling his gaze rest
upon her, lost countenance altogether. More than once she forgot what
she owed to her vow: in her desire to read what was going on in
Fabrizio's heart, she fixed her eyes on him.

The Prince's game ended, the ladies rose to go into the supper-room.
There was some slight confusion. Fabrizio found himself close to Clelia;
his mind was still quite made up, but he happened to recognise a faint
perfume which she used on her clothes; this sensation overthrew all the
resolutions that he had made. He approached her and repeated, in an
undertone and as though he were speaking to himself, two lines from that
sonnet of Petrarch which he had sent her from Lake Maggiore, printed on
a silk handkerchief:


     "Nessun visse giammai più di me lieto;
      Nessun vive più tristo e giorni e notti."


"No, he has not forgotten me," Clelia told herself with a transport of
joy. "That fine soul is not inconstant!"


     "Esser po in prima ogni impossibil cosa
      Ch'altri che morte od ella sani il colpo
      Ch'Amor co' suoi begli occhi al cor m'impresse,"


Clelia ventured to repeat to herself these lines of Petrarch.




_ABSENCE_


The Princess withdrew immediately after supper; the Prince had gone with
her to her room and did not appear again in the reception rooms. As
soon as this became known, everyone wished to leave at once; there was
complete confusion in the ante-rooms; Clelia found herself close to
Fabrizio; the profound misery depicted on his features moved her to
pity. "Let us forget the past," she said to him, "and keep this reminder
of _friendship_." As she said these words, she held out her fan so that
he might take it.

Everything changed in Fabrizio's eyes; in an instant he was another man;
the following day he announced that his retreat was at an end, and
returned to occupy his magnificent apartment in the _palazzo_
Sanseverina. The Archbishop said, and believed, that the favour which
the Prince had shewn him in admitting him to his game had completely
turned the head of this new saint: the Duchessa saw that he had come to
terms with Clelia. This thought, coming to intensify the misery that was
caused her by the memory of a fatal promise, finally decided her to
absent herself for a while. People marvelled at her folly. What! Leave
the court at the moment when the favour that she enjoyed appeared to
have no bounds! The Conte, perfectly happy since he had seen that there
was no love between Fabrizio and the Duchessa, said to his friend: "This
new Prince is virtue incarnate, but I have called him _that boy_: will
he ever forgive me? I can see only one way of putting myself back in his
good books, that is absence. I am going to shew myself a perfect model
of courtesy and respect, after which I shall be ill, and shall ask leave
to retire. You will allow me that, now that Fabrizio's fortune is
assured. But will you make me the immense sacrifice," he added,
laughing, "of exchanging the sublime title of Duchessa for another
greatly inferior? For my own amusement, I am leaving everything here in
an inextricable confusion; I had four or five workers in my various
Ministries, I placed them all on the pension list two months ago,
because they read the French newspapers; and I have filled their places
with blockheads of the first order.

"After our departure, the Prince will find himself in such difficulties
that, in spite of the horror that he feels for Rassi's character, I have
no doubt that he will be obliged to recall him, and I myself am only
awaiting an order from the tyrant who disposes of my fate to write a
letter of tender friendship to my friend Rassi, and tell him that I have
every reason to hope that presently justice will be done to his merits."




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


This serious conversation was held on the day following Fabrizio's
return to the _palazzo_ Sanseverina; the Duchessa was still, overcome by
the joy that radiated from Fabrizio's every action. "So," she said to
herself, "that little saint has deceived me! She has not been able to
hold out against her lover for three months even."

The certainty of a happy ending had given that pusillanimous creature,
the young Prince, the courage to love; he knew something of the
preparations for flight that were being made at the _palazzo_
Sanseverina; and his French valet, who had little belief in the virtue
of great ladies, gave him courage with respect to the Duchessa. Ernesto
V allowed himself to take a step for which he was severely reproved by
the Princess and all the sensible people at court; to the populace it
appeared to set the seal on the astonishing favour which the Duchessa
enjoyed. The Prince went to see her in her _palazzo_.

"You are leaving," he said to her in a serious tone which the Duchessa
thought odious; "you are leaving, you are going to play me false and
violate your oath! And yet, if I had delayed ten minutes in granting you
Fabrizio's pardon, he would have been dead. And you leave me in this
wretched state! When but for your oath I should never have had the
courage to love you as I do! Have you no sense of honour, then?"

"Think for a little, Prince. In the whole of your life has there been a
period equal in happiness to the four months that have just gone by?
Your glory as Sovereign, and, I venture to think, your happiness as a
man, have never risen to such a pitch. This is the compact that I
propose; if you deign to consent to it, I shall not be your mistress for
a fleeting instant, and by virtue of an oath extorted by fear, but I
shall consecrate every moment of my life to procuring your happiness, I
shall be always what I have been for the last four months, and perhaps
love will come to crown friendship. I would not swear to the contrary."

"Very well," said the Prince, delighted, "take on another part, be
something more still, reign at once over my heart and over my States, be
my Prime Minister; I offer you such a marriage as is permitted by the
regrettable conventions of my rank; we have an example close at hand:
the King of Naples has recently married the Duchessa di Partana. I offer
you all that I have to offer, a marriage of the same sort. I am going to
add a distressing political consideration to shew you that I am no
longer a mere boy, and that I have thought of everything. I lay no
stress on the condition which I impose on myself of being the last
Sovereign of my race, the sorrow of seeing in my lifetime the Great
Powers dispose of my succession; I bless these very genuine drawbacks,
since they offer me additional means of proving to you my esteem and my
passion."

The Duchessa did not hesitate for an instant; the Prince bored her, and
the Conte seemed to her perfectly suitable; there was only one man in
the world who could be preferred to him. Besides, she ruled the Conte,
and the Prince, dominated by the exigencies of his rank, would more or
less rule her. Then, too, he might become unfaithful to her, and take
mistresses; the difference of age would seem, in a very few years, to
give him the right to do so.




_THE DUCHESSA_


From the first moment, the prospect of boredom had settled the whole
question; however, the Duchessa, who wished to be as charming as
possible, asked leave to reflect.

It would take too long to recount here the almost loving turns of speech
and the infinitely graceful terms in which she managed to clothe her
refusal. The Prince flew into a rage; he saw all his happiness escaping.
What was to become of him when the Duchessa had left his court? Besides,
what a humiliation to be refused! "And what will my French valet say
when I tell him of my defeat?"

The Duchessa knew how to calm the Prince, and to bring the discussion
back gradually to her actual terms.

"If Your Highness deigns to consent not to press for the fulfilment of a
fatal promise, and one that is horrible in my eyes, as making me incur
my own contempt, I shall spend my life at his court, and that court will
always be what it has been this winter; every moment of my time will be
devoted to contributing to his happiness as a man, and to his glory as a
Sovereign. If he insists on binding me by my oath, he will be destroying
the rest of my life, and will at once see me leave his States, never to
return. The day on which I shall have lost my honour will be also the
last day on which I shall set eyes on you."

But the Prince was obstinate, like all pusillanimous creatures; moreover
his pride as a man and a Sovereign was irritated by the refusal of his
hand; he thought of all the difficulties which he would have had to
overcome to make this marriage be accepted, difficulties which,
nevertheless, he was determined to conquer.

For the next three hours, the same arguments were repeated on either
side, often interspersed with very sharp words. The Prince exclaimed:

"Do you then wish me to believe, Signora, that you are lacking in
honour? If I had hesitated so long on the day when General Fabio Conti
was giving Fabrizio poison, you would at present be occupied in erecting
a tomb to him in one of the churches of Parma."

"Not at Parma, certainly, in this land of poisoners."

"Very well then, go, Signora Duchessa," retorted the Prince angrily,
"and you will take with you my contempt."

As he was leaving, the Duchessa said to him in a whisper:

"Very well, be here at ten o'clock this evening, in the strictest
incognito, and you shall have your fool's bargain. You will then have
seen me for the last time, and I would have devoted my life to making
you as happy as an Absolute Prince can be in this age of Jacobins. And
think what your court will be when I am no longer here to extricate it
by force from its innate dulness and mischief."

"For your part, you refuse the crown of Parma, and more than the crown,
for you would not have been the ordinary Princess, married for political
reasons and without being loved; my heart is all yours, and you would
have seen yourself for ever the absolute mistress of my actions as of my
government."

"Yes, but the Princess your mother would have the right to look down
upon me as a vile intriguer."

"What then; I should banish the Princess with a pension."

There were still three quarters of an hour of cutting retorts. The
Prince, who had a delicate nature, could not make up his mind either to
enjoy his rights, or to let the Duchessa go. He had been told that after
the first moment has been obtained, no matter how, women come back.

Driven from the house by the indignant Duchessa, he had the temerity to
return, trembling all over and extremely unhappy, at three minutes to
ten. At half past ten the Duchessa stepped into her carriage and started
for Bologna. She wrote to the Conte as soon as she was outside the
Prince's States:




_THE AMBASSADOR_


"The sacrifice has been made. Do not ask me to be merry for a month. I
shall not see Fabrizio again; I await you at Bologna, and when you
please I will be the Contessa Mosca. I ask you one thing only, do not
ever force me to appear again in the land I am leaving, and remember
always that instead of an income of 150,000 lire, you are going to have
thirty or forty thousand at the very most. All the fools have been
watching you with gaping mouths, and for the future you will be
respected only so long as you demean yourself to understand all their
petty ideas. _Tu l'as voulu, George Dandin!_"

A week later their marriage was celebrated at Perugia, in a church in
which the Conte's ancestors were buried. The Prince was in despair. The
Duchessa had received from him three or four couriers, and had not
failed to return his letters to him, in fresh envelopes, with their
seals unbroken. Ernesto V had bestowed a magnificent pension on the
Conte, and had given the Grand Cordon of his order to Fabrizio.

"That is what pleased me most in his farewells. We parted," said the
Conte to the new Contessa Mosca della Rovere, "the best friends in the
world; he gave me a Spanish Grand Cordon, and diamonds which are worth
quite as much as the Grand Cordon. He told me that he would make me a
Duca, but he wished to keep that in reserve, as a way of bringing you
back to his States. And so I am charged to inform you, a fine mission
for a husband, that if you deign to return to Parma, be it only for a
month, I shall be made Duca, with whatever title you may select, and you
shall have a fine estate."

This the Duchessa refused with an expression of horror.

After the scene that had occurred at the ball at court, which seemed
fairly decisive, Clelia seemed to retain no memory of the love which she
had for a moment reciprocated; the most violent remorse had seized hold
of that virtuous and Christian soul. All this Fabrizio understood quite
well, and in spite of all the hopes that he sought to entertain, a
sombre misery took possession similarly of his soul. This time, however,
his misery did not send him into retreat, as on the occasion of Clelia's
marriage.

The Conte had requested _his nephew_ to keep him exactly informed of all
that went on at court, and Fabrizio, who was beginning to realise all
that he owed to him, had promised himself that he would carry out this
mission faithfully.

Like everyone in the town and at court, Fabrizio had no doubt that the
Conte intended to return to the Ministry, and with more power than he
had ever had before. The Conte's forecasts were not long in taking
effect: in less than six weeks after his departure, Rassi was Prime
Minister, Fabio Conti Minister of War, and the prisons, which the Conte
had nearly emptied, began to fill again. The Prince, in summoning these
men to power, thought that he was avenging himself on the Duchessa; he
was madly in love and above all hated Conte Mosca as a rival.

Fabrizio had plenty to do; Monsignor Landriani, now seventy-two years
old, had declined into a state of great languor, and as he now hardly
ever left his Palace, it fell to his Coadjutor to take his place in
almost all his functions.

The Marchesa Crescenzi, crushed by remorse, and frightened by her
spiritual director, had found an excellent way of withdrawing herself
from Fabrizio's gaze. Taking as an excuse the last months of a first
confinement, she had given herself as a prison her own _palazzo_; but
this _palazzo_ had an immense garden. Fabrizio managed to find a way
into it, and placed on the path which Clelia most affected flowers tied
up in nosegays, and arranged in such a way as to form a language, like
the flowers which she had sent up to him every evening in the last days
of his imprisonment in the Torre Farnese.




_THE COURT_


The Marchesa was greatly annoyed by this overture; the motions of her
soul were swayed at one time by remorse, at another by passion. For
several months she did not allow herself to go down once to the garden
of her _palazzo_; she had scruples even about looking at it from the
windows.

Fabrizio began to think that she was parted from him for ever, and
despair began to seize hold of his soul also. The world in which he was
obliged to live disgusted him unspeakably, and had he not been convinced
in his heart that the Conte could not find peace of mind apart from his
Ministry, he would have gone into retreat in his small apartment in the
Archbishop's Palace. It would have been pleasant for him to live
entirely in his thoughts and never more to hear the human voice save in
the exercise of his functions.

"But," he said to himself, "in the interest of the Conte and Contessa
Mosca, there is no one to take my place."

The Prince continued to treat him with a distinction which placed him in
the highest rank at that court, and this favour he owed in great measure
to himself. The extreme reserve which, in Fabrizio, sprang from an
indifference bordering on disgust for all the affections or petty
passions that fill the lives of men, had pricked the young Prince's
vanity; he often remarked that Fabrizio had as much character as his
aunt. The Prince's candid nature had in part perceived a truth: namely
that no one approached him with the same feelings in his heart as
Fabrizio. What could not escape the notice even of the common herd of
courtiers was that the consideration won by Fabrizio was not that given
to a mere Coadjutor, but actually exceeded the respect which the
Sovereign shewed to the Archbishop. Fabrizio wrote to the Conte that if
ever the Prince had enough intelligence to perceive the mess into which
the Ministers, Rassi, Fabio Conti, Zurla and others of like capacity had
thrown his affairs, he, Fabrizio, would be the natural channel through
which he would take action without unduly compromising his self-esteem.

"But for the memory of those fatal words, _that boy_," he told Contessa
Mosca, "applied by a man of talent to an august personage, the august
personage would already have cried: 'Return at once and rid me of these
rascals!' At this very moment, if the wife of the man of talent deigned
to make an advance, of however little significance, the Conte would be
recalled with joy: but he will return through a far nobler door, if he
is willing to wait until the fruit is ripe. Meanwhile everyone is bored
to death at the Princess's drawing-rooms, they have nothing to amuse
them but the absurdity of Rassi, who, now that he is a Conte, has become
a maniac for nobility. Strict orders have just been issued that anyone
who cannot produce eight quarterings of nobility _must no longer dare_
to present himself at the Princess's evenings (these are the exact words
of the proclamation). All the men who already possess the right to enter
the great gallery in the mornings, and to remain in the Sovereign's
presence when he passes on his way to mass, are to continue to enjoy
that privilege; but newcomers will have to shew proof of their eight
quarterings. Which has given rise to the saying that it is clear that
Rassi gives no quarter."

It may be imagined that such letters were not entrusted to the post.
Contessa Mosca replied from Naples: "We have a concert every Thursday,
and a _conversazione_ on Sundays; there is no room to move in our rooms.
The Conte is enchanted with his excavations, he devotes a thousand
francs a month to them, and has just brought some labourers down from
the mountains of the Abruzzi, who cost him only three and twenty soldi a
day. You must really come and see us. This is the twentieth time and
more, you ungrateful man, that I have given you this invitation."




_THE PULPIT_


Fabrizio had no thought of obeying the summons: the letter which he
wrote every day to the Conte or Contessa seemed in itself an almost
insupportable burden. The reader will forgive him when he learns that a
whole year passed in this way, without his being able to address a
single word to the Marchesa. All his attempts to establish some
correspondence with her had been repulsed with horror. The habitual
silence which, in his boredom with life, Fabrizio preserved everywhere,
except in the exercise of his functions and at court, added to the
spotless purity of his morals, made him the object of a veneration so
extraordinary that he finally decided to pay heed to his aunt's advice.


"The Prince has such a veneration for you," she wrote to him, "that you
must be on the look-out for disgrace; he will lavish on you signs of
indifference, and the atrocious contempt of the courtiers will follow on
the heels of his. These petty despots, however honest they may be,
change like the fashions, and for the same reason: boredom. You will
find no strength to resist the Sovereign's caprices except in preaching.
You improvise so well in verse! Try to speak for half an hour on
religion; you will utter heresies at first; but hire a learned and
discreet theologian to help you with your sermons, and warn you of your
mistakes, you can put them right the day after."


The kind of misery which a crossed love brings to the soul has this
effect, that everything which requires attention and action becomes an
atrocious burden. But Fabrizio told himself that his influence with the
people, if he acquired any, might one day be of use to his aunt, and
also to the Conte, his veneration for whom increased daily, as his
public life taught him to realise the dishonesty of mankind. He decided
to preach, and his success, prepared for him by his thinness and his
worn coat, was without precedent. People found in his utterances a
fragrance of profound sadness, which, combined with his charming
appearance and the stories of the high favour that he enjoyed at court,
captivated every woman's heart. They invented the legend that he had
been one of the most gallant captains in Napoleon's army. Soon this
absurd rumour had passed beyond the stage of doubt. Seats were reserved
in the churches in which he was to preach; the poor used to take their
places there as a speculation from five o'clock in the morning.

His success was such that Fabrizio finally conceived the idea, which
altered his whole nature, that, were it only from simple curiosity, the
Marchesa Crescenzi might very well come one day to listen to one of his
sermons. Suddenly the enraptured public became aware that his talent had
increased twofold. He allowed himself, when he was moved, to use imagery
the boldness of which would have made the most practised orators
shudder; at times, forgetting himself completely, he gave way to moments
of passionate inspiration, and his whole audience melted in tears. But
it was in vain that his _aggrottato_ eye sought among all the faces
turned towards the pulpit that one face the presence of which would have
been so great an event for him.

"But if ever I do have that happiness," he said to himself, "either I
shall be taken ill, or I shall stop short altogether." To obviate the
latter misfortune, he had composed a sort of prayer, tender and
impassioned, which he always placed in the pulpit, on a footstool; his
plan was to begin reading this piece, should the Marchesa's presence
ever place him at a loss for a word.

He learned one day, through those of the Marchesa's servants who were in
his pay, that orders had been given to prepare for the following evening
the box of the _casa_ Crescenzi at the principal theatre. It was a year
since the Marchesa had appeared at any public spectacle, and it was a
tenor who was creating a furore and filling the house every evening that
was making her depart from her habit. Fabrizio's first impulse was an
intense joy. "At last I can look at her for a whole evening! They say
she is very pale." And he sought to imagine what that charming face
could be like, with its colours half obliterated by the war that had
been waged in her soul.

His friend Lodovico, in consternation at what he called his master's
madness, found, with great difficulty, a box on the fourth tier, almost
opposite the Marchesa's. An idea suggested itself to Fabrizio; "I hope
to put it into her head to come to a sermon, and I shall choose a church
that is quite small, so as to be able to see her properly." As a rule,
Fabrizio preached at three o'clock. On the morning of the day on which
the Marchesa was to go to the theatre, he gave out that, as he would be
detained all day at the Palace by professional duties, he would preach
as a special exception at half past eight in the evening, in the little
church of Santa Maria della Visitazione, situated precisely opposite one
of the wings of the _palazzo_ Crescenzi. Lodovico, on his behalf,
presented an enormous quantity of candles to the nuns of the Visitation,
with the request that they would illuminate their church during the day.
He had a whole company of Grenadier Guards, a sentry was posted, with
fixed bayonet, outside each chapel, to prevent pilfering.

The sermon was announced for half past eight only, and by two o'clock
the church was completely filled; one may imagine the din that there was
in the quiet street over which towered the noble structure of the
_palazzo_ Crescenzi. Fabrizio had published the announcement that, in
honour of Our Lady of Pity, he would preach on the pity which a generous
soul ought to feel for one in misfortune, even when he is guilty.

Disguised with all possible care, Fabrizio reached his box in the
theatre at the moment when the doors were opened, and when there were
still no lights. The performance began about eight o'clock, and a few
minutes later he had that joy which no mind can conceive that has not
also felt it, he saw the door of the Crescenzi box open; a little later
the Marchesa appeared; he had not had so clear a view of her since the
day on which she had given him her fan. Fabrizio thought that he would
suffocate with joy; he was conscious of emotions so extraordinary that
he said to himself: "Perhaps I am going to die! What a charming way of
ending this sad life! Perhaps I am going to collapse in this box; the
faithful gathered at the Visitation will wait for me in vain, and
to-morrow they will learn that their future Archbishop forgot himself in
a box at the Opera, and, what is more, disguised as a servant and
wearing livery! Farewell my whole reputation! And what does my
reputation mean to me?"

However, about a quarter to nine, Fabrizio collected himself with an
effort; he left his box on the fourth tier and had the greatest
difficulty in reaching, on foot, the place where he was to doff his
livery and put on a more suitable costume. It was not until nearly nine
o'clock that he arrived at the Visitation, in such a state of pallor and
weakness that the rumour went round the church that the Signor
Coadiutore would not be able to preach that evening. One may imagine the
attention that was lavished on him by the Sisters at the grille of their
inner parlour, to which he had retired. These ladies talked incessantly;
Fabrizio asked to be left alone for a few moments, then hastened to the
pulpit. One of his assistants had informed him, about three o'clock,
that the Church of the Visitation was packed to the doors, but with
people of the lowest class, attracted apparently by the spectacle of the
illumination. On entering the pulpit, Fabrizio was agreeably surprised
to find all the chairs occupied by young men of fashion, and by people
of the highest distinction.

A few words of excuse began his sermon, and were received with
suppressed cries of admiration. Next came the impassioned description of
the unfortunate wretch whom one must pity, to honour worthily the
_Madonna della Pietà_, who, herself, had so greatly suffered when on
earth. The orator was greatly moved; there were moments when he could
barely pronounce his words so as to be heard in every part of this small
church. In the eyes of all the women, and of a good many of the men, he
had himself the air of the wretch whom one ought to pity, so extreme was
his pallor. A few minutes after the words of apology with which he had
begun his discourse, it was noticed that he was not in his normal state;
it was felt that his melancholy, this evening, was more profound and
more tender than usual. Once he was seen to have tears in his eyes; in a
moment there rose through the congregation a general sob, so loud that
the sermon was completely interrupted.

This first interruption was followed by a dozen others; his listeners
uttered cries of admiration, there were outbursts of tears; one heard at
every moment such exclamations as: "_Ah! Santa Madonna_!" "_Ah! Gran
Dio_!" The emotion was so general and so irrepressible in this select
public, that no one was ashamed of uttering these cries, and the people
who were carried away by them did not seem to their neighbours to be in
the least absurd.

During the rest which it is customary to take in the middle of the
sermon, Fabrizio was informed that there was absolutely no one left in
the theatre; one lady only was still to be seen in her box, the Marchesa
Crescenza. During this brief interval, a great clamour was suddenly
heard proceeding from the church; it was the faithful who were voting a
statue to the Signor Coadiutore. His success in the second part of the
discourse was so wild and worldly, the bursts of Christian contrition
gave place so completely to cries of admiration that were altogether
profane, that he felt it his duty to address, on leaving the pulpit, a
sort of reprimand to his hearers. Whereupon they all left at once with a
movement that was singularly formal; and, on reaching the street, all
began to applaud with frenzy, and to shout: "_Evviva del Dongo_!"

Fabrizio hastily consulted his watch, and ran to a little barred window
which lighted the narrow passage from the organ gallery to the interior
of the convent. Out of politeness to the unprecedented and incredible
crowd which filled the street, the porter of the _palazzo_ Crescenzi had
placed a dozen torches in those iron sconces which one sees projecting
from the outer walls of _palazzo_ built in the middle ages. After some
minutes, and long before the shouting had ceased, the event for which
Fabrizio was waiting with such anxiety occurred, the Marchesa's
carriage, returning from the theatre, appeared in the street; the
coachman was obliged to stop, and it was only at a crawling pace, and by
dint of shouts, that the carriage was able to reach the door.

The Marchesa had been touched by the sublime music, as is the way with
sorrowing hearts, but far more by the complete solitude in which she
sat, when she learned the reason for it. In the middle of the second
act, and while the tenor was on the stage, even the people in the pit
had suddenly abandoned their seats to go and tempt fortune by trying to
force their way into the Church of the Visitation. The Marchesa, finding
herself stopped by the crowd outside her door, burst into tears. "I had
not made a bad choice," she said to herself.




_ANNETTA MARINI_


But precisely on account of this momentary weakening, she firmly
resisted the pressure put upon her by the Marchese and the friends of
the family, who could not conceive her not going to see so astonishing a
preacher.

"Really," they said, "he beats even the best tenor in Italy!" "If I see
him, I am lost!" the Marchesa said to herself.

It was in vain that Fabrizio, whose talent seemed more brilliant every
day, preached several times more in the same little church, opposite the
_palazzo_ Crescenzi, never did he catch sight of Clelia, who indeed took
offence finally at this affectation of coming to disturb her quiet
street, after he had already driven her from her own garden.

In letting his eye run over the faces of the women who listened to him,
Fabrizio had noticed some time back a little face of dark complexion,
very pretty, and with eyes that darted fire. As a rule these magnificent
eyes were drowned in tears at the ninth or tenth sentence in the sermon.
When Fabrizio was obliged to say things at some length, which were
tedious to himself, he would very readily let his eyes rest on that
head, the youthfulness of which pleased him. He learned that this young
person was called Annetta Marini, the only daughter and heiress of the
richest cloth merchant in Parma, who had died a few months before.

Presently the name of this Annetta Marini, the cloth merchant's daughter,
was on every tongue; she had fallen desperately in love with Fabrizio.
When the famous sermons began, her marriage had been arranged with
Giacomo Rassi, eldest son of the Minister of Justice, who was by no
means unattractive to her; but she had barely listened twice to
Monsignor Fabrizio before she declared that she no longer wished to
marry; and, since she was asked the reason for so singular a change of
mind, she replied that it was not fitting for an honourable girl to
marry one man when she had fallen madly in love with another. Her family
sought to discover, at first without success, who this other might be.

But the burning tears which Annetta shed at the sermon put them on the
way to the truth; her mother and uncles having asked her if she loved
Monsignor Fabrizio, she replied boldly that, since the truth had been
discovered, she would not demean herself with a lie; she added that,
having no hope of marrying the man whom she adored, she wished at least
no longer to have her eyes offended by the ridiculous figure of Contino
Rassi. This speech in ridicule of the son of a man who was pursued by
the envy of the entire middle class became in a couple of days the talk
of the whole town. Annetta Marini's reply was thought charming, and
everyone repeated it. People spoke of it at the _palazzo_ Crescenzi as
everywhere else.




_HAYEZ_


Clelia took good care not to open her mouth on such a topic in her own
drawing-room: but she plied her maid with questions, and, the following
Sunday, after hearing mass in the chapel of her _palazzo_, bade her maid
come with her in her carriage and went in search of a second mass at
Signorina Marini's parish church. She found assembled there all the
gallants of the town, drawn by the same attraction; these gentlemen were
standing by the door. Presently, from the great stir which they made,
the Marchesa gathered that this Signorina Marini was entering the
church; she found herself excellently placed to see her, and, for all
her piety, paid little attention to the mass, Clelia found in this
middle class beauty a little air of decision which, to her mind, would
have suited, if anyone, a woman who had been married for a good many
years. Otherwise, she was admirably built on her small scale, and her
eyes, as they say in Lombardy, seemed to make conversation with the
things at which she looked. The Marchesa escaped before the end of mass.

The following day the friends of the Crescenzi household, who came
regularly to spend the evening there, related a fresh absurdity on the
part of Annetta Marini. Since her mother, afraid of her doing something
foolish, left only a little money at her disposal. Annetta had gone and
offered a magnificent diamond ring, a gift from her father, to the
famous Hayez, then at Parma decorating the drawing-rooms of the
_palazzo_ Crescenzi, and had asked him to paint the portrait of Signor
del Dongo; but she wished that in this portrait he should simply be
dressed in black, and not in the priestly habit. Well, the previous
evening, Annetta's mother had been greatly surprised, and even more
shocked to find in her daughter's room a magnificent portrait of
Fabrizio del Dongo, set in the finest frame that had been gilded in
Parma in the last twenty years.




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Carried away by the train of events, we have not had time to sketch the
comic race of courtiers who swarm at the court of Parma and who made
fatuous comments on the incidents which we have related. What in that
country makes a small noble, adorned with an income of three or four
thousand lire, worthy to figure in black stockings at the Prince's
levees, is, first and foremost, that he shall never have read Voltaire
and Rousseau: this condition it is not very difficult to fulfil. He must
then know how to speak with emotion of the Sovereign's cold, or of the
latest case of mineralogical specimens that has come to him from Saxony.
If, after this, you were not absent from mass for a single day in the
year, if you could include in the number of your intimate friends two or
three prominent monks, the Prince deigned to address a few words to you
once every year, a fortnight before or a fortnight after the first of
January, which brought you great relief in your parish, and the tax
collector dared not press you unduly if you were in arrears with the
annual sum of one hundred francs with which your small estate was
burdened.

Signor Gonzo was a poor devil of this sort, very noble, who, apart from
possessing some little fortune of his own, had obtained, through the
Marchese Crescenzi's influence, a magnificent post which brought him in
eleven hundred and fifty francs annually. This man might have dined at
home; but he had one passion: he was never at his ease and happy except
when he found himself in the drawing-room of some great personage who
said to him from time to time: "Hold your tongue, Gonzo, you're a
perfect fool." This judgment was prompted by ill temper, for Gonzo had
almost always more intelligence than the great personage. He would
discuss anything, and quite gracefully, besides, he was ready to change
his opinion on a grimace from the master of the house. To tell the
truth, although of a profound subtlety in securing his own interests, he
had not an idea in his head, and, when the Prince had not a cold, was
sometimes embarrassed as he came into a drawing-room.




_COURTIERS_


What had, in Parma, won Gonzo a reputation was a magnificent cocked hat,
adorned with a slightly dilapidated black plume, which he wore even with
evening dress; but you ought to have seen the way in which he carried
this plume, whether upon his head or in his hand; there were talent and
importance combined. He inquired with genuine anxiety after the health
of the Marchesa's little dog, and, if the _palazzo_ Crescenzi had caught
fire, he would have risked his life to save one of those fine armchairs
in gold brocade, which for so many years had caught in his black silk
breeches, whenever it so happened that he ventured to sit down for a
moment.

Seven or eight persons of this species appeared every evening at seven
o'clock in the Marchesa Crescenzi's drawing-room. No sooner had they sat
down than a lackey, magnificently attired in a daffodil-yellow livery,
covered all over with silver braid, as was the red waistcoat which
completed his magnificence, came to take the poor devils' hats and
canes. He was immediately followed by a footman carrying an
infinitesimal cup of coffee, supported on a stem of silver filigree; and
every half hour a butler, wearing a sword and a magnificent coat, in the
French style, brought round ices.

Half an hour after the threadbare little courtiers, one saw arrive five
or six officers, talking in loud voices and with a very military air,
and usually discussing the number of buttons which ought to be on the
soldiers' uniform in order that the Commander in Chief might gain
victories. It would not have been prudent to quote a French newspaper in
this drawing-room; for, even when the news itself was of the most
agreeable kind, as for instance that fifty Liberals had been shot in
Spain, the speaker none the less remained convicted of having read a
French newspaper. The crowning effort of all these people's skill was to
obtain every ten years an increase of 150 francs in their pensions. It
is thus that the Prince shares with his nobility the pleasure of
reigning over all the peasants and burgesses of the land.

The principal personage, beyond all question, of the Crescenzi
drawing-room, was the Cavaliere Foscarini, an entirely honest man; in
consequence of which he had been in prison off and on, under every
government. He had been a member of that famous Chamber of Deputies
which, at Milan, rejected the Registration Law presented to them by
Napoleon, an action of very rare occurrence in history. Cavaliere
Foscarini, after having been for twenty years a friend of the Marchese's
mother, had remained the influential man in the household. He had always
some amusing story to tell, but nothing escaped his shrewd perception;
and the young Marchesa, who felt herself guilty at heart, trembled
before him.

As Gonzo had a regular passion for the great gentleman, who said rude
things to him and moved him to tears once or twice every year, his mania
was to seek to do him trifling services; and, if he had not been
paralysed by the habits of an extreme poverty, he might sometimes have
succeeded, for he was not lacking in a certain ingredient of shrewdness,
and a far greater effrontery.

Gonzo, as we have seen him, felt some contempt for the Marchesa
Crescenzi, for never in her life had she addressed a word to him that
was not quite civil; but after all she was the wife of the famous
Marchese Crescenzi, _Cavaliere d'onore_ to the Princess, who, once or
twice in a month, used to say to Gonzo: "Hold your tongue, Gonzo, you're
a perfect fool."




_SONNETS_


Gonzo observed that everything which was said about little Annetta
Marini made the Marchesa emerge for a moment from the state of dreamy
indifference in which as a rule she remained plunged until the clock
struck eleven; then she made tea, and offered a cup to each of the men
present, addressing him by name. After which, at the moment of her
withdrawing to her room, she seemed to find a momentary gaiety, and this
was the time chosen for repeating to her satirical sonnets.

They compose such sonnets admirably in Italy: it is the one kind of
literature that has still a little vitality; as a matter of fact, it is
not subjected to the censor, and the courtiers of the _casa_ Crescenzi
invariably prefaced their sonnets with these words: "Will the Signora
Marchesa permit one to repeat to her a very bad sonnet?" And when the
sonnet had been greeted with laughter and had been repeated several
times, one of the officers would not fail to exclaim: "The Minister of
Police ought to see about giving a bit of hanging to the authors of such
atrocities." Middle class society, on the other hand, welcomes these
sonnets with the most open admiration, and the lawyers' clerks sell
copies of them.

From the sort of curiosity shown by the Marchesa, Gonzo imagined that
too much had been said in front of her of the beauty of the little
Marini, who moreover had a fortune of a million, and that the other
woman was jealous of her. As, with his incessant smile and his complete
effrontery towards all that was not noble, Gonzo found his way
everywhere, on the very next day he arrived in the Marchesa's
drawing-room, carrying his plumed hat in a triumphant fashion which was
to be seen perhaps only once or twice in the year, when the Prince had
said to him: "_Addio_, Gonzo."

After respectfully greeting the Marchesa, Gonzo did not withdraw as
usual to take his seat on the chair which had just been pushed forward
for him. He took his stand in the middle of the circle and exclaimed
bluntly: "I have seen the portrait of Monsignor del Dongo." Clelia was
so surprised that she was obliged to lean upon the arm of her chair; she
tried to face the storm, but presently was obliged to leave the room.

"You must agree, my poor Gonzo, that your tactlessness is unique," came
arrogantly from one of the officers, who was finishing his fourth ice.
"Don't you know that the Coadjutor, who was one of the most gallant
Colonels in Napoleon's army, played a trick that ought to have hanged
him on the Marchesa's father, when he walked out of the citadel where
General Fabio Conti was in command, as he might have walked out of the
Steccata?" (The Steccata is the principal church in Parma.)

"Indeed I am ignorant of many things, my dear Captain, and I am a poor
imbecile who makes blunders all day long."

This reply, quite to the Italian taste, caused a laugh at the expense of
the brilliant officer. The Marchesa soon returned; she had armed herself
with courage, and was not without hope of being able herself to admire
this portrait, which was said to be excellent. She spoke with praise of
the talent of Hayez, who had painted it. Unconsciously she addressed
charming smiles at Gonzo, who looked malevolently at the officer. As all
the other courtiers of the house indulged in the same pastime, the
officer took flight, not without vowing a deadly hatred against Gonzo;
the latter was triumphant, and later in the evening, when he took his
leave, was invited to dine next day.




_GONZO_


"I can tell you something more," cried Gonzo, the following evening,
after dinner, when the servants had left the room: "the latest thing is
that our Coadjutor has fallen in love with the little Marini!"

One may judge of the agitation that arose in Clelia's heart on hearing
so extraordinary an announcement. The Marchese himself was moved.

"But, Gonzo my friend, you are off the track, as usual! And you ought to
speak with a little more caution of a person who has had the honour to
sit down eleven times at his Highness's whist-table."

"Well, Signor Marchese," replied Gonzo with the coarseness of people of
his sort, "I can promise you that he would just as soon sit down to the
little Marini. But it is enough that these details displease you; they
no longer exist for me, who desire above all things not to shock my
beloved Marchese."

Regularly, after dinner, the Marchese used to retire to take a _siesta_.
He let the time pass that day; but Gonzo would sooner have cut out his
tongue than have said another word about the little Marini; and, every
moment, he began a speech, so planned that the Marchese might hope that
he was about to return to the subject of the little lady's love affairs.
Gonzo had in a superior degree that Italian quality of mind which
consists in exquisitely delaying the launching of the word for which
one's hearer longs. The poor Marchese, dying of curiosity, was obliged
to make advances; he told Gonzo that, when he had the pleasure of dining
with him, he ate twice as much as usual. Gonzo did not take the hint, he
began to describe a magnificent collection of pictures which the
Marchesa Balbi, the late Prince's mistress, was forming; three or four
times he spoke of Hayez, in a slow and measured tone full of the most
profound admiration. The Marchese said to himself: "Now he is coming to
the portrait which the little Marini ordered!" But this was what Gonzo
took good care not to do. Five o'clock struck, which put the Marchese in
the worst of tempers, for he was in the habit of getting into his
carriage at half past five, after his _siesta_, to drive to the Corso.

"This is what you do with your stupid talk!" he said rudely to Gonzo:
"you are making me reach the Corso after the Princess, whose _Cavaliere
d'onore_ I am, when she may have orders to give me. Come along! Hurry
up! Tell me in a few words, if you can, what is this so-called love
affair of the Coadjutor?"

But Gonzo wished to keep this anecdote for the Marchesa, who had invited
him to dine; he did _hurry up_, in a very few words, the story demanded of
him, and the Marchese, half asleep, ran off to take his _siesta_. Gonzo
adopted a wholly different manner with the poor Marchesa. She had
remained so young and natural in spite of her high position, that she
felt it her duty to make amends for the rudeness with which the Marchese
had just spoken to Gonzo. Charmed by this success, her guest recovered
all his eloquence, and made it a pleasure, no less than a duty, to enter
into endless details with her.

Little Annetta Marini gave as much as a sequin for each place that was
kept for her for the sermons; she always arrived with two of her aunts
and her father's old cashier. These places, which were reserved for her
overnight, were generally chosen almost opposite the pulpit, but
slightly in the direction of the high altar, for she had noticed that
the Coadjutor often turned towards the altar. Now, what the public also
had noticed was that, _not infrequently_, those speaking eyes of the
young preacher rested with evident pleasure on the young heiress, that
striking beauty; and apparently with some attention, for, when he had
his eyes fixed on her, his sermon became learned; the quotations began
to abound in it, there was no more sign of that eloquence which springs
from the heart; and the ladies, whose interest ceased almost at once,
began to look at the Marini and to find fault with her.

Clelia made him repeat to her three times over all these singular
details. At the third repetition she became lost in meditation; she was
calculating that just fourteen months had passed since she last saw
Fabrizio. "Would it be very wrong," she asked herself, "to spend an hour
in a church, not to see Fabrizio but to hear a famous preacher? Besides,
I shall take a seat a long way from the pulpit, and I shall look at
Fabrizio only once as I go in and once more at the end of the
sermon. . . . No," Clelia said to herself, "it is not Fabrizio I am going
to see, I am going to hear the astounding preacher!" In the midst of all
these reasonings, the Marchesa felt some remorse; her conduct had been so
exemplary for fourteen months! "Well," she said to herself, in order to
secure some peace of mind, "if the first woman to arrive this evening
has been to hear Monsignor del Dongo, I shall go too; if she has not
been, I shall stay away."

Having come to this decision, the Marchesa made Gonzo happy by saying to
him:

"Try to find out on what day the Coadjutor will be preaching, and in
what church. This evening, before you go, I shall perhaps have a
commission to give you."

No sooner had Gonzo set off for the Corso than Clelia went to take the
air in the garden of her _palazzo_. She did not consider the objection
that for ten months she had not set foot in it. She was lively,
animated; she had a colour. That evening, as each boring visitor entered
the room, her heart throbbed with emotion. At length they announced
Gonzo, who at the first glance saw that he was going to be the
indispensable person for the next week; "The Marchesa is jealous of the
little Marini, and, upon my word, it would be a fine drama to put on the
stage," he said to himself, "with the Marchesa playing the leading lady,
little Annetta the juvenile, and Monsignor del Dongo the lover! Upon my
word, the seats would not be too dear at two francs." He was beside
himself with joy, and throughout the evening cut everybody short, and
told the most ridiculous stories (that, for example, of the famous
actress and the Marquis de Pequigny, which he had heard the day before
from a French visitor). The Marchesa, for her part, could not stay in
one place; she moved about the drawing-room, she passed into a gallery
adjoining it into which the Marchese had admitted no picture that had
not cost more than twenty thousand francs. These pictures spoke in so
clear a language that evening that they wore out the Marchesa's heart
with the force of her emotion. At last she heard the double doors open,
she ran to the drawing-room: it was the Marchesa Raversi! But, on making
her the customary polite speeches, Clelia felt that her voice was
failing her. The Marchesa made her repeat twice the question: "What do
you think of the fashionable preacher?" which she had not heard at
first.

"I did regard him as a little intriguer, a most worthy nephew of the
illustrious Contessa Mosca, but the last time he preached; why, it was
at the Church of the Visitation, opposite you, he was so sublime, that I
could not hate him any longer, and I regard him as the most eloquent man
I have ever heard."

"So you have been to hear his sermons?" said Clelia, trembling with
happiness.

"Why," the Marchesa laughed, "haven't you been listening? I wouldn't
miss one for anything in the world. They say that his lungs are
affected, and that soon he will have to give up preaching."

No sooner had the Marchesa left than Clelia called Gonzo to the gallery.

"I have almost decided," she told him, "to hear this preacher who is so
highly praised. When does he preach?"

"Next Monday, that is to say in three days from now; and one would say
that he had guessed Your Excellency's intention, for he is coming to
preach in the Church of the Visitation."

There was more to be settled; but Clelia could no longer muster enough
voice to speak: she took five or six turns of the gallery without adding
a word. Gonzo said to himself: "There is vengeance at work. How can
anyone have the insolence to escape from a prison, especially when he is
guarded by a hero like General Fabio Conti?

"However, you must make haste," he added with delicate irony; "his lungs
are affected. I heard Doctor Rambo say that he has not a year to live;
God is punishing him for having broken his bond by treacherously
escaping from the citadel."

The Marchesa sat down on the divan in the gallery, and made a sign to
Gonzo to follow her example. After some moments of silence she handed
him a little purse in which she had a few sequins ready. "Reserve four
places for me."

"Will it be permitted for poor Gonzo to slip in Your Excellency's
train?"

"Certainly. Reserve five places. . . . I do not in the least mind," she
added, "whether I am near the pulpit; but I should like to see Signorina
Marini, who they say is so pretty."

The Marchesa could not live through the three days that separated her
from the famous Monday, the day of the sermon. Gonzo, inasmuch as it was
a signal honour to be seen in the company of so great a lady, had put on
his French coat with his sword; this was not all, taking advantage of
the proximity of the _palazzo_, he had had carried into the church a
magnificent gilt armchair for the Marchesa, which was thought the last
word in insolence by the middle classes. One may imagine how the poor
Marchesa felt when she saw this armchair, which had been placed directly
opposite the pulpit. Clelia was in such confusion, with downcast eyes,
shrinking into a corner of the huge chair, that she had not even the
courage to look at the little Marini, whom Gonzo pointed out to her with
his hand with an effrontery which amazed her. Everyone not of noble
birth was absolutely nothing in the eyes of this courtier.

Fabrizio appeared in the pulpit; he was so thin, so pale, so _consumed_,
that Clelia's eyes immediately filled with tears. Fabrizio uttered a few
words, then stopped, as though his voice had suddenly failed; he tried
in vain to begin various sentences; he turned round and took up a sheet
of paper:

"Brethren," he said, "an unhappy soul and one well worthy of all your
pity requests you, through my lips, to pray for the ending of his
torments, which will cease only with his life."

Fabrizio read the rest of his paper very slowly; but the expression of
his voice was such that before he was halfway through the prayer,
everyone was weeping, even Gonzo. "At any rate, I shall not be noticed,"
thought the Marchesa, bursting into tears.




_THE ORANGERY_


While he was reading from the paper, Fabrizio found two or three ideas
concerning the state of the unhappy man for whom he had come to beg the
prayers of the faithful. Presently thoughts came to him in abundance.
While he appeared to be addressing the public, he spoke only to the
Marchesa. He ended his discourse a little sooner than was usual,
because, in spite of his efforts to control them, his tears got the
better of him to such a point that he was no longer able to pronounce
his words in an intelligible manner. The good judges found this sermon
strange but quite equal, in pathos at least, to the famous sermon
preached with the lighted candles. As for Clelia, no sooner had she
heard the first ten lines of the prayer read by Fabrizio than it seemed
to her an atrocious crime to have been able to spend fourteen months
without seeing him. On her return home she took to her bed, to be able
to think of Fabrizio with perfect freedom; and next morning, at an early
hour, Fabrizio received a note couched in the following terms:


"We rely upon your honour; find four _bravi_, of whose discretion you
can be sure, and to-morrow, when midnight sounds from the Steccata, be
by a little door which bears the number 19, in the Strada San Paolo.
Remember that you may be attacked, do not come alone."


On recognising that heavenly script, Fabrizio fell on his knees and
burst into tears. "At last," he cried, "after fourteen months and eight
days! Farewell to preaching."

It would take too long to describe all the varieties of folly to which
the hearts of Fabrizio and Clelia were a prey that day. The little door
indicated in the note was none other than that of the orangery of the
_palazzo_ Crescenzi, and ten times in the day Fabrizio found an excuse
to visit it. He armed himself, and alone, shortly before midnight, with
a rapid step, was passing by the door when, to his inexpressible joy, he
heard a well known voice say in a very low whisper:

"Come in here, friend of my heart."

Fabrizio entered cautiously and found himself actually in the orangery,
but opposite a window heavily barred which stood three or four feet
above the ground. The darkness was intense. Fabrizio had heard a slight
sound in this window, and was exploring the bars with his hand, when he
felt another hand, slipped through the bars, take hold of his and carry
it to a pair of lips which gave it a kiss.

"It is I," said a dear voice, "who have come here to tell you that I
love you, and to ask you if you are willing to obey me."

One may imagine the answer, the joy, the astonishment of Fabrizio; after
the first transports, Clelia said to him:

"I have made a vow to the Madonna, as you know, never to see you; that
is why I receive you in this profound darkness. I wish you to understand
dearly that, should you ever force me to look at you in the daylight,
all would be over between us. But first of all, I do not wish you to
preach before Annetta Marini, and do not go and think that it was I who
was so foolish as to have an armchair carried into the House of God."

"My dear angel, I shall never preach again before anyone; I have been
preaching only in the hope that one day I might see you."

"Do not speak like that, remember that it is not permitted to me to see
you."


Here we shall ask leave to pass over, without saying a single word about
them, an interval of three years.

At the time when our story is resumed, Conte Mosca had long since
returned to Parma, as Prime Minister, and was more powerful than ever.

After three years of divine happiness, Fabrizio's heart underwent a
caprice of affection which led to a complete change in his
circumstances. The Marchesa had a charming little boy two years old,
Sandrino, who was his mother's joy; he was always with her or on the
knees of the Marchese Crescenzi; Fabrizio, on the other hand, hardly
ever saw him; he did not wish him to become accustomed to loving another
father. He formed the plan of taking the child away before his memories
should have grown distinct.




_L'AMICIZIA_


In the long hours of each day when the Marchesa could not see her lover,
Sandrino's company consoled her; for we have to confess a thing which
will seem strange north of the Alps; in spite of her errors she had
remained true to her vow; she had promised the Madonna, as the reader
may perhaps remember, never to see Fabrizio; these had been her exact
words; consequently she received him only at night, and there was never
any light in the room.

But every evening he was received by his mistress; and, what is worthy
of admiration, in the midst of a court devoured by curiosity and envy,
Fabrizio's precautions had been so ably calculated that this _amicizia_,
as it is called in Lombardy, had never even been suspected. Their love
was too intense for quarrels not to occur; Clelia was extremely given to
jealousy, but almost always their quarrels sprang from another cause.
Fabrizio had made use of some public ceremony in order to be in the same
place as the Marchesa and to look at her; she then seized a pretext to
escape quickly, and for a long time afterwards banished her lover.

Amazement was felt at the court of Parma that no intrigue should be
known of a woman so remarkable both for her beauty and for the loftiness
of her mind; she gave rise to passions which inspired many foolish
actions, and often Fabrizio too was jealous.

The good Archbishop Landriani had long been dead; the piety, the
exemplary morals, the eloquence of Fabrizio had made him be forgotten;
his own elder brother was dead and all the wealth of his family had come
to him. From this time onwards he distributed annually among the vicars
and curates of his diocese the hundred odd thousand francs which the
Archbishopric of Parma brought him in.

It would be difficult to imagine a life more honoured, more honourable
or more useful than Fabrizio had made for himself, when everything was
upset by this unfortunate caprice of paternal affection.

"According to the vow which I respect and which nevertheless is the bane
of my life, since you refuse to see me during the day," he said once to
Clelia, "I am obliged to live perpetually alone, with no other
distraction than my work; and besides I have not enough work. In the
course of this stern and sad way of passing the long hours of each day,
an idea has occurred to me, which is now torturing me, and against which
I have been striving in vain for six months: my son will not love me at
all; he never hears my name mentioned. Brought up amid all the pleasing
luxury of the _palazzo_ Crescenzi, he barely knows me. On the rare
occasions when I do see him, I think of his mother, whose heavenly
beauty he recalls to me, and whom I may not see, and he must find me a
serious person, which, with children, means sad."

"Well," said the Marchesa, "to what is all this speech leading? It
frightens me."

"To my having my son; I wish him to live with me; I wish to see him
every day; I wish him to grow accustomed to loving me; I wish to love
him myself at my leisure. Since a fatality without counterpart in the
world decrees that I must be deprived of that happiness which so many
other tender hearts enjoy, and forbids me to pass my life with all that
I adore, I wish at least to have beside me a creature who recalls you to
my heart, who to some extent takes your place. Men and affairs are a
burden to me in my enforced solitude; you know that ambition has always
been a vain word to me, since the moment when I had the good fortune to
be locked up by Barbone; and anything that is not felt in my heart seems
to me fatuous in the melancholy which in your absence overwhelms me."




_SANDRINO_


One can imagine the keen anguish with which her lover's grief filled the
heart of poor Clelia; her sorrow was all the more intense, as she felt
that Fabrizio had some justification. She went the length of wondering
whether she ought not to try to obtain a release from her vow. Then she
would receive Fabrizio during the day like any other person in society,
and her reputation for sagacity was too well established for any scandal
to arise. She told herself that by spending enough money she could
procure a dispensation from her vow; but she felt also that this purely
worldly arrangement would not set her conscience at rest, and that an
angry heaven might perhaps punish her for this fresh crime.

On the other hand, if she consented to yield to so natural a desire on
the part of Fabrizio, if she sought not to hurt that tender heart which
she knew so well, and whose tranquillity her singular vow so strangely
jeopardised, what chance was there of abducting the only son of one of
the greatest nobles in Italy without the fraud's being discovered? The
Marchese Crescenzi would spend enormous sums, would himself conduct the
investigations, and sooner or later the facts of the abduction would
become known. There was only one way of meeting this danger, the child
must be sent abroad, to Edinburgh, for instance, or to Paris; but this
was a course to which the mother's affection could never consent. The
other plan proposed by Fabrizio, which was indeed the more reasonable of
the two, had something sinister about it, and was almost more alarming
still in the eyes of this despairing mother; she must, said Fabrizio,
feign an illness for the child; he would grow steadily worse, until
finally he died in the Marchese Crescenzi's absence.

A repugnance which, in Clelia, amounted to terror, caused a rupture that
could not last.

Clelia insisted that they must not tempt God; that this beloved son was
the fruit of a crime, and that if they provoked the divine anger
further, God would not fail to call him back to Himself. Fabrizio spoke
again of his strange destiny: "The station to which chance has called
me," he said to Clelia, "and my love oblige me to dwell in an eternal
solitude, I cannot, like the majority of my brethren, taste the
pleasures of an intimate society, since you will receive me only in the
darkness, which reduces to a few moments, so to speak, the part of my
life which I may spend with you."

Tears flowed in abundance. Clelia fell ill; but she loved Fabrizio too
well to maintain her opposition to the terrible sacrifice that he
demanded of her. Apparently, Sandrino fell ill; the Marchese sent in
haste for the most celebrated doctors, and Clelia at once encountered a
terrible difficulty which she had not foreseen: she must prevent this
adored child from taking any of the remedies ordered by the doctors; it
was no small matter.

The child, kept in bed longer than was good for his health, became
really ill. How was one to explain to the doctors the cause of his
malady? Torn asunder by two conflicting interests both so dear to her,
Clelia was within an ace of losing her reason. Must she consent to an
apparent recovery, and so sacrifice all the results of that long and
painful make-believe? Fabrizio, for his part, could neither forgive
himself the violence he was doing to the heart of his mistress nor
abandon his project. He had found a way of being admitted every night to
the sick child's room, which had led to another complication. The
Marchesa came to attend to her son, and sometimes Fabrizio was obliged
to see her by candle-light, which seemed to the poor sick heart of
Clelia a horrible sin and one that foreboded the death of Sandrino. In
vain had the most famous casuists, consulted as to the necessity of
adherence to a vow in a case where its performance would obviously do
harm, replied that the vow could not be regarded as broken in a criminal
fashion, so long as the person bound by a promise to God failed to keep
that promise not for a vain pleasure of the senses but so as not to
cause an obvious evil. The Marchesa was none the less in despair, and
Fabrizio could see the time coming when his strange idea was going to
bring about the death of Clelia and that of his son.

He had recourse to his intimate friend, Conte Mosca, who, for all the
old Minister that he was, was moved by this tale of love of which to a
great extent he had been ignorant.

"I can procure for you the Marchese's absence for five or six days at
least: when do you require it?"

A little later, Fabrizio came to inform the Conte that everything was in
readiness now for them to take advantage of the Marchese's absence.

Two days after this, as the Marchese was riding home from one of his
estates in the neighbourhood of Mantua, a party of brigands, evidently
hired to execute some personal vengeance, carried him off, without
maltreating him in any way, and placed him in a boat which took three
days to travel down the Po, making the same journey that Fabrizio had
made long ago, after the famous affair with Giletti. On the fourth day,
the brigands marooned the Marchese on a desert island in the Po, taking
care first to rob him completely, and to leave him no money or other
object that had the slightest value. It was two whole days before the
Marchese managed to reach his _palazzo_ in Parma; he found it draped in
black and all his household in mourning.

This abduction, very skilfully carried out, had a deplorable
consequence: Sandrino, secretly installed in a large and fine house
where the Marchesa came to see him almost every day, died after a few
months. Clelia imagined herself to have been visited with a just
punishment, for having been unfaithful to her vow to the Madonna: she
had seen Fabrizio so often by candle-light, and indeed twice in broad
daylight and with such rapturous affection, during Sandrino's illness.
She survived by a few months only this beloved son, but had the joy of
dying in the arms of her lover.

Fabrizio was too much in love and too religious to have recourse to
suicide; he hoped to meet Clelia again in a better world, but he had too
much intelligence not to feel that he had first to atone for many
faults.

A few days after Clelia's death, he signed several settlements by which
he assured a pension of one thousand francs to each of his servants, and
reserved a similar pension for himself; he gave landed property, of an
annual value of 100,000 lire or thereabouts, to Contessa Mosca; a
similar estate to the Marchesa del Dongo, his mother, and such residue
as there might be of the paternal fortune to one of his sisters who was
poorly married. On the following day, having forwarded to the proper
authorities his resignation of his Archbishopric and of all the posts
which the favour of Ernesto V and the Prime Minister's friendship had
successively heaped upon him, he retired to the _Charterhouse of Parma_,
situated in the woods adjoining the Po, two leagues from Sacca.




_GINA DEL DONGO_


Contessa Mosca had strongly approved, at the time, her husband's return
to office, but she herself would never on any account consent to cross
the frontier of the States of Ernesto V. She held her court at Vignano,
a quarter of a league from Casalmaggiore, on the left bank of the Po,
and consequently in the Austrian States. In this magnificent palace of
Vignano, which the Conte had built for her, she entertained every
Thursday all the high society of Parma, and every day her own many
friends. Fabrizio had never missed a day in going to Vignano. The
Contessa, in a word, combined all the outward appearances of happiness,
but she lived for a very short time only after Fabrizio, whom she
adored, and who spent but one year in his Charterhouse.

The prisons of Parma were empty, the Conte immensely rich, Ernesto V
adored by his subjects, who compared his rule to that of the Grand Dukes
of Tuscany.




TO THE HAPPY FEW




APPENDIX


This translation of _La Chartreuse de Parme_ has been made from the
reprint in two volumes of the first edition (Paris, Les éditions G.
Grès et Cie. MCMXXII), with reference also to the stereotyped edition
published by MM. Calmann Lévy and to the reprint issued by M.
Flammarion in his series, _Les meilleurs auteurs classiques_ (1921). I
am also indebted to the extremely literal version by Signora Maria Ortiz
(Biblioteca Sansoniana Straniera--_La Certosa di Parma_--G. C. Sansoni,
Firenze, 1922), which has thrown a ray of light on several dark
passages.

The _Chartreuse_ was written in (and not a distance of three hundred
leagues from) Paris, and in the short interval between November 4, 1838,
and December 26 of that year. So much the author reveals in a note,
which I do not translate: "The Char, made 4 novembre 1838--26 décembre
id. The 3 septembre 1838, I had the idea of the Char. I begined it after
a tour in Britanny, I suppose, or to the Havre. I begined the 4 nov.
till the 26 décembre. The 26 dec. I send the 6 énormes cahiers to Kol.
for les faire voir to the bookseller." His object in pretending to have
written the book in 1830 may have been to establish a prescriptive
immunity from any charge of traducing the government of Louis-Philippe;
if so, it is by a characteristic slip that he speaks of having written
it _towards the end of_ 1830.

Kol., otherwise Romain Colomb, Beyle's executor, relates in the _Notice
Biographique_ prefixed to _Armance_ that in January, 1839, while the
_Chartreuse_ was going through the press, a _cahier_ of sixty pages of the
manuscript was mislaid. Unable to find it among the mass of papers that
littered his room, Beyle rewrote the sixty pages, and the new version
was already in type when he told Colomb of his loss. Colomb at once
searched for and found the missing _cahier_, whereupon Beyle, "stupefied
by the ease of my discovery, dreading, in a sense, the sight of this
manuscript, would not even glance over it, much less compare it with the
pages that had taken its place."

It was published in March, 1839. In the same year, Beyle began to
correct, reduce and amplify the whole work, before he was moved by
Balzac's criticism to condense the first fifty-four pages into four or
five. Three copies thus annotated are in existence, one of which has
been reproduced in facsimile in an extremely limited edition: (Paris,
Edouard Champion, 3 vols. 1921--100 copies only.) In 1904 M. Casimir
Stryienski reprinted in the first volume of _Les Soirées du Stendhal
Club_ (Mercure de France) the two fragments of which a translation
follows. The first is intended for inclusion in Chapter V, in the brief
account of Fabrizio's convalescence at Amiens. Colonel Le Baron, the
wounded officer whom he met and left at the White Horse Inn at the end
of Chapter IV, is now re-introduced as returning to his family at
Amiens, and a story is told them which supersedes the account of General
Pietranera's death in Chapter II. The second fragment is a small
expansion of the already over-long Chapter VI.

Visitors to Parma will look in vain for most of the architectural
monuments which met the gaze of Fabrizio. The Torre Farnese has never
existed, though it may have been suggested, as to mass, by the huge
fragment of the Palazzo Farnese at Piacenza, as well as by the Castel
Sant'Angelo in Rome, and as to origin, by the story of Parisina and Ugo
d'Este, told in English by Gibbon and Byron. In appearance, it would
have been not unlike the tower, also damaged by an earthquake, which
stands in the background of Mantegna's fresco of the _Martyrdom of Saint
James_, in the Church of the Eremitani at Padua. The problem of how a
road running out of Parma to the south could lead directly to Sacca and
the Po is as insoluble as that of the guarded permission given to
Fabrizio in 1815 to read the novels of Walter Scott.

The Steccata of course exists, and the Church of San Giovanni, but the
latter is singularly bare of monumental tombs. There is even a
Charterhouse, at San Lazzaro Parmense, though it has escaped the
attention of Baedeker. There were Farnese, but the last of them died, of
the pleasures of the table, in 1731; a portrait of him in his corpulence
may be seen by the curious in the Reale Galleria in the Piletta--another
large Farnese Palace also unfinished. There is indeed a Cathedral, but
there is no Archbishop, and the Bishop's Palace is an untidy piece of
patched-up antiquity.

It is probable that Beyle was led to place the scene of his story at
Parma, which, in _Rome, Naples et Florence_, he had dismissed, not
unjustly, as _ville d'ailleurs assez plate_, precisely because there was
not, in 1838, any reigning _dynasty_ in that State. The Duchy of Parma was
held and admirably governed by Marie-Louise, the wife and widow of
Napoleon, from 1815 until after Beyle's death in 1843, when she was
still in the prime of life, being by some years his junior. Suddenly, in
1847, she died. The Bourbon dynasty, which had been transplanted to the
brief Kingdom of Etruria, and in 1814 had been placated with the
Republic of Lucca as a temporary Duchy (which Charles II had finally
sold, a few months earlier, to its legal heir, the Grand Duke of
Tuscany), returned, and rapidly converted Stendhal's fiction into
historical fact. Charles II was almost at once obliged to abdicate. His
son, Charles III, proceeded to emulate the career of Ranuccio-Ernesto IV
until, in 1854, he met a similar fate. His widow, a daughter of the Duc
de Berri, then acted as Regent for her son Robert I, until in 1859 the
Risorgimento swept them for ever from their Duchy. Duke Robert died in
1907, the father of twenty children, one of whom, Prince Sixte de
Bourbon-Parme, shewed in the late war some reflexion of the spirit of
Fabrizio del Dongo, as the curious English reader may find in my
translation of his _L'Autriche et la paix séparée_ (_Austria's Peace
Offer_, London, Constable and Co., Ltd., 1921). Another is the Empress
Zita, while a third has re-established the Bourbon dynasty in Northern
Europe by becoming the father of the Hereditary Grand Duke of
Luxembourg.

Francesco Hayez, the Milanese painter immortalised by his decoration of
the _palazzo_ Crescenzi and by his portrait of Fabrizio del Dongo, died
at a great age in 1882, having outlived the date appointed by Beyle for
his own immortality.


C. K. S. M.




FRAGMENT I

_BIRAGUE'S NARRATIVE_


Fabrizio, well received in this house which seemed to him very pleasant,
sought never to speak of the battle, since memories of that sort
depressed the Colonel; but as he thought without ceasing of the details
of which he had been a witness, he would sometimes return to the topic;
then the Colonel placed a finger on his lips with a smile, and spoke of
something else. On the other hand, Fabrizio was careful never to say
anything that might let it be guessed by what succession of chances he
had been brought into the neighbourhood of Waterloo. The ladies
especially were constantly placing him under the necessity of finding
polite answers which should tell them nothing of what they desired to
know. At every moment, by phrases which betrayed the keenest interest,
they placed him under the necessity of telling them something; but he
got well out of the trap and the ladies knew absolutely nothing, except
that he was called Vasi, and even then they had good reason to believe
that this name was assumed.

Colonel Le Baron, his wife and the ladies of their acquaintance were
therefore devoured by curiosity, this young man's adventures must indeed
be extraordinary.

"All that I can say positively," repeated the Colonel, "is that he is
endowed with the truest courage, the most simple, the most innocent, so
to speak. When I was so stupid as to set him on picket at the head of
the bridge of La Sainte, and he fought there, one against ten, I would
wager that he was drawing a sabre for the first time."

"And his passport which you went to verify at the municipality is really
made out: Vasi, dealer in barometers, travelling with his wares?" . . .

The ladies, that day, plied him with a thousand artful questions about
the barometers, he extricated himself with a laugh and very neatly; they
consulted him as to the state of the barometer in the house, which they
put in his hands, he remembered the tone that, in similar circumstances,
Conte Pietranera would have adopted, and, justified by the fun that was
being made of him, replied in a tone of the most lively gallantry. His
appearance was so modest and his tone was in so strange a contrast to
his ordinary manner that it was by no means ill received, the ladies
went into fits of laughter. That same evening the Colonel said to them:

"Chance has just offered me a way of finding out our young man's
position; you know that resurrected-looking creature who has come to him
from Italy, the man is a lawyer and is called Birague, but besides that
he is dying of fright; he speaks bad French, but I hope that his
gibberish may not offend you, for he is so driven by fear that each of
his sentences says something. This morning, this lawyer who, for some
days, has always followed me with his eye at the _café_, has at last
found an excuse for, as he says, presenting his respects to me; I at
once thought that perhaps you would deign not to be put off by his
speech, which for that matter greatly resembles your young favourite's;
and so I have invited this strange creature to take tea with us this
evening, and, if you give me leave, I shall now send Beloir to fetch him
from the _café_."

Ten minutes later, Trooper Beloir announced at the door of the
drawing-room: "M. Birague, _avocat_."

The conversation lasted for fully two hours, the ladies heaped every
attention on the poor lawyer, who did everything in his power to please
them, but it was in vain that they sought to extract from him anything
that bore upon Fabrizio; they had lost patience with his discretion,
which was not lacking in polite forms of speech, when the Colonel
exclaimed:

"I must say, my dear _avocat_, that you are a very brave man, how could
you dare enter France in the present state of things? They are kind
enough to give me in the army a certain reputation for bravery, but I
must confess to you that in your place, and (I tell you frankly)
speaking a French so different from that spoken by the natives of the
country, I should never have ventured to penetrate into so disturbed a
country. Now I see that you have made a conquest of these ladies, you
have an air of sincerity which pleases me and I should like to give you
my protection. Madame's uncle is Mayor of Amiens; I ought to tell you
that, since you are not recommended by an Ambassador, your fate lies in
his hands. M. le Maire Leborgne has a savage nature, he will never
believe that you have come to Amiens for your health," and so forth.

The ladies were quick in taking the hint given them by the Colonel; they
took the utmost pains to give the Milanese lawyer a strong impression of
the cruel nature of the worthy M. Leborgne, Mayor of Amiens. Birague
turned paler than his shirt, than the white cravat and enormous hat in
which he had attired himself that evening to be presented to ladies; but
he found himself so well treated that finally about eleven o'clock he
ventured to ask the Colonel if he had any horses. The Colonel asked him
whether, at that time of night, he wished to go for a ride, saying that
he had only two horses, which indeed were a pair of screws, but that he
placed them willingly at his service.

"I should not think of going out by the gate at this hour, and running
the risk of seeing myself questioned by the police, but I find so
estimable a humanity in your heart and in the hearts of these good
ladies that I venture to make a request of you; allow me to spend the
night in your horses' hayloft: as it is an idea that has just occurred
to me, the terrible Mayor Leborgne would never hear of it and I should
spend one night at least in peace and quiet. I am lodging with His
Excellency, M. Vasi, but he has committed the imprudence, as a matter of
fact long before my arrival, of refusing to see any more of the Duprez
family, who are greatly annoyed and who, I have no doubt, would be glad
to have their revenge. I have not attempted to hide my feelings in the
matter from M. Vasi, I have taken the liberty of saying that this step
was rash on his part; but your experience, Monsieur le Colonel, must
have taught you what the rashness of youth is. M. Vasi's answer was that
he would have been stifled by boredom if he had continued to spend his
evenings with the Duprez family.

"In the present state of things, the Duprez, who, no doubt, desire to be
avenged, will not dare to attack a man like M. Vasi, but they will take
it out of a poor devil like myself," and so on.

The Colonel ended by giving M. Birague a letter of recommendation
addressed to the Mayor of Amiens, in which he declared that he would
answer with his life for M. Birague, a respectable lawyer of Milan, whom
he had known when he was stationed in that city.

"Carry this letter on you while you are on your way to the Grand
Monarque, and burn all the written or printed documents which you may
have in your room; spend a quiet night, but you see that I am answering
for you, come to-morrow and tell me your whole history so that, if the
Mayor questions me closely, I can make a show of having known you for a
long time; say nothing to M. Vasi of what I am doing for you."

One may imagine whether this evening was amusing for the ladies, but
they were afraid of having alarmed M. Birague unduly.

"Really, the man's appearance was incredible," said Mme. Le Baron.

"But," put in one of her friends, "it becomes more and more likely that
our young _protégé_ Vasi is a man of consequence in his own country."

The Colonel had to employ stratagems for a week; M. Birague spoke as
freely as could be desired of his own affairs, but was impenetrable on
everything that related to Fabrizio. Mme. Le Baron and her friends
invited him to luncheon one day when the Colonel was absent and played
so cruelly upon M. Birague's alarm that he ended by saying to them with
tears:

"Oh, well, I see that you are good ladies, I see that you would not wish
to ruin me, you have immense influence with the Mayor of Amiens, give me
your word that you will obtain for me a passport for England signed by
the Mayor and I shall at least be able to fly to London in case of
danger; my father ordered me to travel by London so as to be able to
return to Milan without fear of Barone Binder, the Chief of Police
there; he is a man of the same sort as your Mayor, it is not easy to get
out of his prisons, once one has got into them."

"Very well," exclaimed Mme. Le Baron, "if you are frank with us, I give
you my word that to-morrow you shall have your passport for London; we
wish no harm to M. Vasi, far from it, this lady," she pointed to the
youngest of her friends, "has a tender regard for him."

Birague was slightly astonished by the shout of laughter which greeted
this admission; he had some difficulty in replying with any clarity to
the hundred questions by which he was at once overwhelmed.

The ladies knew already that Vasi was an assumed name, that Fabrizio del
Dongo was the second son of the Marchese del Dongo, Second Grand
Majordomo Major of the Lombardo-Venetian Kingdom, one of the greatest
noblemen in that country, to whom his, Birague's father, was steward. On
the news of Napoleon's landing from the Gulf of Granti, in June,
regardless of the alarm of his aunt and mother, Fabrizio had fled from
his father's magnificent castle, situated at Grianta, on the Lake of
Como, six leagues from the Swiss frontier.

Birague was at this stage in his narrative when the Colonel returned; he
was told all that Birague had already said; as his regiment had been
stationed for some time at Lodi, a few leagues from Milan, he knew all
the principal personages of the court of Prince Eugène.

"What," he cried, "that Contessa Gina Pietranera, of whom you are
speaking to these ladies as the aunt of Fabrizio, is she that famous
Contessa Pietranera, the most beautiful woman in Milan in the days of
the Viceroy, whose word was law at his court?"

"The very same, Colonel."

"And what age might she be now?"

"Twenty-seven or twenty-eight; she is more beautiful than ever, but she
is completely ruined, her husband was murdered in what they called a
duel, and the Contessa was furious at not being able to avenge his
death: the General was out shooting in the mountains of Bergamo with
some officers of the Ultra Party; he, as you know, although belonging to
a family of the old nobility, had always served with the troops of the
Cisalpine Republic; there was a luncheon in the course of this shooting
party, one of the Ultra officers took the liberty of belittling the
courage of the Cisalpine troops; the General struck him a blow, the
luncheon was interrupted; as they had no weapons but guns, they fought
with those, the poor General fell stone dead, with two bullets in his
body; but the details of this duel made such a stir in Milan that all
the officers who had been present were obliged to go and travel in
Switzerland. The local surgeon who examined the General's body certified
that the bullet which caused his death had entered from the back. This
statement by the surgeon came to the Signor Barone Binder, Director
General of the Police, Contessa Pietranera knew of it at once, for she
can do anything she likes at Milan; all the important people of the
place are her friends and are at her service. Twenty-four hours later,
there arrived a second statement by the country surgeon from the Bergamo
district; it contradicted the first and stated that the bullet which
caused the death had entered by the stomach and that the second bullet
which had passed through the thigh had also entered from in front; but
they said that this surgeon had received a large sum of money. On the
very night after the arrival of this second statement, the officers who
had been present at the duel left for Switzerland; the funeral was held
next day; they were afraid of being mobbed by the crowd, and the
strangest thing of all was that the surgeon also left for Switzerland,
where he still is. He has never dared to shew his face again his own
neighbourhood; the Bergamasks have sworn to exterminate him; and they
don't take things lightly in that part of the world. It was after that
that there was the famous quarrel between Signora Pietranera and her
friend Limercati."

"What, is that the famous Limercati who, in 1811, had such fine English
horses, seven of them?"

"No doubt, Lodovico Limercati; he had forty horses in his stables, he
has an income of over two hundred thousand lire; my cousin Ercole is his
factor; but there's a bad relation for you, he has never thought of
employing me as lawyer to the rich Limercati estate."

"It is terrible, frightful," cried Mme. Le Baron, "but you spoke of a
letter which, I must tell you, excites my curiosity greatly."




FRAGMENT II

_CONTE ZORAFI, THE PRINCE'S
"PRESS"_


Conte Zurla, the Minister of the Interior, brought to Signora
Sanseverina's Conte Zorafi, who was the Press of Parma.

At the gatherings at which he appeared, that silence, which is often
painful at official gatherings, could not find a place, and, in a
country which has a terrible police and a State Prison the tower of
which, one hundred and eighty feet high, may be seen at the end of every
street, all gatherings of more than two persons may be considered
official.

One thing that may be said in praise of Zorafi is that he was no more of
a spy than any other gentleman at court; in fact, at heart he was
ridiculous, but not at all wicked. No other gentleman at court could,
without risk to his friends, have seen the Sovereign daily. Zorafi
fancied himself a Minister, and was afraid of Conte Mosca. At the same
time he was obliged, ten times in a month perhaps, to speak evil of him.
When the Conte had scored a marked success in any affair, he was certain
to be blamed, the day after, by the Prince's Press.

Conte Zorafi was a man of spirit who could not bear to have fifty
napoleons in his desk. As soon as he saw that sum, or indeed a much less
considerable sum in his possession, he would think of spending it. For
instance, on the day on which we shall do him the honour of presenting
him to the reader, he will have just bought for forty-five napoleons a
magnificent English lustre. The purchase made, not knowing where to
place it and already caring less about it, he has asked Prinote, the
famous jeweller, to keep it in his shop.

This Conte had spent his youth in composing sonnets in an emphatic style
over which the people of Lombardy had gone so mad as to compare them to
the sonnets of Monti. Now, in some connexion or other, someone had
ventured to say in public that this style, which was so emphatic, was
emphatic with the simple character of Napoleon; it had required only
this comment to make Zorafi's sonnets fall into disrepute.

And, a surprising thing, Zorafi, whose character was precisely that of a
conceited child, had not shewn the slightest annoyance. Besides what was
more serious than the decline of his sonnets, he had an income of barely
nine or ten thousand lire and spent twenty-five.

In spite of these 25,000 lire he frequently had debts, and these debts
were paid every year by an unseen hand.

What then was Zorafi? He was the Prince's _Press_.

He was a Conte, as everyone is in Italy, but besides that he had enjoyed
the greatest literary renown for ten years. Zorafi was not at all
wicked, or at least had only the ill temper of a child. He had the
purest Sienese accent. The sentences flowed from his lips with a perfect
facility, he spoke of everything with charm, in a word nothing would
have been lacking if from time to time he could have found some idea to
place in his sentences.

A little time since, the Prince had given Zorafi a carriage, but this
was on condition of his paying at least twenty-five visits daily.

"It does not suit me at present to have a newspaper printed," the Prince
had said to him in making him a present of the carriage, with horses
attached, and a coachman and groom to boot. "A newspaper conducted by a
man of your sort would have a crowd of subscribers; very well, have a
crowd of friends and tell them, with the spirit for which you are
distinguished, the articles that you would print, if you had the
privilege of the newspaper. One day, you shall have this newspaper, and
it will bring you in an income of 50,000 lire. For I shall give you
plenty of liberty, you will speak of the measures adopted by my
Government."

Once they had observed this mania in Zorafi, people listened to him in
society, as in another place they read the _Journal Officiel_.




END OF VOLUME II



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