But, to the astonishment of both the count and the Lady Nisida, Wagner raised his hands, and displayed as perfect a knowledge of the language of the dumb as they themselves possessed.
“I thank your ladyship for this unexpected condescension,” he signaled by the rapid play of his fingers; “and I shall not forget to avail myself of this most courteous invitation.”
It were impossible to describe the sudden glow of pleasure and delight which animated Nisida’s splendid countenance, when she thus discovered that Wagner was able to hold converse with her, and she hastened to reply thus: “We shall expect you to revisit us soon.”
Wagner bowed low and took his departure, his mind full of the beautiful Nisida.
CHAPTER XI.
NISIDA AND WAGNER—FRANCISCO AND FLORA—THE APPROACH OF SUNSET.
Upward of two months had passed away since the occurrences related in the preceding chapter, and it was now the 31st of January, 1521.
The sun was verging toward the western hemisphere, but the rapid flight of the hours was unnoticed by Nisida and Fernand Wagner, as they were seated together in one of the splendid saloons of the Riverola mansion.
Their looks were fixed on each other’s countenance; the eyes of Fernand expressing tenderness and admiration, those of Nisida beaming with all the passions of her ardent and sensual soul.
Suddenly the lady raised her hands, and by the rapid play of the fingers, asked, “Fernand, do you indeed love me as much as you would have me believe I am beloved?”
“Never in this world was woman so loved as you,” he replied, by the aid of the same language.
“And yet I am an unfortunate being—deprived of those qualities which give the greatest charm to the companionship of those who love.”
“But you are eminently beautiful, my Nisida; and I can fancy how sweet, how rich-toned would be your voice, could your lips frame the words, ‘I love thee!’”
A profound sigh agitated the breast of the lady; and at the same time her lips quivered strangely, as if she were essaying to speak.
Wagner caught her to his breast; and she wept long and plenteously. Those tears relieved her; and she returned his warm, impassioned kisses with an ardor that convinced him how dear he had become to that afflicted, but transcendently beautiful being. On her side, the blood in her veins appeared to circulate like molten lead; and her face, her neck, her bosom were suffused with burning blushes.
At length, raising her head, she conveyed this wish to her companion: “Thou hast given me an idea which may render me ridiculous in your estimation; but it is a whim, a fancy, a caprice, engendered only by the profound affection I entertain for thee. I would that thou shouldst say, in thy softest, tenderest tones, the words ‘I love thee!’ and, by the wreathing of thy lips, I shall see enough to enable my imagination to persuade itself that those words have really fallen upon my ears.”
Fernand smiled assent; and, while Nisida’s eyes were fixed upon him with the most enthusiastic interest, he said, “I love thee!”
The sovereign beauty of her countenance was suddenly lighted up with an expression of ineffable joy, of indescribable delight; and, signaling the assurance, “I love thee, dearest, dearest Fernand!” she threw herself into his arms.
But almost at the same moment voices were heard in the adjacent room: and Wagner, gently disengaging himself from Nisida’s embrace, hastily conveyed to her an intimation of the vicinity of others.
The lady gave him to understand by a glance that she comprehended him; and they remained motionless, fondly gazing upon each other.
“I know not how it has occurred, Flora,” said the voice of Francisco, speaking in a tender tone, in the adjoining room—“I know not how it has occurred that I should have addressed you in this manner—so soon, too, after the death of my lamented father, and while these mourning garments yet denote the loss which myself and sister have sustained——”
“Oh! my lord, suffer me to retire,” exclaimed Flora Francatelli, in a tone of beseeching earnestness; “I should not have listened to your lordship so long in the gallery of pictures, much less have accompanied your lordship hither.”
“I requested thee to come with me to this apartment, Flora, that I might declare, without fear of our interview being interrupted, how dear, how very dear, thou art to me, and how honorable is the passion with which thou hast inspired me. Oh, Flora,” exclaimed the young count, “I could no longer conceal my love for thee! My heart was bursting to reveal its secret; and when I discovered thee alone, ere now, in the gallery of pictures, I could not resist the favorable opportunity accident seemed to have afforded for this avowal.”
“Alas! my lord,” murmured Flora, “I know not whether to rejoice or be sorrowful at the revelation which has this day met my ears.”
“And yet you said ere now that you could love me, that you did love me in return,” ejaculated Francisco.
“I spoke truly, my lord,” answered the bashful maiden; “but, alas! how can the humble, obscure, portionless Flora become the wife of the rich, powerful and honored Count of Riverola? There is an inseparable gulf fixed between us, my lord.”
“Am I not my own master? Can I not consult my own happiness in that most solemn and serious of the world’s duties—marriage?” cried Francisco, with all the generous ardor of youth and his own noble disposition.
“Your lordship is free and independent in point of fact,” said Flora, in a low, tender and yet impressive tone; “but your lordship has relations—friends.”
“My relations will not thwart the wishes of him whom they love,” answered Francisco; “and those who place obstacles in the way of my felicity cannot be denominated my friends.”
“Oh! my lord—could I yield myself up to the hopes which your language inspires!” cried Flora.
“You can—you may, dearest girl!” exclaimed the young count. “And now I know that you love me! But many months must elapse ere I can call thee mine; and, indeed, a remorse smites my heart that I have dared to think of my own happiness, so soon after a mournful ceremony has consigned a parent to the tomb. Heaven knows that I do not the less deplore his loss—but wherefore art thou so pale, so trembling, Flora?”
“Meseems that a superstitious awe of evil omens has seized upon my soul,” returned the maiden, in a tremulous tone. “Let us retire, my lord; the Lady Nisida may require my services elsewhere.”
“Nisida!” repeated Francisco, as if the mention of his sister’s name had suddenly awakened new ideas in his mind.
“Ah! my lord,” said Flora, sorrowfully, “you now perceive that there is at least one who may not learn with satisfaction the alliance which your lordship would form with the poor and humble dependent.”
“Nay, by my patron saint, thou hast misunderstood me!” exclaimed the young count warmly. “Nisida will not oppose her brother’s happiness; and her strong mind will know how to despise those conventional usages which require that high birth should mate with high birth, and wealth ally itself to wealth. Yes; Nisida will consult my felicity alone; and when I ere now repeated her name as it fell from your lips, it was in a manner reproachful to myself, because I have retained my love for thee a secret from her. A secret from Nisida! Oh! I have been cruel, unjust, not to have confided in my sister long ago! And yet,” he added more slowly, “she might reproach me for my selfishness in bestowing a thought on marriage soon, so very soon, after a funeral! Flora, dearest maiden, circumstances demand that the avowal which accident and opportunity have led me this day to make, should exist as a secret, known only unto yourself and me. But, in a few months I will explain all to my sister, and she will greet thee as her brother’s chosen bride. Are thou content, Flora, that our mutual love should remain thus concealed until the proper time shall come for its revelation?”
“Yes, my lord, and for many reasons,” was the answer.
“For many reasons, Flora!” exclaimed the young count.
“At least for more than one,” rejoined the maiden. “In the
first instance, it is expedient your lordship should have due leisure to reflect upon the important step which you propose to take—a step conferring so much honor on myself, but which may not insure your happiness.”
“If this be a specimen of thy reasons, dear maiden,” exclaimed Francisco, laughing, “I need hear no more. Be well assured,” he added seriously, “that time will not impair the love I experience for you.”
Flora murmured a reply which did not reach Wagner, and immediately afterward the sound of her light steps was heard retreating from the adjacent room. A profound silence of a few minutes occurred; and then Francisco also withdrew.
Wagner had been an unwilling listener to the preceding conversation; but while it was in progress, he from time to time threw looks of love and tenderness on his beautiful companion, who returned them with impassioned ardor.
Whether it were that her irritable temper was impatient of the restraint imposed upon herself and her lover by the vicinity of others, or whether she was annoyed at the fact of her brother and Flora being so long together (for Wagner had intimated to her who their neighbors were, the moment he had recognized their voices), we cannot say; but Nisida showed an occasional uneasiness of manner, which she, however, studied to subdue as much as possible, during the scene that took place in the adjoining apartment.
Fernand did not offer to convey to her any idea of the nature of the conversation which occupied her brother and Flora Francatelli; neither did she manifest the least curiosity to be enlightened on that head.
The moment the young lovers had quitted the next room Wagner intimated the fact to Nisida; but at the same instant, just as he was about to bestow upon her a tender caress, a dreadful, an appalling reminiscence burst upon him with such overwhelming force that he fell back stupefied on the sofa.
Nisida’s countenance assumed an expression of the deepest solicitude, and her eloquent, sparkling eyes, implored him to intimate to her what ailed him.
But, starting wildly from his seat, and casting on her a look of such bitter, bitter anguish, that the appalling emotions thus expressed struck terror to her soul—Fernand rushed from the room.
Nisida sprung to the window; and, though the obscurity of the evening now announced the last flickerings of the setting sunbeams in the west, she could perceive her lover dashing furiously on through the spacious gardens that surrounded the Riverola Palace.
On—on he went toward the River Arno; and in a few minutes was out of sight.
Alas! intoxicated with love, and giving himself up to the one delightful idea—that he was with the beauteous Nisida—then, absorbed in the interest of the conversation which he had overheard between Francisco and Flora—Wagner had forgotten until it was nearly too late, that the sun was about to set on the last day of the month.
CHAPTER XII.
THE WEHR-WOLF.
’Twas the hour of sunset.
The eastern horizon, with its gloomy and somber twilight, offered a strange contrast to the glorious glowing hues of vermilion, and purple, and gold, that blended in long streaks athwart the western sky.
For even the winter sunset of Italy is accompanied with resplendent tints—as if an emperor, decked with a refulgent diadem, were repairing to his imperial couch.
The declining rays of the orb of light bathed in molten gold the pinnacles, steeples, and lofty palaces of proud Florence, and toyed with the limpid waves of the Arno, on whose banks innumerable villas and casinos already sent forth delicious strains of music, broken only by the mirth of joyous revelers.
And by degrees as the sun went down, the palaces of the superb city began to shed light from their lattices, set in rich sculptured masonry; and here and there, where festivity prevailed, grand illuminations sprung up with magical quickness, the reflection from each separate galaxy rendering it bright as day far, far around.
Vocal and instrumental melody floated through the still air; and the perfume of exotics, decorating the halls of the Florentine nobles, poured from the widely-opened portals, and rendered the air delicious.
For Florence was gay that evening—the last day of each month being the one which the wealthy lords and high-born ladies set apart for the reception of their friends.
The sun sank behind the western hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds—as if they were eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover—that glorious sun!
Darkness seemed to dilate upon the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman dimensions—then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above densely and confusedly.
But, by degrees, countless stars began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for the last—last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the increasing obscurity.
But, hark! what is that wild and fearful cry?
In the midst of a wood of evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man—young, handsome, and splendidly attired—has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken serpent, in horrible convulsions.
He is the prey of a demoniac excitement: an appalling consternation is on him—madness is in his brain—his mind is on fire.
Lightnings appear to gleam from his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast.
“Oh! no—no!” he cries with a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp.
And the wood echoes to that terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.
But, lo! what awful change is taking place in the form of that doomed being? His handsome countenance elongates into one of savage and brute-like shape; the rich garments which he wears become a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin; his body loses its human contours, his arms and limbs take another form; and, with a frantic howl of misery, to which the woods give horribly faithful reverberations, and, with a rush like a hurling wind, the wretch starts wildly away, no longer a man, but a monstrous wolf!
On, on he goes: the wood is cleared—the open country is gained. Tree, hedge, and isolated cottage appear but dim points in the landscape—a moment seen, the next left behind; the very hills appear to leap after each other.
A cemetery stands in the monster’s way, but he turns not aside—through the sacred inclosure—on, on he goes. There are situated many tombs, stretching up the slope of a gentle acclivity, from the dark soil of which the white monuments stand forth with white and ghastly gleaming, and on the summit of the hill is the church of St. Benedict the Blessed.
From the summit of the ivy-grown tower the very rooks, in the midst of their cawing, are scared away by the furious rush and the wild howl with which the Wehr-Wolf thunders over the hallowed ground.
At the same instant a train of monks appear round the angle of the church—for there is a funeral at that hour; and their torches flaring with the breeze that is now springing up, cast an awful and almost magical light on the dark gray walls of the edifice, the strange effect being enhanced by the prismatic reflection of the lurid blaze from the stained glass of the oriel window.
The solemn spectacle seemed to madden the Wehr-Wolf. His speed increased—he dashed through the funeral train—appalling cries of terror and alarm burst from the lips of the holy fathers—and the solemn procession was thrown into confusion. The coffin-bearers dropped their burden, and the corpse rolled out upon the ground, its decomposing countenance seeming horrible by the glare of the torch-light.
The monk who walked nearest the head of the coffin was thrown down by the violence with which the ferocious monster cleared its passage; and the venerable father—on whose brow sat the snow of eighty winters—fell with his head against a monument, and his brains were dashed out.
On, on fled the Wehr-Wolf, over mead and hill, through valley and dale. The very wind seemed to make way: he clove the air—he appeared to skim the ground�
�to fly.
Through the romantic glades and rural scenes of Etruria the monster sped—sounds, resembling shrieking howls, bursting ever and anon from his foaming mouth—his red eyes glaring in the dusk of the evening like ominous meteors—and his whole aspect so full of appalling ferocity, that never was seen so monstrous, so terrific a spectacle!
A village is gained; he turns not aside, but dashes madly through the little street formed by the huts and cottages of the Tuscan vine-dressers.
A little child is in his path—a sweet, blooming, ruddy, noble boy; with violet-colored eyes and flaxen hair—disporting merrily at a short distance from his parents, who are seated at the threshold of their dwelling.
Suddenly a strange and ominous rush—an unknown trampling of rapid feet falls upon their ears; then, with a savage cry, a monster sweeps past.
“My child! my child!” screams the affrighted mother; and simultaneously the shrill cry of an infant in the sudden agony of death carries desolation to the ear!
’Tis done—’twas but the work of a moment; the wolf has swept by, the quick rustling of his feet is no longer heard in the village. But those sounds are succeeded by awful wails and heart-rending lamentations: for the child—the blooming, violet-eyed, flaxen-haired boy—the darling of his poor but tender parents, is weltering in his blood!
On, on speeds the destroyer, urged by an infernal influence which maddens the more intensely because its victim strives vainly to struggle against it: on, on, over the beaten road—over the fallow field—over the cottager’s garden—over the grounds of the rich one’s rural villa.
And now, to add to the horrors of the scene, a pack of dogs have started in pursuit of the wolf—dashing—hurrying—pushing—pressing upon one another in all the anxious ardor of the chase.
The silence and shade of the open country, in the mild starlight, seem eloquently to proclaim the peace and happiness of a rural life; but now that silence is broken by the mingled howling of the wolf, and the deep baying of the hounds—and this shade is crossed and darkened by the forms of the animals as they scour so fleetly—oh! with such whirlwind speed along.
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