“The marchesa was beautiful, no doubt?” I said, interrupting him.
“Most beautiful!” he replied; “and so your countryman seemed to think, for he was lost in admiration of her. I am not much versed in the language of the eyes, but his were too eloquent and expressive not to be understood. I watched my mistress narrowly. It was evident from her glowing cheek, though her eyes were cast down, that she was not insensible to his regards. She turned to play with her dog, a lovely little greyhound, which was in the carriage beside her, and patted it carelessly with the glove which she held in her hand. The animal snatched the glove from her grasp, and, as he bounded backwards, fell over the carriage side. My lady uttered a scream at the sight, and I was preparing to extricate the struggling dog, when the Englishman plunged into the water. In an instant he had restored her favourite to the marchesa, and received her warmest acknowledgments. From that moment an intimacy commenced, which was destined to produce the most fatal consequences to both parties.”
“Did you betray them?” I asked, somewhat impatiently.
“I was then the blind tool of the marchese. I did so,” replied the old man. “I told him all particulars of the interview. He heard me in silence, but grew ashy pale with suppressed rage. Bidding me redouble my vigilance, he left me. My lady was now scarcely ever out of my sight; when one evening, a few days after what had occurred, she walked forth alone upon the garden-terrace of the villa. Her guitar was in her hand, and her favourite dog by her side. I was at a little distance, but wholly unperceived. She struck a few plaintive chords upon her instrument, and then, resting her chin upon her white and rounded arm, seemed lost in tender reverie. Would you had seen her, signor, as I beheld her then, or as one other beheld her! you would acknowledge that you had never met with her equal in beauty. Her raven hair fell in thick tresses over shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the most perfect proportion. Her deep dark eyes were thrown languidly on the ground, and her radiant features were charged with an expression of profound and pensive passion.
“In this musing attitude she continued for some minutes, when she was aroused by the gambols of her dog, who bore in his mouth a glove which he had found. As she took it from him, a letter dropped upon the floor. Had a serpent glided from its folds, it could not have startled her more. She gazed upon the paper, offended, but irresolute. Yes, she was irresolute; and you may conjecture the rest. She paused, and by that pause was lost. With a shrinking grasp she stooped to raise the letter. Her cheeks, which had grown deathly pale, again kindled with blushes as she perused it. She hesitated — cast a bewildering look towards the mansion — placed the note within her bosom — and plunged into the orange-bower.”
“Her lover awaited her there?”
“He did. I saw them meet. I heard his frenzied words — his passionate entreaties. He urged her to fly — she resisted. He grew more urgent — more impassioned. She uttered a faint cry, and I stood before them. The Englishman’s hand was at my throat, and his sword at my breast, with the swiftness of thought; and but for the screams of my mistress, that instant must have been my last. At her desire he relinquished his hold of me; but her cries had reached other ears, and the marchese arrived to avenge his injured honour. He paused not to inquire the nature of the offence, but, sword in hand, assailed the Englishman, bidding me remove his lady. The clash of their steel was drowned by her shrieks as I bore her away; but I knew the strife was desperate. Before I gained the house my lady had fainted; and committing her to the charge of other attendants, I returned to the terrace. I met my master slowly walking homewards. His sword was gone — his brow was bent — he shunned my sight. I knew what had happened, and did not approach him. He sought his wife. What passed in that interview was never disclosed, but it may be guessed at from its result. That night the marchesa left her husband’s halls — never to return. Next morn I visited the terrace where she had received the token. The glove was still upon the ground. I picked it up and carried it to the marchese, detailing the whole occurrence to him. He took it, and vowed as he took it that his vengeance should never rest satisfied till that glove had been steeped in her blood.”
“And he kept his vow?” I asked, shuddering.
“Many months elapsed ere its accomplishment. Italian vengeance is slow, but sure. To all outward appearance, he had forgotten his faithless wife. He had even formed a friendship with her lover, which he did the more effectually to blind his ultimate designs. Meanwhile, time rolled on, and the marchesa gave birth to a child — the offspring of her seducer.”
“Great God!” I exclaimed, “was that child a boy?”
“It was — but listen to me. My tale draws to a close. One night, during the absence of the Englishman, by secret means we entered the palazzo where the marchesa resided. We wandered from room to room till we came to her chamber. She was sleeping, with her infant by her side. The sight maddened the marchese. He would have stricken the child, but I held back his hand. He relented. He bade me make fast the door. He approached the bed. I heard a rustle — a scream. A white figure sprang from out the couch. In an instant the light was extinguished — there was a blow — another — and all was over. I threw open the door. The marchese came forth. The corridor in which we stood was flooded with moonlight. A glove was in his hand — it was dripping with blood. His oath was fulfilled — his vengeance complete — no, not complete, for the Englishman yet lived.”
“What became of him?” I inquired.
“Ask me not,” replied the old man; “you were at the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore this morning. If those stones could speak, they might tell a fearful story.”
“And that was the reason you did not dare to unclose your eyes within those holy precincts? — a film of blood floated between you and heaven.”
The old man shuddered, but replied not.
“And the child?” I asked, after a pause; “what of their wretched offspring?”
“It was conveyed to England by a friend of its dead father. If he were alive, that boy would be about your age, signor.”
“Indeed!” I said; a horrible suspicion flashing across my mind.
“After the Englishman’s death,” continued Cristofano, “my master began to treat me with a coldness and suspicion which increased daily. I was a burden to him, and he was resolved to rid himself of me. I spared him the trouble — quitted Rome — sought the mountains of the Abruzzi — and thence wandered to the fastnesses of Calabria, and became — no matter what. Here I am. Heaven’s appointed minister of vengeance. The marchese dies to-night!”
“To-night! old man,” I echoed, horror-stricken. “Add not crime to crime. If he has indeed been guilty of the foul offence you have named, let him be dealt with according to the offended laws of the country. Do not pervert the purposes of justice.”
“Justice!” echoed Cristofano scornfully.
“Ay, justice. You are poor and powerless, but means may be found to aid you. I will assist the rightful course of vengeance.”
“You shall assist it. I have sworn he shall die before dawn, and the hand to strike the blow shall be yours.”
“Mine! never!”
“Your own life will be the penalty of your obstinacy, if you refuse; nor will your refusal save him. By the Mother of Heaven, he dies! and by your hand. You saw how he was struck by your resemblance to the young Englishman this morning in the chiesa. It is wonderful! I know not who or what you are; but to me you are an instrument of vengeance, and as such I shall use you. The blow dealt by you will seem the work of retribution; and I care not if you strike twice, and make my heart your second mark.”
Ere I could reply he called to his comrades, and in a few moments we were speeding across the campagna.
We arrived at a high wall: — the old man conducted us to a postern-gate, which he opened. We entered a garden filled with orange-trees, the perfume of which loaded the midnight air. We heard the splash of a fountain at a distance, and the thrilling notes of a nightingale amongst some taller trees. The moon
hung like a lamp over the belvidere of the proud villa. We strode along a wide terrace edged by a marble balustrade. The old man pointed to an open summer-house terminating the walk, and gave me a significant look, but he spoke not. A window thrown open admitted us to the house. We were within a hall crowded with statues, and traversed noiselessly its marble floors. Passing through several chambers, we then mounted to a corridor, and entered an apartment which formed the ante-room to another beyond it. Placing his finger upon his lips, and making a sign to his comrades, Cristofano opened a door and disappeared. There was a breathless pause for a few minutes, during which I listened intently, but caught only a faint sound as of the snapping of a lock.
Presently the old man returned.
“He sleeps,” he said, in a low deep tone to me; “sleeps as his victim slept — sleeps without a dream of remorse; and he shall awaken, as she awoke, to despair. Come into his chamber!”
We obeyed. The door was made fast within side.
The curtains of the couch were withdrawn, and the moonlight streamed full upon the face of the sleeper. He was hushed in profound repose. No visions seemed to haunt his peaceful slumbers. Could guilt sleep so soundly? I half doubted the old man’s story.
Placing us within the shadow of the canopy, Cristofano approached the bed. A stiletto glittered in his hand. “Awake!” he cried, in a voice of thunder.
The sleeper started at the summons.
I watched his countenance. He read Cristofano’s errand in his eye. But he quailed not.
“Cowardly assassin!” he cried, “you have well consulted your own safety in stealing on my sleep.”
“And who taught me the lesson?” fiercely interrupted the old man. “Am I the first that have stolen on midnight slumber? Gaze upon this? When and how did it acquire its dye?” And he held forth a glove, which looked blackened and stained in the moonlight.
The marchese groaned aloud.
“My cabinet broken open!” at length he exclaimed— “villain! how dare you do this? But why do I rave? I know with whom I have to deal.” Uttering these words he sprung from his couch with the intention of grappling with the old man; but Cristofano retreated, and at that instant the brigands, who rushed to his aid, thrust me forward. I was face to face with the marchese.
The apparition of the murdered man could not have staggered him more. His limbs were stiffened by the shock, and he remained in an attitude of freezing terror.
“Is he come for vengeance?” he ejaculated.
“He is!” cried Cristofano. “Give him the weapon!”
And a stiletto was thrust into my hand. But I heeded not the steel. I tore open my bosom — a small diamond cross was within the folds.
“Do you recollect this?” I demanded of the marchese.
“It was my wife’s!” he shrieked in amazement.
“It was upon the infant’s bosom as he slept by her side on that fatal night,” said Cristofano. “I saw it sparkle there.”
“That infant was myself — that wife my mother!” I cried.
“The murderer stands before you! Strike!” exclaimed Cristofano.
I raised the dagger. The marchese stirred not. I could not strike.
“Do you hesitate?” angrily exclaimed Cristofano.
“He has not the courage,” returned the younger Calabrian. “You reproached me this morning with want of filial duty. Behold how a son can avenge his father!” And he plunged his stiletto within the bosom of the marchese.
“Your father is not yet avenged, young man!” cried Cristofano, in a terrible tone. “You alone can avenge him!”
Ere I could withdraw its point the old man had rushed upon the dagger which I held extended in my grasp.
He fell without a single groan.
THE END
THE STAR-CHAMBER
AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE,
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CONCLUDING CHAPTER.
”I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it.”
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
The Three Cranes in the Vintry.
Adjoining the Vintry Wharf, and at the corner of a narrow lane communicating with Thames Street, there stood, in the early part of the Seventeenth Century, a tavern called the Three Cranes. This old and renowned place of entertainment had then been in existence more than two hundred years, though under other designations. In the reign of Richard II., when it was first established, it was styled the Painted Tavern, from the circumstance of its outer walls being fancifully coloured and adorned with Bacchanalian devices. But these decorations went out of fashion in time, and the tavern, somewhat changing its external features, though preserving all its internal comforts and accommodation, assumed the name of the Three Crowns, under which title it continued until the accession of Elizabeth, when it became (by a slight modification) the Three Cranes; and so remained in the days of her successor, and, indeed, long afterwards.
Not that the last-adopted denomination had any reference, as might be supposed, to the three huge wooden instruments on the wharf, employed with ropes and pulleys to unload the lighters and other vessels that brought up butts and hogsheads of wine from the larger craft below Bridge, and constantly thronged the banks; though, no doubt, they indirectly suggested it. The Three Cranes depicted on the large signboard, suspended in front of the tavern, were long-necked, long-beaked birds, each with a golden fish in its bill.
But under whatever designation it might be known — Crown or Crane — the tavern had always maintained a high reputation for excellence of wine: and this is the less surprising when we take into account its close proximity to the vast vaults and cellars of the Vintry, where the choicest produce of Gascony, Bordeaux, and other wine-growing districts, was deposited; some of which we may reasonably conclude would find its way to its tables. Good wine, it may be incidentally remarked, was cheap enough when the Three Cranes was first opened, the delicate juice of the Gascoign grape being then vended, at fourpence the gallon, and Rhenish at sixpence! Prices, however, had risen considerably at the period of which we propose to treat; but the tavern was as well-reputed and well-frequented as ever: even more so, for it had considerably advanced in est
imation since it came into the hands of a certain enterprising French skipper, Prosper Bonaventure by name, who intrusted its management to his active and pretty little wife Dameris, while he himself prosecuted his trading voyages between the Garonne and the Thames. And very well Madame Bonaventure fulfilled the duties of hostess, as will be seen.
Now, as the skipper was a very sharp fellow, and perfectly understood his business-practically anticipating the Transatlantic axiom of buying at the cheapest market and gelling at the dearest-he soon contrived to grow rich. He did more: he pleased his customers at the Three Cranes. Taking care to select his wines judiciously, and having good opportunities, he managed to obtain possession of some delicious vintages, which, could not be matched elsewhere; and, with this nectar at his command, the fortune of his house was made. All the town gallants flocked to the Three Cranes to dine at the admirable French ordinary newly established there, and crush a flask or so of the exquisite Bordeaux, about which, and its delicate flavour and bouquet, all the connoisseurs in claret were raving. From, mid-day, therefore, till late in the afternoon, there were nearly as many gay barges and wherries as lighters lying off the Vintry Wharf; and sometimes, when accommodation was wanting, the little craft were moored along the shore all the way from Queenhithe to the Steelyard; at which latter place the Catherine Wheel was almost as much noted for racy Rhenish and high-dried neat’s tongues, as our tavern was for fine Bordeaux and well-seasoned pâtés.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 512