Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Albert jerked as she continued to roam her hand across the opening to his trousers, the young man completely unaccustomed to such direct interaction with a lady in polite society.

  “My lady, you are quite forward,” Albert whispered for the countess’s ears alone.

  “Albert, my dear, I acquire what I want. I always have, and I always will. If I am not direct with my needs, how will a man know what I require?”

  “I do not believe it is a trait to be considered less than others. Admirable, in fact, that a woman of our day might express her desires at her leisure.”

  “You would be one of the few, man or woman, to believe such a thing.”

  She continued to stroke him through the trousers growing increasingly uncomfortable as his arousal grew with every pass of her fingertips.

  “This conversation is most stimulating, lady. Might I hold up my end of the conversation?”

  She inclined her head and young Albert reached out to caress her breast. Her eyes widened at his boldness but she did not push his hand away. He stroked her through the cloth of her gown as gently and completely covertly as the lady touched him.

  “I must admit I might be inclined to invite you to another engagement, lady — something perhaps considerably more private,” Albert remarked.

  “And I must admit, Albert, that I might be willing to accept.”

  Albert was surprised and flattered by her words; the countess no doubt had many suitors for her hand and her bed and yet here she was paying attention to him.

  The countess felt something she had not in a long time: curiosity. The young man who touched her with familiarity and confidence intrigued her in a new and fresh way. She again glanced back at his friend, Franz, who remained completely oblivious to anything more than his passing infatuation with the young women down on the floor. Turning back to Albert she resumed their conversation and the stroking of her hand.

  “What might you do with me, Albert, if you had me all to yourself, alone?”

  “You wish me to enumerate in detail?”

  “If you can without blushing.”

  “Lady, first I would strip every stitch of cloth from your body before I lay in rapture gazing at the naked flesh beneath.”

  “And then?”

  “I might delve below your navel to the sweet delights of your sex until my ministrations are no longer bearable to you.”

  The countess’s eyes grew wide at the youth’s bold words. “Do you continue with your plans?”

  “My lady, I had an entire plan for any time I might spend with you alone built in my head from the moment I met you.”

  “Such a short time ago; it might not be a terribly detailed plan.”

  “If you will allow me to continue. Once you writhe from my lips against your wet skin I will roam over your skin from head to toe with my lips touching every dip and hollow they can find.”

  Her heartbeat increased, the arousal assaulting her body growing with every stroke of his hand and every word falling from his beautiful lips.

  “Upon completion of my explorations I will then, should my lady permit, mount you and drive into you hard and fast. You will have no chance of escape once you accept, and from there I will drive you to new heights of ecstasy until my name, shouted from your lips, bounds around your bedchamber so loud your servants hear it.”

  “I must say, that all sounds quite lovely.”

  The countess removed her hand from Albert’s lap as the stage seemed to be rustling to begin the presentation.

  “Should you have any cause to accept my proposal,” Albert said, “you know where and with whom to find me. I would enjoy your company in any capacity in which you deign to grace me with it.”

  “Expect an invitation.”

  With those parting words they separated their persons and resumed a cordial diffidence as Franz continued his exploration of the beauty amongst them.

  “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 choreographic 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 t
he third time; yet its 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 can 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 illfated 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 tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as great, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight 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 tonight, 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 tonight. 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 tomorrow as eagerly as you please; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of terror. And now, goodnight; 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 tomorrow.”

  “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, the
se 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?”