Chapter 34 The Colosseum.

Chapter 34 The Colosseum.

 

Franz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the

Colosseum they passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no

preliminary impression interfered to mitigate the colossal

proportions of the gigantic building they came to admire.

The road selected was a continuation of the Via Sistina;

then by cutting off the right angle of the street in which

stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the Via Urbana

and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find

themselves directly opposite the Colosseum. This itinerary

possessed another great advantage, -- that of leaving Franz

at full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject

of Signor Pastrini's story, in which his mysterious host of

Monte Cristo was so strangely mixed up. Seated with folded

arms in a corner of the carriage, he continued to ponder

over the singular history he had so lately listened to, and

to ask himself an interminable number of questions touching

its various circumstances without, however, arriving at a

satisfactory reply to any of them. One fact more than the

rest brought his friend "Sinbad the Sailor" back to his

recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy

that seemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors;

and Pastrini's account of Vampa's having found refuge on

board the vessels of smugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz

of the two Corsican bandits he had found supping so amicably

with the crew of the little yacht, which had even deviated

from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the sole

purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host

of Monte Cristo and again repeated by the landlord of the

Hotel de Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island

friend was playing his philanthropic part on the shores of

Piombino, Civita-Vecchio, Ostia, and Gaeta, as on those of

Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and further, Franz bethought

him of having heard his singular entertainer speak both of

Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle of

acquaintances extended.

 

But however the mind of the young man might he absorbed in

these reflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight

of the dark frowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum,

through the various openings of which the pale moonlight

played and flickered like the unearthly gleam from the eyes

of the wandering dead. The carriage stopped near the Meta

Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men, eagerly

alighting, found themselves opposite a cicerone, who

appeared to have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected

was his appearance.

 

The usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they

had paid two conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to

avoid this abundant supply of guides; besides the ordinary

cicerone, who seizes upon you directly you set foot in your

hotel, and never quits you while you remain in the city,

there is also a special cicerone belonging to each monument

-- nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may,

therefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides

at the Colosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial

thus eulogizes: "Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous

miracles of her pyramids, and the wonders of Babylon be

talked of no more among us; all must bow to the superiority

of the gigantic labor of the Caesars, and the many voices of

Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this

incomparable monument."

 

As for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from

their ciceronian tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so

much the more difficult to break their bondage, as the

guides alone are permitted to visit these monuments with

torches in their hands. Thus, then, the young men made no

attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly

surrendered themselves into the care and custody of their

conductors. Albert had already made seven or eight similar

excursions to the Colosseum, while his less favored

companion trod for the first time in his life the classic

ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian; and, to

his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib

loquacity of the guides, was duly and deeply touched with

awe and enthusiastic admiration of all he saw; and certainly

no adequate notion of these stupendous ruins can be formed

save by such as have visited them, and more especially by

moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the

building appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious

beams of a southern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently

clear and vivid to light the horizon with a glow equal to

the soft twilight of an eastern clime. Scarcely, therefore,

had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps beneath the

interior porticoes of the ruin, than, abandoning Albert to

the guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive

right of carrying their victims through the routine

regularly laid down, and as regularly followed by them, but

dragged the unconscious visitor to the various objects with

a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal, beginning, as a

matter of course, with the Lions' Den, and finishing with

Caesar's "Podium,"), to escape a jargon and mechanical

survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded, Franz

ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to

follow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of

a column, and immediately opposite a large aperture, which

permitted him to enjoy a full and undisturbed view of the

gigantic dimensions of the majestic ruin.

 

Franz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly

hidden by the shadow of the vast column at whose base he had

found a resting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the

motions of Albert and his guides, who, holding torches in

their hands, had emerged from a vomitarium at the opposite

extremity of the Colosseum, and then again disappeared down

the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the Vestal

virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless

shades following the flickering glare of so many

ignes-fatui. All at once his ear caught a sound resembling

that of a stone rolling down the staircase opposite the one

by which he had himself ascended. There was nothing

remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite

giving way and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him

that the substance that fell gave way beneath the pressure

of a foot, and also that some one, who endeavored as much as

possible to prevent his footsteps from being heard, was

approaching the spot where he sat. Conjecture soon became

certainty, for the figure of a man was distinctly visible to

Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase opposite, upon

which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of

silvery brightness.

 

The stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person

who, like Franz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his

own thoughts to the frivolous gabble of the guides. And his

appearance had nothing extraordinary in it; but the

hesitation with which he proceeded, stopping and listening

with anxious attention at every step he took, convinced

Franz that he expected the arrival of some person. By a sort

of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible

behind his pillar. About ten feet from the spot where he and

the stranger were, the roof had given way, leaving a large

round opening, through which might be seen the blue vault of

heaven, thickly studded with stars. Around this opening,

which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free entrance to

the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile,

grew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green

branches stood out in bold relief against the clear azure of

the firmament, while large masses of thick, strong fibrous

shoots forced their way through the chasm, and hung floating

to and fro, like so many waving strings. The person whose

mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of Franz

stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible

to distinguish his features, although his dress was easily

made out. He wore a large brown mantle, one fold of which,

thrown over his left shoulder, served likewise to mask the

lower part of his countenance, while the upper part was

completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat. The lower part

of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright rays

of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling,

shed their refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made

boots of polished leather, over which descended fashionably

cut trousers of black cloth.

 

From the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only

come to one conclusion, -- that the person whom he was thus

watching certainly belonged to no inferior station of life.

Some few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show

manifest signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard

outside the aperture in the roof, and almost immediately a

dark shadow seemed to obstruct the flood of light that had

entered it, and the figure of a man was clearly seen gazing

with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath him; then,

as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a

floating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by

their help to within three or four feet of the ground, and

then leaped lightly on his feet. The man who had performed

this daring act with so much indifference wore the

Transtevere costume. "I beg your excellency's pardon for

keeping you waiting," said the man, in the Roman dialect,

"but I don't think I'm many minutes after my time, ten

o'clock his just struck on the Lateran."

 

"Say not a word about being late," replied the stranger in

purest Tuscan; "'tis I who am too soon. But even if you had

caused me to wait a little while, I should have felt quite

sure that the delay was not occasioned by any fault of

yours."

 

"Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking," said

the man; "I came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo,

and I had an immense deal of trouble before I could get a

chance to speak to Beppo."

 

"And who is Beppo?"

 

"Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much

a year to let me know what is going on within his holiness's

castle."

 

"Indeed! You are a provident person, I see."

 

"Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of

these days I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be

very glad to have some little nibbling mouse to gnaw the

meshes of my net, and so help me out of prison."

 

"Briefly, what did you glean?"

 

"That two executions of considerable interest will take

place the day after to-morrow at two o'clock, as is

customary at Rome at the commencement of all great

festivals. One of the culprits will be mazzolato;* he is an

atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who brought him

up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer

is sentenced to be decapitato;** and he, your excellency, is

poor Peppino."

 

* Knocked on the head.

** Beheaded.

 

"The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical

government, but also the neighboring states, with such

extreme fear, that they are glad of all opportunity of

making an example."

 

"But Peppino did not even belong to my band: he was merely a

poor shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us

with provisions."

 

"Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and

purposes. But mark the distinction with which he is treated;

instead of being knocked on the head as you would be if once

they caught hold of you, he is simply sentenced to be

guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the day

are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every

spectator."

 

"Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing

to surprise them with."

 

"My good friend," said the man in the cloak, "excuse me for

saying that you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit

some wild or extravagant act."

 

"Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that

is, to stop at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty,

who has got into this scrape solely from having served me. I

should hate and despise myself as a coward did I desert the

brave fellow in his present extremity."

 

"And what do you mean to do?"

 

"To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who,

at a signal from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is

brought for execution, and, by the assistance of their

stilettos, drive back the guard, and carry off the

prisoner."

 

"That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces

me that my scheme is far better than yours."

 

"And what is your excellency's project?"

 

"Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres,

that the person receiving them shall obtain a respite till

next year for Peppino; and during that year, another

skilfully placed 1,000 piastres will afford him the means of

escaping from his prison."

 

"And do you feel sure of succeeding?"

 

"Pardieu!" exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly

expressing himself in French.

 

"What did your excellency say?" inquired the other.

 

"I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed

by the means of gold than you and all your troop could

effect with stilettos, pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses

included. Leave me, then, to act, and have no fears for the

result."

 

"At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in

readiness, in case your excellency should fail."

 

"None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is

any satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining

the reprieve I seek."

 

"Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after

tomorrow, and that you have but one day to work in."

 

"And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four

hours, each hour into sixty minutes, and every minute

sub-divided into sixty seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very

many things can be done."

 

"And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded

or not."

 

"Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three

lower windows at the Cafe Rospoli; should I have obtained

the requisite pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows

will be hung with yellow damasks, and the centre with white,

having a large cross in red marked on it."

 

"And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the

officer directing the execution?"

 

"Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I

will give it to him. His dress will procure him the means of

approaching the scaffold itself, and he will deliver the

official order to the officer, who, in his turn, will hand

it to the executioner; in the meantime, it will be as well

to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if it

be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses,

because in either case a very useless expense will have been

incurred."

 

"Your excellency," said the man, "you are fully persuaded of

my entire devotion to you, are you not?"

 

"Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,"

replied the cavalier in the cloak.

 

"Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino,

and henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but

the most absolute obedience from myself and those under me

that one human being can render to another."

 

"Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend,

for I may remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not

very distant period, when I, in my turn, may require your

aid and influence."

 

"Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will

find me what I have found you in this my heavy trouble; and

if from the other end of the world you but write me word to

do such or such a thing, you may regard it as done, for done

it shall be, on the word and faith of" --

 

"Hush!" interrupted the stranger; "I hear a noise."

 

"'Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by

torchlight."

 

"'Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides

are nothing but spies, and might possibly recognize you;

and, however I may be honored by your friendship, my worthy

friend, if once the extent of our intimacy were known, I am

sadly afraid both my reputation and credit would suffer

thereby."

 

"Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?"

 

"The middle window at the Cafe Rospoli will be hung with

white damask, bearing a red cross."

 

"And if you fail?"

 

"Then all three windows will have yellow draperies."

 

"And then?"

 

"And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you

please, and I further promise you to be there as a spectator

of your prowess."

 

"We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your

excellency; depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you."

 

Saying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the

staircase, while his companion, muffling his features more

closely than before in the folds of his mantle, passed

almost close to Franz, and descended to the arena by an

outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard himself

called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with

the sound of his friend's name. Franz, however, did not obey

the summons till he had satisfied himself that the two men

whose conversation he had overheard were at a sufficient

distance to prevent his encountering them in his descent. In

ten minutes after the strangers had departed, Franz was on

the road to the Piazza de Spagni, listening with studied

indifference to the learned dissertation delivered by

Albert, after the manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching

the iron-pointed nets used to prevent the ferocious beasts

from springing on the spectators. Franz let him proceed

without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear what was

said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all

that had occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious

meeting in the Colosseum he had so unintentionally

witnessed, was an entire stranger to him, but not so the

other; and though Franz had been unable to distinguish his

features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle or

obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too

powerful an impression on him the first time he had heard

them for him ever again to forget them, hear them when or

where he might. It was more especially when this man was

speaking in a manner half jesting, half bitter, that Franz's

ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet

well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of

Monte Cristo, and which he heard for the second time amid

the darkness and ruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the

more he thought, the more entire was his conviction, that

the person who wore the mantle was no other than his former

host and entertainer, "Sinbad the Sailor."

 

Under any other circumstances, Franz would have found it

impossible to resist his extreme curiosity to know more of

so singular a personage, and with that intent have sought to

renew their short acquaintance; but in the present instance,

the confidential nature of the conversation he had overheard

made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at such

a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen,

therefore, he permitted his former host to retire without

attempting a recognition, but fully promising himself a rich

indemnity for his present forbearance should chance afford

him another opportunity. In vain did Franz endeavor to

forget the many perplexing thoughts which assailed him; in

vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber refused

to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish

contemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove

the identity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum

with the inhabitant of the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the

more he thought, the firmer grew his opinion on the subject.

Worn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not

awake till late. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had

employed his time in arranging for the evening's diversion;

he had sent to engage a box at the Teatro Argentino; and

Franz, having a number of letters to write, relinquished the

carriage to Albert for the whole of the day. At five o'clock

Albert returned, delighted with his day's work; he had been

occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had

received in return more invitations to balls and routs than

it would be possible for him to accept; besides this, he had

seen (as he called it) all the remarkable sights at Rome.

Yes, in a single day he had accomplished what his more

serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to effect.

Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece

to be played that night at the Teatro Argentino, and also

what performers appeared in it.

 

The opera of "Parisina" was announced for representation,

and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La

Specchia. The young men, therefore, had reason to consider

themselves fortunate in having the opportunity of hearing

one of the best works by the composer of "Lucia di

Lammermoor," supported by three of the most renowned

vocalists of Italy. Albert had never been able to endure the

Italian theatres, with their orchestras from which it is

impossible to see, and the absence of balconies, or open

boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who had had

his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the

Opera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most

dazzling and effective costumes each time he visited the

theatres; but, alas, his elegant toilet was wholly thrown

away, and one of the most worthy representatives of Parisian

fashion had to carry with him the mortifying reflection that

he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting with a single

adventure.

 

Sometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of

success; but internally he was deeply wounded, and his

self-love immensely piqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf,

the most admired and most sought after of any young person

of his day, should thus be passed over, and merely have his

labor for his pains. And the thing was so much the more

annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of a

Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction

that he had only to show himself in Italy to carry all

before him, and that upon his return he should astonish the

Parisian world with the recital of his numerous

love-affairs. Alas, poor Albert! none of those interesting

adventures fell in his way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines,

and Neapolitans were all faithful, if not to their husbands,

at least to their lovers, and thought not of changing even

for the splendid appearance of Albert de Morcerf; and all he

gained was the painful conviction that the ladies of Italy

have this advantage over those of France, that they are

faithful even in their infidelity. Yet he could not restrain

a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there might be an

exception to the general rule. Albert, besides being an

elegant, well-looking young man, was also possessed of

considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a viscount

-- a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day

it is not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a

descent, and a genealogical tree is equally estimated,

whether dated from 1399 or merely 1815; but to crown all

these advantages, Albert de Morcerf commanded an income of

50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to render him a

personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was

therefore no small mortification to him to have visited most

of the principal cities in Italy without having excited the

most trifling observation. Albert, however, hoped to

indemnify himself for all these slights and indifferences

during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the

different states and kingdoms in which this festivity is

celebrated, Rome is the spot where even the wisest and

gravest throw off the usual rigidity of their lives, and

deign to mingle in the follies of this time of liberty and

relaxation.

 

The Carnival was to commence on the morrow; therefore Albert

had not an instant to lose in setting forth the programme of

his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice. With this

design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of

the theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal

attractions by the aid of the most rich and elaborate

toilet. The box taken by Albert was in the first circle;

although each of the three tiers of boxes is deemed equally

aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled the

"nobility's boxes," and although the box engaged for the two

friends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a

dozen persons, it had cost less than would be paid at some

of the French theatres for one admitting merely four

occupants. Another motive had influenced Albert's selection

of his seat, -- who knew but that, thus advantageously

placed, he might not in truth attract the notice of some

fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would

procure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in

a princely balcony, from which he might behold the gayeties

of the Carnival? These united considerations made Albert

more lively and anxious to please than he had hitherto been.

Totally disregarding the business of the stage, he leaned

from his box and began attentively scrutinizing the beauty

of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but,

alas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even

curiosity had been excited, and it was but too apparent that

the lovely creatures, into whose good graces he was desirous

of stealing, were all so much engrossed with themselves,

their lovers, or their own thoughts, that they had not so

much as noticed him or the manipulation of his glass.

 

The truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the

Carnival, with the "holy week" that was to succeed it, so

filled every fair breast, as to prevent the least attention

being bestowed even on the business of the stage. The actors

made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought of; at

certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly

cease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their

musings, to listen to some brilliant effort of Moriani's, a

well-executed recitative by Coselli, or to join in loud

applause at the wonderful powers of La Specchia; but that

momentary excitement over, they quickly relapsed into their

former state of preoccupation or interesting conversation.

Towards the close of the first act, the door of a box which

had been hitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom

Franz had been introduced in Paris, where indeed, he had

imagined she still was. The quick eye of Albert caught the

involuntary start with which his friend beheld the new

arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily, "Do you know

the woman who has just entered that box?"

 

"Yes; what do you think of her?"

 

"Oh, she is perfectly lovely -- what a complexion! And such

magnificent hair! Is she French?"

 

"No; a Venetian."

 

"And her name is -- "

 

"Countess G---- ."

 

"Ah, I know her by name!" exclaimed Albert; "she is said to

possess as much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have

been presented to her when I met her at Madame Villefort's

ball."

 

"Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?" asked

Franz.

 

"My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her

as to venture to take me to her box?"

 

"Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and

conversing with her three or four times in my life; but you

know that even such an acquaintance as that might warrant my

doing what you ask." At that instant, the countess perceived

Franz, and graciously waved her hand to him, to which he

replied by a respectful inclination of the head. "Upon my

word," said Albert, "you seem to be on excellent terms with

the beautiful countess."

 

"You are mistaken in thinking so," returned Franz calmly;

"but you merely fall into the same error which leads so many

of our countrymen to commit the most egregious blunders, --

I mean that of judging the habits and customs of Italy and

Spain by our Parisian notions; believe me, nothing is more

fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree of

intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the

familiar terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of

feeling at this instant between ourselves and the countess

-- nothing more."

 

"Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it

sympathy of heart?"

 

"No; of taste," continued Franz gravely.

 

"And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been

evinced?"

 

"By the countess's visiting the Colosseum, as we did last

night, by moonlight, and nearly alone."

 

"You were with her, then?"

 

"I was."

 

"And what did you say to her?"

 

"Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that

magnificent ruin is a glorious monument!"

 

"Upon my word," cried Albert, "you must have been a very

entertaining companion alone, or all but alone, with a

beautiful woman in such a place of sentiment as the

Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better a talk about than

the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a

chance, the living should be my theme."

 

"And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen."

 

"But," said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse, "never

mind the past; let us only remember the present. Are you not

going to keep your promise of introducing me to the fair

subject of our remarks?"

 

"Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage."

 

"What a confounded time this first act takes. I believe, on

my soul, that they never mean to finish it."

 

"Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale.

How exquisitely Coselli sings his part."

 

"But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is."

 

"Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever

see anything more perfect than her acting?"

 

"Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed

to Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don't make the

same impression on you they perhaps do on others."

 

"At least, you must admire Moriani's style and execution."

 

"I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance

singing with a voice like a woman's."

 

"My good friend," said Franz, turning to him, while Albert

continued to point his glass at every box in the theatre,

"you seem determined not to approve; you are really too

difficult to please." The curtain at length fell on the

performances, to the infinite satisfaction of the Viscount

of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly passed his fingers

through his hair, arranged his cravat and wristbands, and

signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead the

way. Franz, who had mutely interrogated the countess, and

received from her a gracious smile in token that he would be

welcome, sought not to retard the gratification of Albert's

eager impatience, but began at once the tour of the house,

closely followed by Albert, who availed himself of the few

minutes required to reach the opposite side of the theatre

to settle the height and smoothness of his collar, and to

arrange the lappets of his coat. This important task was

just completed as they arrived at the countess's box. At the

knock, the door was immediately opened, and the young man

who was seated beside the countess, in obedience to the

Italian custom, instantly rose and surrendered his place to

the strangers, who, in turn, would be expected to retire

upon the arrival of other visitors.

 

Franz presented Albert as one of the most distinguished

young men of the day, both as regarded his position in

society and extraordinary talents; nor did he say more than

the truth, for in Paris and the circle in which the viscount

moved, he was looked upon and cited as a model of

perfection. Franz added that his companion, deeply grieved

at having been prevented the honor of being presented to the

countess during her sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to

make up for it, and had requested him (Franz) to remedy the

past misfortune by conducting him to her box, and concluded

by asking pardon for his presumption in having taken it upon

himself to do so. The countess, in reply, bowed gracefully

to Albert, and extended her hand with cordial kindness to

Franz; then, inviting Albert to take the vacant seat beside

her, she recommended Franz to take the next best, if he

wished to view the ballet, and pointed to the one behind her

own chair. Albert was soon deeply engrossed in discoursing

upon Paris and Parisian matters, speaking to the countess of

the various persons they both knew there. Franz perceived

how completely he was in his element; and, unwilling to

interfere with the pleasure he so evidently felt, took up

Albert's glass, and began in his turn to survey the

audience. Sitting alone, in the front of a box immediately

opposite, but situated on the third row, was a woman of

exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek costume, which

evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore it,

was her national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was

the outline of a masculine figure; but the features of this

latter personage it was not possible to distinguish. Franz

could not forbear breaking in upon the apparently

interesting conversation passing between the countess and

Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew who was the

fair Albanian opposite, since beauty such as hers was well

worthy of being observed by either sex. "All I can tell

about her," replied the countess, "is, that she has been at

Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where

she now sits the very first night of the season, and since

then she has never missed a performance. Sometimes she is

accompanied by the person who is now with her, and at others

she is merely attended by a black servant."

 

"And what do you think of her personal appearance?"

 

"Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely -- she is just my idea

of what Medora must have been."

 

Franz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the

latter resumed her conversation with Albert, while Franz

returned to his previous survey of the house and company.

The curtain rose on the ballet, which was one of those

excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably

arranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established

for himself a great reputation throughout Italy for his

taste and skill in the choregraphic art -- one of those

masterly productions of grace, method, and elegance in which

the whole corps de ballet, from the principal dancers to the

humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at the

same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen

exhibiting the same attitude, or elevating the same arm or

leg with a simultaneous movement, that would lead you to

suppose that but one mind, one act of volition, influenced

the moving mass -- the ballet was called "Poliska." However

much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was

too deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any

note of it; while she seemed to experience an almost

childlike delight in watching it, her eager, animated looks

contrasting strongly with the utter indifference of her

companion, who, during the whole time the piece lasted,

never even moved, not even when the furious, crashing din

produced by the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells sounded

their loudest from the orchestra. Of this he took no heed,

but was, as far as appearances might be trusted, enjoying

soft repose and bright celestial dreams. The ballet at

length came to a close, and the curtain fell amid the loud,

unanimous plaudits of an enthusiastic and delighted

audience.

 

Owing to the very judicious plan of dividing the two acts of

the opera with a ballet, the pauses between the performances

are very short, the singers in the opera having time to

repose themselves and change their costume, when necessary,

while the dancers are executing their pirouettes and

exhibiting their graceful steps. The overture to the second

act began; and, at the first sound of the leader's bow

across his violin, Franz observed the sleeper slowly arise

and approach the Greek girl, who turned around to say a few

words to him, and then, leaning forward again on the railing

of her box, she became as absorbed as before in what was

going on. The countenance of the person who had addressed

her remained so completely in the shade, that, though Franz

tried his utmost, he could not distinguish a single feature.

The curtain rose, and the attention of Franz was attracted

by the actors; and his eyes turned from the box containing

the Greek girl and her strange companion to watch the

business of the stage.

 

Most of my readers are aware that the second act of

"Parisina" opens with the celebrated and effective duet in

which Parisina, while sleeping, betrays to Azzo the secret

of her love for Ugo. The injured husband goes through all

the emotions of jealousy, until conviction seizes on his

mind, and then, in a frenzy of rage and indignation, he

awakens his guilty wife to tell her that he knows her guilt

and to threaten her with his vengeance. This duet is one of

the most beautiful, expressive and terrible conceptions that

has ever emanated from the fruitful pen of Donizetti. Franz

now listened to it for the third time; yet it's notes, so

tenderly expressive and fearfully grand as the wretched

husband and wife give vent to their different griefs and

passions, thrilled through the soul of Franz with an effect

equal to his first emotions upon hearing it. Excited beyond

his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with the audience, and

was about to join the loud, enthusiastic applause that

followed; but suddenly his purpose was arrested, his hands

fell by his sides, and the half-uttered "bravos" expired on

his lips. The occupant of the box in which the Greek girl

sat appeared to share the universal admiration that

prevailed; for he left his seat to stand up in front, so

that, his countenance being fully revealed, Franz had no

difficulty in recognizing him as the mysterious inhabitant

of Monte Cristo, and the very same person he had encountered

the preceding evening in the ruins of the Colosseum, and

whose voice and figure had seemed so familiar to him. All

doubt of his identity was now at an end; his singular host

evidently resided at Rome. The surprise and agitation

occasioned by this full confirmation of Franz's former

suspicion had no doubt imparted a corresponding expression

to his features; for the countess, after gazing with a

puzzled look at his face, burst into a fit of laughter, and

begged to know what had happened. "Countess," returned

Franz, totally unheeding her raillery, "I asked you a short

time since if you knew any particulars respecting the

Albanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me

who and what is her husband?"

 

"Nay," answered the countess, "I know no more of him than

yourself."

 

"Perhaps you never before noticed him?"

 

"What a question -- so truly French! Do you not know that we

Italians have eyes only for the man we love?"

 

"True," replied Franz.

 

"All I call say is," continued the countess, taking up the

lorgnette, and directing it toward the box in question,

"that the gentleman, whose history I am unable to furnish,

seems to me as though he had just been dug up; he looks more

like a corpse permitted by some friendly grave-digger to

quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of ours,

than anything human. How ghastly pale he is!"

 

"Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him," said

Franz.

 

"Then you know him?" almost screamed the countess. "Oh, pray

do, for heaven's sake, tell us all about -- is he a vampire,

or a resuscitated corpse, or what?"

 

"I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he

recognizes me."

 

"And I can well understand," said the countess, shrugging up

her beautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder

passed through her veins, "that those who have once seen

that man will never be likely to forget him." The sensation

experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to himself;

another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same

unaccountable awe and misgiving. "Well." inquired Franz,

after the countess had a second time directed her lorgnette

at the box, "what do you think of our opposite neighbor?"

 

"Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a

living form." This fresh allusion to Byron* drew a smile to

Franz's countenance; although he could but allow that if

anything was likely to induce belief in the existence of

vampires, it would be the presence of such a man as the

mysterious personage before him.

 

"I must positively find out who and what he is," said Franz,

rising from his seat.

 

"No, no," cried the countess; "you must not leave me. I

depend upon you to escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot

permit you to go."

 

* Scott, of course: "The son of an ill-fated sire, and the

father of a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks

that cast of inauspicious melancholy by which the

physiognomists of that time pretended to distinguish those

who were predestined to a violent and unhappy death." -- The

Abbot, ch. xxii.

 

"Is it possible," whispered Franz, "that you entertain any

fear?"

 

"I'll tell you," answered the countess. "Byron had the most

perfect belief in the existence of vampires, and even

assured me that he had seen them. The description he gave me

perfectly corresponds with the features and character of the

man before us. Oh, he is the exact personification of what I

have been led to expect! The coal-black hair, large bright,

glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems

burning, -- the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too,

that the woman with him is altogether unlike all others of

her sex. She is a foreigner -- a stranger. Nobody knows who

she is, or where she comes from. No doubt she belongs to the

same horrible race he does, and is, like himself, a dealer

in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near him -- at

least to-night; and if to-morrow your curiosity still

continues as great, pursue your researches if you will; but

to-night you neither can nor shall. For that purpose I mean

to keep you all to myself." Franz protested he could not

defer his pursuit till the following day, for many reasons.

"Listen to me," said the countess, "and do not be so very

headstrong. I am going home. I have a party at my house

to-night, and therefore cannot possibly remain till the end

of the opera. Now, I cannot for one instant believe you so

devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your escort when she

even condescends to ask you for it."

 

There was nothing else left for Franz to do but to take up

his hat, open the door of the box, and offer the countess

his arm. It was quite evident, by her manner, that her

uneasiness was not feigned; and Franz himself could not

resist a feeling of superstitious dread -- so much the

stronger in him, as it arose from a variety of corroborative

recollections, while the terror of the countess sprang from

an instinctive belief, originally created in her mind by the

wild tales she had listened to till she believed them

truths. Franz could even feel her arm tremble as he assisted

her into the carriage. Upon arriving at her hotel, Franz

perceived that she had deceived him when she spoke of

expecting company; on the contrary, her own return before

the appointed hour seemed greatly to astonish the servants.

"Excuse my little subterfuge," said the countess, in reply

to her companion's half-reproachful observation on the

subject; "but that horrid man had made me feel quite

uncomfortable, and I longed to be alone, that I might

compose my startled mind." Franz essayed to smile. "Nay,"

said she, "do not smile; it ill accords with the expression

of your countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from

your heart. however, promise me one thing."

 

"What is it?"

 

"Promise me, I say."

 

"I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my

determination of finding out who this man is. I have more

reasons than you can imagine for desiring to know who he is,

from whence he came, and whither he is going."

 

"Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell

you where he is going to, and that is down below, without

the least doubt."

 

"Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,"

said Franz.

 

"Well, then, you must give me your word to return

immediately to your hotel, and make no attempt to follow

this man to-night. There are certain affinities between the

persons we quit and those we meet afterwards. For heaven's

sake, do not serve as a conductor between that man and me.

Pursue your chase after him to-morrow as eagerly as you

please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me

die of terror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and

try to sleep away all recollections of this evening. For my

own part, I am quite sure I shall not be able to close my

eyes." So saying, the countess quitted Franz, leaving him

unable to decide whether she were merely amusing herself at

his expense, or whether her fears and agitations were

genuine.

 

Upon his return to the hotel, Franz found Albert in his

dressing-gown and slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa,

smoking a cigar. "My dear fellow." cried he, springing up,

"is it really you? Why, I did not expect to see you before

to-morrow."

 

"My dear Albert," replied Franz, "I am glad of this

opportunity to tell you, once and forever, that you

entertain a most erroneous notion concerning Italian women.

I should have thought the continual failures you have met

with in all your own love affairs might have taught you

better by this time."

 

"Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to

read them aright. Why, here -- they give you their hand --

they press yours in return -- they keep up a whispering

conversation -- permit you to accompany them home. Why, if a

Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these marks of

flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever."

 

"And the very reason why the women of this fine country put

so little restraint on their words and actions, is because

they live so much in public, and have really nothing to

conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess

was really alarmed."

 

"At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting

opposite to us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl?

Now, for my part, I met them in the lobby after the

conclusion of the piece; and hang me, if I can guess where

you took your notions of the other world from. I can assure

you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking

fellow -- admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from

the cut of his clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris

tailor -- probably Blin or Humann. He was rather too pale,

certainly; but then, you know, paleness is always looked

upon as a strong proof of aristocratic descent and

distinguished breeding." Franz smiled; for he well

remembered that Albert particularly prided himself on the

entire absence of color in his own complexion.

 

"Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas," said Franz,

"that the countess's suspicions were destitute alike of

sense and reason. Did he speak in your hearing? and did you

catch any of his words?"

 

"I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew

that from the mixture of Greek words. I don't know whether I

ever told you that when I was at college I was rather --

rather strong in Greek."

 

"He spoke the Romaic language, did he?"

 

"I think so."

 

"That settles it," murmured Franz. "'Tis he, past all

doubt."

 

"What do you say?"

 

"Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about

when I came in?"

 

"Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you."

 

"Indeed. Of what nature?"

 

"Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a

carriage."

 

"Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human

means afforded to endeavor to get one."

 

"Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed

across my brain." Franz looked at Albert as though he had

not much confidence in the suggestions of his imagination.

"I tell you what, Sir Franz," cried Albert, "you deserve to

be called out for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as

that you were pleased to bestow on me just now."

 

"And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman

if your scheme turns out as ingenious as you assert."

 

"Well, then, hearken to me."

 

"I listen."

 

"You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of

the question?"

 

"I do."

 

"Neither can we procure horses?"

 

"True; we have offered any sum, but have failed."

 

"Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a

thing might be had."

 

"Very possibly."

 

"And a pair of oxen?"

 

"As easily found as the cart."

 

"Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of

oxen our business can be managed. The cart must be

tastefully ornamented; and if you and I dress ourselves as

Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a striking tableau, after

the manner of that splendid picture by Leopold Robert. It

would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join

us in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our

group would then be quite complete, more especially as the

countess is quite beautiful enough to represent a madonna."

 

"Well," said Franz, "this time, Albert, I am bound to give

you credit for having hit upon a most capital idea."

 

"And quite a national one, too," replied Albert with

gratified pride. "A mere masque borrowed from our own

festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans! you thought to make us,

unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your processions,

like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are

to be had in your beggarly city. But you don't know us; when

we can't have one thing we invent another."

 

"And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody?"

 

"Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I

then explained to him what I wished to procure. He assured

me that nothing would be easier than to furnish all I

desired. One thing I was sorry for; when I bade him have the

horns of the oxen gilded, he told me there would not be

time, as it would require three days to do that; so you see

we must do without this little superfluity."

 

"And where is he now?"

 

"Who?"

 

"Our host."

 

"Gone out in search of our equipage, by to-morrow it might

be too late."

 

"Then he will be able to give us an answer to-night."

 

"Oh, I expect him every minute." At this instant the door

opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini appeared.

"Permesso?" inquired he.

 

"Certainly -- certainly," cried Franz. "Come in, mine host."

 

"Now, then," asked Albert eagerly, "have you found the

desired cart and oxen?"

 

"Better than that!" replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of

a man perfectly well satisfied with himself.

 

"Take care, my worthy host," said Albert, "better is a sure

enemy to well."

 

"Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,"

returned Signor Pastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded

self-confidence.

 

"But what have you done?" asked Franz. "Speak out, there's a

worthy fellow."

 

"Your excellencies are aware," responded the landlord,

swelling with importance, "that the Count of Monte Cristo is

living on the same floor with yourselves!"

 

"I should think we did know it," exclaimed Albert, "since it

is owing to that circumstance that we are packed into these

small rooms, like two poor students in the back streets of

Paris."

 

"When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the

dilemma in which you are placed, has sent to offer you seats

in his carriage and two places at his windows in the Palazzo

Rospoli." The friends looked at each other with unutterable

surprise.

 

"But do you think," asked Albert, "that we ought to accept

such offers from a perfect stranger?"

 

"What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?" asked

Franz of his host. "A very great nobleman, but whether

Maltese or Sicilian I cannot exactly say; but this I know,

that he is noble as a Borghese and rich as a gold-mine."

 

"It seems to me," said Franz, speaking in an undertone to

Albert, "that if this person merited the high panegyrics of

our landlord, he would have conveyed his invitation through

another channel, and not permitted it to be brought to us in

this unceremonious way. He would have written -- or" --

 

At this instant some one knocked at the door. "Come in,"

said Franz. A servant, wearing a livery of considerable

style and richness, appeared at the threshold, and, placing

two cards in the landlord's hands, who forthwith presented

them to the two young men, he said, "Please to deliver

these, from the Count of Monte Cristo to Viscomte Albert de

Morcerf and M. Franz d'Epinay. The Count of Monte Cristo,"

continued the servant, "begs these gentlemen's permission to

wait upon them as their neighbor, and he will be honored by

an intimation of what time they will please to receive him."

 

"Faith, Franz," whispered Albert, "there is not much to find

fault with here."

 

"Tell the count," replied Franz, "that we will do ourselves

the pleasure of calling on him." The servant bowed and

retired.

 

"That is what I call an elegant mode of attack," said

Albert, "You were quite correct in what you said, Signor

Pastrini. The Count of Monte Cristo is unquestionably a man

of first-rate breeding and knowledge of the world."

 

"Then you accept his offer?" said the host.

 

"Of course we do," replied Albert. "Still, I must own I am

sorry to be obliged to give up the cart and the group of

reapers -- it would have produced such an effect! And were

it not for the windows at the Palazzo Rospoli, by way of

recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I don't

know but what I should have held on by my original plan.

What say you, Franz?"

 

"Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli

alone decided me." The truth was, that the mention of two

places in the Palazzo Rospoli had recalled to Franz the

conversation he had overheard the preceding evening in the

ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown and

the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had

undertaken to obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal;

and if this muffled-up individual proved (as Franz felt sure

he would) the same as the person he had just seen in the

Teatro Argentino, then he should be able to establish his

identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting

him with perfect facility and freedom. Franz passed the

night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings he had

already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking

speculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next

day must clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor

and would-be friend, the Count of Monte Cristo, possessed

the ring of Gyges, and by its power was able to render

himself invisible, it was very certain he could not escape

this time. Eight o'clock found Franz up and dressed, while

Albert, who had not the same motives for early rising, was

still soundly asleep. The first act of Franz was to summon

his landlord, who presented himself with his accustomed

obsequiousness.

 

"Pray, Signor Pastrini," asked Franz, "is not some execution

appointed to take place to-day?"

 

"Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is

that you may procure a window to view it from, you are much

too late."

 

"Oh, no," answered Franz, "I had no such intention; and even

if I had felt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have

done so from Monte Pincio -- could I not?"

 

"Ah!" exclaimed mine host, "I did not think it likely your

excellency would have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as

are always collected on that hill, which, indeed, they

consider as exclusively belonging to themselves."

 

"Very possibly I may not go," answered Franz; "but in case I

feel disposed, give me some particulars of to-day's

executions."

 

"What particulars would your excellency like to hear?"

 

"Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their

names, and description of the death they are to die."

 

"That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few

minutes ago they brought me the tavolettas."

 

"What are they?"

 

"Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets

the evening before an execution, on which is pasted up a

paper containing the names of the condemned persons, their

crimes, and mode of punishment. The reason for so publicly

announcing all this is, that all good and faithful Catholics

may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate culprits,

and, above all, beseech of heaven to grant them a sincere

repentance."

 

"And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your

prayers to those of the faithful, are they?" asked Franz

somewhat incredulously.

 

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for

anybody's affairs but my own and those of my honorable

guests; but I make an agreement with the man who pastes up

the papers, and he brings them to me as he would the

playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel

should like to witness an execution, he may obtain every

requisite information concerning the time and place etc."

 

"Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your

part, Signor Pastrini," cried Franz.

 

"Why, your excellency," returned the landlord, chuckling and

rubbing his hands with infinite complacency, "I think I may

take upon myself to say I neglect nothing to deserve the

support and patronage of the noble visitors to this poor

hotel."

 

"I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you

may rely upon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your

attention to your guests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me

by a sight of one of these tavolettas."

 

"Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency's

wish," said the landlord, opening the door of the chamber;

"I have caused one to be placed on the landing, close by

your apartment." Then, taking the tablet from the wall, he

handed it to Franz, who read as follows: --

 

"`The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23d,

being the first day of the Carnival, executions will take

place in the Piazza del Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of

the Rota, of two persons, named Andrea Rondola, and Peppino,

otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former found guilty of

the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named Don

Cesare Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and

the latter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious

and sanguinary bandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The

first-named malefactor will be subjected to the mazzuola,

the second culprit beheaded. The prayers of all good

Christians are entreated for these unfortunate men, that it

may please God to awaken them to a sense of their guilt, and

to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for their

crimes.'"

 

This was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before

in the ruins of the Colosseum. No part of the programme

differed, -- the names of the condemned persons, their

crimes, and mode of punishment, all agreed with his previous

information. In all probability, therefore, the Transteverin

was no other than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the

man shrouded in the mantle the same he had known as "Sinbad

the Sailor," but who, no doubt, was still pursuing his

philanthropic expedition in Rome, as he had already done at

Porto-Vecchio and Tunis. Time was getting on, however, and

Franz deemed it advisable to awaken Albert; but at the

moment he prepared to proceed to his chamber, his friend

entered the room in perfect costume for the day. The

anticipated delights of the Carnival had so run in his head

as to make him leave his pillow long before his usual hour.

"Now, my excellent Signor Pastrini," said Franz, addressing

his landlord, "since we are both ready, do you think we may

proceed at once to visit the Count of Monte Cristo?"

 

"Most assuredly," replied he. "The Count of Monte Cristo is

always an early riser; and I can answer for his having been

up these two hours."

 

"Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we

pay our respects to him directly?"

 

"Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all the blame on myself if

you find I have led you into an error."

 

"Well, then, if it be so, are you ready, Albert?"

 

"Perfectly."

 

"Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy."

 

"Yes, let us do so." The landlord preceded the friends

across the landing, which was all that separated them from

the apartments of the count, rang at the bell, and, upon the

door being opened by a servant, said, "I signori Francesi."

 

The domestic bowed respectfully, and invited them to enter.

They passed through two rooms, furnished in a luxurious

manner they had not expected to see under the roof of Signor

Pastrini, and were shown into an elegantly fitted-up

drawing-room. The richest Turkey carpets covered the floor,

and the softest and most inviting couches, easy-chairs, and

sofas, offered their high-piled and yielding cushions to

such as desired repose or refreshment. Splendid paintings by

the first masters were ranged against the walls,

intermingled with magnificent trophies of war, while heavy

curtains of costly tapestry were suspended before the

different doors of the room. "If your excellencies will

please to be seated," said the man, "I will let the count

know that you are here."

 

And with these words he disappeared behind one of the

tapestried portieres. As the door opened, the sound of a

guzla reached the ears of the young men, but was almost

immediately lost, for the rapid closing of the door merely

allowed one rich swell of harmony to enter. Franz and Albert

looked inquiringly at each other, then at the gorgeous

furnishings of the apartment. Everything seemed more

magnificent at a second view than it had done at their first

rapid survey.

 

"Well," said Franz to his friend, "what think you of all

this?"

 

"Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our

elegant and attentive neighbor must either be some

successful stock-jobber who has speculated in the fall of

the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling incog."

 

"Hush, hush!" replied Franz; "we shall ascertain who and

what he is -- he comes!" As Franz spoke, he heard the sound

of a door turning on its hinges, and almost immediately

afterwards the tapestry was drawn aside, and the owner of

all these riches stood before the two young men. Albert

instantly rose to meet him, but Franz remained, in a manner,

spellbound on his chair; for in the person of him who had

just entered he recognized not only the mysterious visitant

to the Colosseum, and the occupant of the box at the Teatro

Argentino, but also his extraordinary host of Monte Cristo.