“Yes, you are right, it is a wonderfully strengthening wine!” said the prior, folding his hands and directing his eyes toward the heavens. “We thank God that He has left us in possession of so precious an essence! The pope, they say, is suffering and needs strengthening. See how closely we follow the teaching of Him whose name we bear, and who has commanded, ‘Love your enemies, bless those who curse you!’ Instead of avenging ourselves, we would be his benefactors, and refresh him with the most precious of what we possess!”
“And you would be so unselfish as to keep from him all knowledge of your benevolence, you would bless him quite secretly! But how if I should betray you, and communicate your precious secret to his holiness the pope? Yes, yes, I shall open my mouth and speak, unless I am prevented by a golden lock put upon my lips.”
“We shall willingly apply such a lock!” said the pleased prior.
“But, that it may entirely close my mouth, the lock will need to be very heavy!” responded Albani, with a laugh.
“It is so—it weighs six thousand scudi!” said the prior.
“That is much too light!” exclaimed Albani, laughing; “it will hardly cover my mouth. It still remains that I am to undertake a very hazardous affair. Reflect, if any one should discover my possession of this strange wine; if Ganganelli should perceive that it is not wine from his own cellar that I have poured into the cup for him! It is dangerous work that you would assign to me, a work for which I might lose my head, and you venture to offer me a poor six thousand scudi for it! Adieu, then, pious fathers, keep you your golden lock, and I my unclosed lips. I shall know when and where to speak!”
And the cardinal moved toward the door. Hastening after him, the prior handed him a small flask, the contents of which were clear and pure as crystal water, timidly and anxiously whispering, “Ten drops of this in Ganganelli’s communion wine, and ten thousand scudi are yours!”
“Give the ten thousand scudi at once!” said Albani, with decision.
“And the drops?”
“The pope’s wine is too strong: I will reduce it a little with this pure water.” (*)
On the following day there was a solemn high office in St. Peter’s. All Rome flocked there, to see this great and touching spectacle. A dense crowd thronged the streets, and all shouted and cried when the pope, surrounded by his Swiss guard, appeared in their midst in his gilded armchair, and received the greetings of the people with a bland smile.
Toward St. Peter’s waved the human throng, and to St. Peter’s the pope was borne. The features of Ganganelli had an expression of sadness, and as he now glanced down upon the thousands of his subjects who, shouting, followed him, he asked in his heart, “Who among you will be my murderers? And how long will you yet allow me to live? Ah, were I yet the poor Franciscan monk I was, then no one would take the pains to assassinate me. Why, then, does the world, precisely now, seem so fair to me, now, when I know that I must leave it so soon?” And the pope shed a secret tear while, surrounded by royal splendor, he imparted his blessing to the thousands who reverently knelt at his feet.
The bells rang, the organ resounded, the wide halls of St. Peter’s were penetrated by the marvellous singing of the Sistine chapel. Thousands and thousands of wax tapers lighted the noble space of the church, thousands and thousands of people pressed into the sacred halls. Under his canopy, opposite the high altar, sat the vicegerent of God upon his golden throne, surrounded by the consecrated cardinals and bishops, protected by the Swiss guard! Who could have ventured to attack the holy father—who would have been so foolhardy as to attempt to penetrate that thick wall of Swiss guards and princes of the Church—who could have been successful in such an attempt? No human being! But where the people could not penetrate, where there was no room for the swinging of a dagger, there the malignant poison lurked unseen!
Ganganelli sat upon his golden throne, intoxicated by the clang of the organ and charmed by the singing of the high choir, and the pope, looking down upon the human crowd, again asked himself: “Who among you are my murderers?”
The singing ceased, the organ was silent, and only the solemn tones of all the bells of St. Peter’s resounded through the church. A death-like stillness else; the people lay upon their knees and crossed themselves; before the altar kneeling priests murmured prayers.
It was a solemn, a sublime moment, for the pope must now receive the communion—the vicegerent of God must drink the blood of the Lamb. But still the pope remains sacred; he cannot, like other mortals, make use of his earthly feet; he must not, like them, approach the altar. Sitting upon his throne, he has partaken of the holy wafer, and, as it was unbecoming his dignity to descend to the altar in order to come to Christ, the latter must decide to come to him!
The golden chalice at the high altar contains the blood of the Lamb; the Cardinal Francesco Albani performs the holy office. He has the blessed host, and under his consecrated hand will now be effected the miracle of turning the wine into the blood of Christ!
And Cardinal Albani lays the golden tube in the cup, and another cardinal passes the other end of the tube to the pope.
Through this sacred tube will he sip the consecrated wine, the blood of the Redeemer!
Rushing and thundering recommences the high office, the trumpets renew their blasts, the drums roll, the bells ring, the organ rattles its song of jubilee, the trombones crash in unison. It is the greatest, most sublime moment of the whole ceremony. The pope, having put the golden tube to his lips, sips the wine changed into blood.
While the pope drinks the two cardinals who to-day are on service approach the sacred throne. They hold a torch in the right hand and a small bundle of tow in the left, and according to the custom, set the tow on fire.
It flashes up in a bright flame, is soon extinguished, and a small, almost imperceptible quantity of ashes floats from it to the feet of the pope.
“Sic transit gloria mundi!” (So passes the glory of the world!) exclaimed Francesco Albani, with proud presumptuousness and with maliciously scornful glances, while with an expression of savage triumph he stares in the paling face of the pope. “Sic transit gloria mundi!” repeated Albani, in a yet louder and more thundering voice.
The bells ring, the hymn resounds, the trombone and organ clang; the audience are on their knees in prayer. A bustle arises, a suppressed murmur—the holy father of Christendom has fainted upon his throne like any common mortal man.
Since Paulo had left her, and she found herself alone, Natalie felt sad, solitary, in the paradise that surrounded her. No longer did she sing in emulation of the birds, no longer did she hop with youthful delight and the impetuosity of a young roe through the charming alleys. Sadly, and with downcast eyes, sat she under the myrtle bush by the murmuring fountains, and frequent heavy sighs heaved her laboring breast.
“All is changed, all!” she often thoughtfully said to herself. “A great and terrible secret has been unveiled within me—the secret of my utter abandonment! I have no one on earth to whom I belong! Once I never thought of that. Paulo was all to me, my friend, my father, my brother; but Paulo has abandoned me, I belong not to him, and hence I could not go with him. And who is left to me? Carlo!” she answered herself in a low tone, and with a melancholy smile. “But Carlo has not filled the void that Paulo’s absence has left in my heart. At first I thought he could, but that was only a short deception. Carlo is good and kind, always devoted, always ready to serve me. He always conforms himself to my will, is all subjection, all obedience. But that is terrible, unbearable!” exclaimed the almost weeping young maiden. “Who, then, shall I obey, before whom shall I tremble, when all obey me and tremble before me? And yet Carlo is a man. No,” said she, quite low; “were he so I should then obey him, and not he me; then would he give me commands, and not I him! No, Carlo is no man—Paulo was so! Where art thou, my friend, my father?”
And the young maiden yearningly spread her arms in the air, calling upon her distant friend with tender, low-whispered words and heartfelt longings.
But the days slowly passed, and still no news came from him. Natalie dreamily and sadly sank deeper into herself; her cheeks paled, her step became less light and elastic. In vain did her true friends, Marianne and Carlo, exhaust themselves in projects and propositions for her distraction and amusement.
“You should go into the world and amuse yourself in society, princess,” said Carlo.
“I hate the world and society,” said Natalie. “People are all bad, and I abominate them. What had I done to these people, how had I offended them even in thought, and yet they would have murdered me the very first time I appeared among them? No, no, leave me here in my solitude, where I at least have not to tremble for my life, where I have Carlo to guard and protect me.”
The singer pressed the proffered hand to his lips.
“Then let us at least make some excursions in the environs of Rome,” said he.
“No,” said she, “I should everywhere long to be back in my garden. Nowhere is it so beautiful as here. Leave me my paradise—why would you drive me from it?”
“Alas!” despairingly exclaimed Carlo, “you call yourself happy and satisfied; why, then, are you so sad?”
“Am I sad?” she asked, with surprise. “No, Carlo, I am not sad! I sometimes dream, nothing more! Let me yet dream!”
“You will die,” thought Carlo, and with an effort he forced back the cry of despair that pressed to his lips; but his cheeks paled, and his whole form trembled.
Seeing it, Natalie shook off her apathy, and with a lively sympathy and tender friendship she inquired the cause of his disquiet. She was so near him that her breath fanned his cheek, and her locks touched his brow.
“Ah, you would kill me, you would craze me!” murmured he, sorrowfully, sinking down, powerless, at her feet.
She looked wonderingly at him. “Why are you angry with me?” she innocently said, “and what have I done, that you so wrongfully accuse me?”
“What have you done?” cried he, beside himself,—the moment had overcome him, this moment had burst the bands with which he had bound his heart, and in unfettered freedom, in glowing passion, his long-concealed secret forced its way to his lips. He must at length for once speak of his sorrows, even if death should follow; he must give expression to his torment and his love, even should Natalie banish him forever from her presence!
“What have you done?” repeated he. “Ah, she does not even know that she is slowly murdering me, she does not even know that I love her!”
“Am I not to know?” she reproachfully asked. “Would you, indeed, have saved my life had you not loved me? Carlo I am indebted to you for my life, and you say I murder you!”
“Yes,” he frowardly exclaimed, “you murder me! Slowly, day by day, hour by hour, am I consumed by this frightful internal fire that is destroying me. Ah, you know not that you are killing me. And have you not destroyed my youthful strength, and from a man converted me into an old, trembling, and complaining woman? Is it not for your sake that I have fled the world, leaving behind me all it offered of fame and wealth and honor? Is it not your fault that I have ceased to be a free man, to have a will of my own, and have become a slave crawling at your feet? Ah, woe is me, that I ever came to know you! You are an enchantress, you have made me your hound, and, whining, I lie in the dust before you, satisfied when you touch me with your foot.”
At first, Natalie had listened to him with terror and astonishment; then an expression of noble pride was to be read upon her features, a glowing flush flitted over her delicate cheeks, and with flashing eyes and a heaving bosom she sprang up from her seat. Proud as a queen she rose erect, the blood of her ancestors awoke in her; she at this moment felt herself free as an empress, as proud, as secure—and, stretching her arm toward the outlet of the garden, she said in a determined tone: “Go, Signor Carlo! Leave me, I tell you! We have no longer any thing in common with each other!”
Carlo seemed as if awakened from a delirium. Breathless, with widely-opened eyes, trembling and anxious, he stared at the angry maiden. He knew nothing of what he had said; he comprehended not her anger, only his infinite suffering; he was conscious only of his long-suppressed, long-concealed secret love. And, grasping Natalie’s hands with an imploring expression, he constrained the young maiden, almost against her will, to remain and reseat herself upon the grassy bank before which he knelt.
As he looked up to her with those glowing, passionate glances, a maiden fear and trembling for the first time came over her, an anxiety and timidity inexplicable to herself! Her delicate, transparent cheeks paled, tears filled her eyes, and, folding her hands with a childishly supplicating expression, she said in a low, tremulous tone: “My God, my God! Have mercy upon me! I am a wholly abandoned, solitary orphan! Rescue me yet from this trouble and distress, from this terrible loneliness!”
“Fear nothing, my charming angel,” whispered Carlo, “I will be gentle as a lamb, and patient, very patient in my sorrow; I have sworn it and will keep my oath! But you must hear me! You must, only this one time, allow me to express in words my love and my sorrow, my misery and my ecstasy. Will you allow me this, my lily, my beautiful swan?”
He would have again grasped her hand, but she withdrew it with a proud, angry glance.
“Speak on,” said she, wearily leaning her hand against the myrtle-bush. “Speak on, I will listen to you!”
And he spoke to her of his love; he informed her of his former life, his poverty, his want, his connection with Corilla, whom he had quitted in order to devote himself wholly to her, to obey, serve, and worship her all his life, and, if necessary, to die for her! “But you,” he despairingly said, “you know not love! Your heart is cold for earthly love; like the angels in heaven, you love only the good and the sublime, you love mankind collectively, but not the individual. Ah, Natalie, you have the heart of an angel, but not the heart of a woman!”
The young maiden had half dreamingly listened to him, her hand leaned back and her glance directed toward the heavens. She now smiled, and, with an inimitable grace, laying her hand upon her bosom, said in a very low tone: “And yet I feel that a woman’s heart is beating there. But it sleeps! Who will one day come to awaken it?”
Carlo did not understand these low whispered words; he understood only his own passion, his own consuming glow. And anew he commenced his love-plainings, described to her the torments and fierce joys of an unreturned love, which is yet too strong and overpowering to be suppressed. And Natalie listened to him with a dreamy thoughtfulness. His words sounded in her ears like a wonderful song from a strange, distant world which she knew not, but the description of which filled her heart with a sweet longing, and she could have wept, without knowing whether it was for sorrow or joy.
“Thus, Natalie,” at length said Carlo, entirely exhausted and pale with emotion—“thus I love you. You must sometime have learned it, and have known that even angels cannot mingle with mortals unloved and unpunished. I should finally have been compelled to tell you that you might torture no longer, in cruel ignorance; that you, learning to understand your own heart, might tell me whether I have to hope, or only to fear!”
“Poor Carlo!” murmured Natalie. “You love me, but I do not love you! This has even now become clear to me; and while you have so glowingly described the passion, I have for the first time comprehended that I yet know nothing of that love, and that I can never learn it of you! This is a misfortune, Carlo, but as we cannot change, we must submit to it.”
Carlo drooped his head and sighed. He had no answer to make, and only murmuringly repeated her words: “Yes, we must submit to it!”
“And why can we not?” she almost cheerfully asked, with that childlike innocence which never once comprehended the sorrow she was preparing for Carlo—“why can we not joyfully submit? We both love, only in a different manner. Let each preserve and persevere in his own manner, and then all may yet be well!”
“And it shall be well!” exclaimed Carlo, with animation. “You cannot love me as I love you, but I can devote my whole life to you, and that will I do! At home, in my charming Naples, a beautiful custom is prevalent. When one loves, he is adopted as a vapo, a protector, who follows the steps of the one he loves, who watches before her door when she sleeps, who secretly lurks at a distance behind her when she leaves her house, who observes every passer-by in order to preserve her from every murderous or other inimical attack, or in case of need to hasten to her assistance. Such a vapo protects her against the jealousy of her husband or the vengeance of a dismissed lover. Natalie, as I cannot be your lover, I will be your vapo. Will you accept my services?”
Giving him her hand, she smilingly said, “I will.”
Carlo pressed that hand to his lips, and bedewed it with a warm tear.
“Well, then, I swear myself your vapo,” said he, with deep emotion. “Wherever you may be, I shall be near you, I shall always follow to warn and to protect you; should you be in danger, call me and you will find me at your side, whether by night or by day; I shall always watch over you and sleep at the threshold of your door, and should a dream alarm you, I shall be there to tranquillize you. So long as I live, Natalie, so long as your vapo has a dagger and a sure hand, so long shall misfortune fail to penetrate into your dwelling. You cannot be mine, or return my love, but I can care for you and watch over you. In accepting me for your vapo, you have given me the right to die for you if necessary, and that of itself is a happiness!”
Thus speaking Carlo rose, and, no longer able to conceal his deep emotion and suppress his tears, he left Natalie, and hastened into the obscurest alleys of the garden.
The young maiden watched his retreat with a sad smile.
“Poor Carlo!” murmured she, “and ah! yet much poorer Natalie! He loves at least. But I, am I not much more to be pitied? I have no one whom I love. I am entirely isolated, and of what use is a solitary paradise?”
Corilla had kept her word. She had sent to Alexis Orloff, Carlo’s brother, Joseph Ribas, the galley-slave, and with a malicious smile she had said to the latter, “You will avenge me on your treacherous brother?”
Count Orloff warmly welcomed Corilla’s protege.
“If you give me satisfaction,” said he, “you may expect a royal recompense, and the favor of the exalted Empress of Russia. First of all, tell me what you can do?”
“Not much,” said Joseph Ribas, laughing, “and the little I can will yet be condemned as too much. I can very dexterously wield the dagger, and reach the heart through the back! Because I did that to a successful rival at Palermo, I was compelled by the police to flee to Naples. There a good friend taught me how to make counterfeit money, an art which I brought to some perfection, and which I successfully practised for some years. But the police, thinking my skill too great, finally relieved me from my employment, and gave me free board and lodging for ten years in the galley. Ah, that was a happy time, your excellency. I learned much in the galleys, and something which I can now turn to account in your service. I learned to speak the Russian language like a native of Moscow. Such a one was for seven years my inseparable friend and chain-companion, and as he was too stupid or too lazy to learn my language, I was forced to learn his, that I might be able to converse with him a little. That, your excellency, is about all I know; to wield the dagger, make counterfeit money, speak the Russian language, and some other trifling tricks, which, however, may be of service to your excellency.”
“Who knows?” said Orloff, laughing. “Do you understand, for example, how to break into a house and steal gold and diamonds, without being caught in the act?”
“That,” said Joseph, thoughtfully, “I should hope to be able to accomplish. I have, indeed, as yet, had no experience in that line, but in the galleys I have listened to the soundest instructions, and heard the experiences of the greatest master of that art, with the curiosity of an emulous student!”
Orloff laughed. “You are a sly fellow,” said he, “and please me much. If you act as well as you talk, we shall soon be good friends! Well, to-morrow night you make your first essay. The business is an invasion.”
“And that shall be my masterpiece!” responded Joseph Ribas.
“If you succeed, I will, in the name of my illustrious empress, immediately take you into her service, and you become an officer of the Russian marine.”
Joseph Ribas stared at him with astonishment. “That is certainly an immense honor and a great good fortune,” said he, “only I should like to know if the Russian marine engages in sea-fights, and if the officers are obliged to stand under fire?”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Orloff, laughing, “but in such cases you can conceal yourself behind the cannon until the fight is over!”
“I shall remember your wise suggestion in time of need!” seriously responded Joseph Ribas, bowing to the count.(*) “And where, your excellency, is to be the scene of my present activity? Where am I to gain my epaulets?”
“I will myself conduct you to the spot and show you the house where a rich set of diamonds and some thousands of scudi are lying in company with your epaulets!”
“And as I have rather long fingers, I shall be able to grasp both the epaulets and the treasure,” laughingly responded Ribas.
It was in the evening after this conversation of Orloff with Joseph Ribas, a wonderfully brilliant evening, such as is known only under Italian skies.
Natalie inhaled the soft air with delight, and drank in the intoxicating odor of the flowers which poured out their sweetest fragrance in the cool of the evening. She was on this evening unusually cheerful; with the smiling brow and childish gayety, as in happier days, she skipped down the alleys, or, with her guitar upon her arm, reposed upon her favorite seat under the myrtle-bush near the murmuring fountains.
“I am to-day so happy, ah, so happy,” said she, “in consequence of having dreamed of Paulo—in my dream he was near me, spoke to me, and that is a sure sign of his speedy return! Oh, certainly, certainly! In my dream he announced it to me, and I distinctly heard him say: ‘We shall meet again, Natalie. I shall soon be with you!’”
“Ah, may this dream but prove true!” sighed Marianne, Natalie’s faithful companion. She was standing, not far from her mistress, with Carlo, and both were tenderly observing the young maiden, who now smilingly grasped her guitar and commenced a song of joy for Paulo’s expected return!
“I have no faith in our count’s return!” whispered Marianne while Natalie was singing. “It is a bad sign that no news, not a line, nor even the shortest message, had yet come from him. Something unusual, some great and uncontrollable misfortune, must have prevented his writing!”
“You do not think they have imprisoned him?” asked Carlo.
“I fear it,” sighed Marianne. “And if so, what fate then awaits our poor princess? Helpless, alone, without means! For if the count is imprisoned, he will no longer be in a condition to send money as he promised. And we now possess only a thousand scudi, with double that amount in diamonds!”
“Then we are still rich enough to keep off deprivations for a time!” said Carlo.
“But when at length these last resources are exhausted?” asked Marianne—“when we no longer have either money or diamonds—how then?”
“Oh, then,” exclaimed Carlo, with a beaming face, “then will we labor for her! That, also, will be a pleasure, Marianne!”
While the two were thus conversing, Natalie, with a happy smile and cheerful face, was still singing her hymn of joy for Paulo’s approaching return to the accompaniment of the rustling trees, the murmuring fountains, and the chirping birds in the myrtle-bush. It was a beautiful night, and as the bright full moon now advanced between the pines, illuminating Natalie’s face and form, the partially intoxicated and perfectly happy Carlo whispered: “Only look, Marianne! does she not resemble a blessed angel ready to spread her wings, and with the moonlight to mount up to the stars? Only look, seems it not as if the moonbeams tenderly embraced her for the purpose of leading an angel back to its home?”
“May she, at least, one day, with such a happy smile, take her departure for the skies!” sighed Marianne, piously folding her hands.
At this moment a shrill, cutting wail interrupted Natalie’s song. A string of her guitar had suddenly snapped asunder; frightened, almost angry, Natalie let the instrument fall to the earth, and again the strings resounded like lamentations and sighs.
“That is a bad omen,” sighed Natalie. “How, if that should be true, and not my dream?”
And trembling with anxiety, the young maiden stretched forth her hands toward her friends.
“Carlo—Marianne,” she anxiously said, “come here to me, protect me with your love from this mortal fear and anguish which has suddenly come over me. See, the moon is hiding behind the clouds. Ah, the whole world grows dark and casts a mourning veil over its bright face!”
And the timid child, clinging to Marianne’s arm, concealed her face in the bosom of her motherly friend.
“And you call that an omen!” said Carlo, with forced cheerfulness. “This time, princess, I am the fatum which has alarmed you! It is my own fault that this string broke. It was already injured and half broken this evening when I tuned the guitar, but I hoped it would suffice for the low, sad melodies you now always play. Yes, could I have known that you would have so exulted and shouted, I should have replaced it with another string, and this great misfortune would not have occurred.”
While speaking, he had again attached the string and drawn it tight.
“The defective string is quickly repaired, and you can recommence your hymn of joy,” he said, handing back the guitar to Natalie.
She sadly shook her head. “It is passed,” said she, “I can exult and sing no more to-day, and have an aversion to this garden. See how black and threatening these pines rise up, and do not these myrtle-bushes resemble large dark graves? No, no; it frightens me here—I can no longer remain among these graves and these watchers of the dead! Come, let us go to our rooms! It is night—we will sleep and dream! Come, let us immediately go into the house.”
And like a frightened roe she fled toward the house, the others following her.
In an hour all was silent in the villa. The lights were successively extinguished in Natalie’s and Marianne’s chambers; only in Carlo’s little chamber yet burned a dull, solitary lamp, and occasionally the shadow of the uneasy singer passed the window as he restlessly walked his room. At length, however, this lamp also was distinguished, and all was dark and still.
About this time a dark shadow was seen creeping slowly and cautiously through the garden. Soon it stood still, and then one might have supposed it to be a deception, and that only the wind shaking the pines had caused that moving shadow. But suddenly it again appeared in a moonlighted place, where no bush or tree threw its shade, and, as if alarmed by the brightness, it then again moved aside into the bushes.
This shadow came constantly nearer and nearer to the house, and as the walks were here broader and lighter, one might distinctly discern that it was a human being, the form of a tall, stately man, that so cautiously and stealthily approached the house. And what is that, sparkling and flashing in his girdle—is it not a dagger, together with a pistol and a long knife? Ah, a threatening, armed man is approaching this silent, solitary house, and no one sees, no one hears him! Even the two large hounds which with remarkable watchfulness patrol the garden during the night, even they are silent! Ah, where, then, are they? Carlo had himself unchained them that they might wander freely—where, then, can they be?
They lie in the bushes far from the house, cold, stiff, and lifeless. Before them lies a piece of seductively smelling meat. That was what had enticed them to forget their duty, and, instead of growling and barking, they had with snuffling noses been licking this tempting flesh. Their instinct had not told them it was poisoned, and therefore they now lay stiff and cold near the food that had destroyed them.
No, from those hounds he had nothing more to fear, this bold, audacious man; the hounds will no more betray him, nor warningly announce that Joseph Ribas, the venturesome thief and galley-slave, is lurking about the house to steal or murder, as the case may be.
He has now reached the house. He listens for a moment, and as all remains still, no suspicious noise making itself heard, with pitch-covered paper, brought with him for the purpose, he presses in one of the window panes. Then, passing his hand through the vacancy caused by the absent pane of glass, he opens one wing of the French window, and, by a bold leap springing upon the parapet, he lets himself glide slowly down into the room.
Again all is still, and silent lies the solitary, peaceful villa. Suddenly appears a small but bright light behind one of these dark windows.
That is the thief’s lantern, which Joseph Ribas has lighted to illuminate his dark, criminal way.
He cautiously ascends the stairs leading to the second story, and not a step jars under his feet, not one, nor does the slightest noise betray him.
He is now above, in the long corridor. Approaching the first door, he listens long. He hears a loud breathing—some one sleeps within. With one sole quick movement he turns the key remaining in the lock. The door is now locked, and the sleeper within remains undisturbed. Joseph creeps along to the next door, and again he listens to ascertain if there be anything stirring within. But no, he hears nothing! All is still behind the door.
He draws a pistol from his girdle, cocks it, and, thus prepared to resist every attack, he suddenly opens the door. No one is in the room, no one but Joseph Ribas the thief, who, with flashing eyes, suspiciously and carefully examines every hole and corner.
But no, no one is there. Calm and sure, Joseph Ribas, steps into the room, drawing and bolting the door behind him. No one can now surprise him, no one can fall upon him from behind. But yes, there is also a door on each side, right and left. He listens at the first, he thinks he hears a light breathing; here also he quickly shoves a bolt and passes over to the other door, which stands ajar. Cautiously he pushes it open and looks in. A small, dull lamp is burning there, lighting the lovely face of the sleeping Princess Natalie.
“That is she!” low murmured Ribas, as with eager glances he observes the young and charming maiden. He is drawn forward as if with invisible bands—he penetrates into this sacred asylum of the slumbering maiden. But he forcibly checks his advance. “I have sworn not to touch her, and I will keep my word, that I may secure my epaulets!” he muttered to himself, and, retreating into the first chamber, he bolts the door, to make all sure, that leads into Natalie’s chamber.
“Now to the work!” said he, with decision. “Here stands the bureau, the treasure must be here.”
And, placing his dark lantern upon a table, he draws forth his picklock and chisels, and commences breaking open the bureau. Right—this thievish instinct has not deceived him, he has found all, all. Here is the little box of sparkling diamonds, and here the full purses of money.
With a knavish smile, Joseph Ribas conceals the brilliants in his bosom, and deposits the money in his capacious pockets.
“It is a pity that this is not mine,” he muttered with a grin, “but toward this count I must act as an honorable thief, and I have promised to bring it all truly to him.”
The work is completed, the malicious criminal act is performed. He can now go, can again creep away from the house his feet have soiled.
Why does he not? Why does he linger in these rooms? Why directs he such wild and eager glances to the door behind which Natalie sleeps?
He cannot withstand the temptation, and even at the risk of awaking Natalie, he must see her once more! And, moreover, what had he to fear from an isolated young girl? He will only have one more look at her. Nothing more!
He noiselessly pushes back the bolt; noiselessly, upon tiptoe, with closed lantern, he creeps into the room and to Natalie’s bedside.
She is wonderfully beautiful, and she smiles in her slumber. How charming is that placid face, that half-uncovered shoulder, that arm thrown up over her head, where it is half concealed under her luxuriant locks! Wonderfully beautiful is she. Dares he to touch that arm and breathe a kiss, a very light kiss, upon those fragrant lips? Why not? No one sees him, nor will Count Alexis Orloff ever know that his commands have been disobeyed.
But as he bent down, as his breath comes only in light contact with her cheek, she stirs! Maiden modesty never slumbers; it watches over the sleeping girl, it protects her. It is her good genius who never deserts her.
Drawing herself up, Natalie opens her eyes and starts up from her couch. Then she sees a large, threatening masculine form close before her, close before her that wildly-laughing face.
A shriek of terror and anguish bursts from her lips, and in a tone of alarm she calls: “Carlo, Carlo! Help! help! Carlo! Save—”
More she did not say. With a wild rage, angry, and ashamed of his own folly, Joseph Ribas rushes upon her.
“One more cry!” he threateningly said—“one more call for help, and I will murder you!”
But at this moment a small curtained door which Ribas had not remarked and hence not fastened, was suddenly opened, and Carlo rushed in.
“I am here, Natalie!—I am here!”
Rushing upon the stranger, and grasping him with gigantic strength, he thrust him down from the bed.
Joseph Ribas turned toward his new and unexpected enemy. The lamp lighted his face, and falling back Carlo shrieked, “My brother!”
Joseph Ribas broke out into a loud, savage laugh. “At length we meet, my brother,” said he. “But this time you shall not hinder me in my work. This time I am the conqueror!”
“No, no, that you are not!” cried Carlo, beside himself with pain and rage. “Confess what you want in this house—confess, or you are a dead man!”
And with a drawn dagger he rushed upon his opponent!
A frightful struggle ensued. Natalie, in her night-dress, pale as a lily, knelt upon her bed and prayed. She had folded her hands over her breast, directly over the place where the papers confided to her by Paulo, in a little silken bag, always hung suspended by a golden chain.
“Grant, O my God,” prayed she—“grant that I may keep my promise to Paulo, and that I may defend these papers with my life!”
And the two brothers were still struggling and contending; like two serpents they had coiled around each other, and held each other in their toils.
“Flee, flee, Natalie!” groaned Carlo, with a weakened voice—“flee away from here! I yet hold him, you are yet safe! Flee!”
But in this moment the maiden thought not of her own danger. She thought only of Carlo. Springing from her bed, with flashing eyes she boldly threw herself between the contending men.
“No, no,” said she, courageously, “I will not flee—I shall at least know how to die!”
A shriek resounded from Carlo’s lips, his arms relaxed and fell from his enemy, leaving his brother free.
“Ah, finally, finally!” gasped the panting Joseph. “That was an amusing carnival farce, my virtuous brother! Farewell! I am this time triumphant!”
With a wild leap he sprang to the door; brandishing his bloody dagger in his right hand, he ran through the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the garden.
“Saved!” said he, breathing more freely. “I think this Russian will be satisfied with me! I bring the money and the diamonds, and at the same time have effectually opened a vein for this troublesome protector! Ah, it seems to me I have very successfully put in practice my studies in the high-school of the galleys!”
And, humming a jovial song, Joseph Ribas swung himself into a tree close to the wall, and let himself down on the other side.
Above, in Natalie’s chamber, Carlo long lay stretched on the floor, pale, with the death-rattle in his throat. In a bright stream flowed the blood from the wound made by his brother’s dagger. Natalie knelt by him. No tear was in her eye, no lamentation escaped her lips. She seemed perfectly calm and collected in her excess of sorrow; she only sought with her robe and her hair to cover Carlo’s wound and stop the flow of blood.
A happy smile played upon Carlo’s blue lips.
“I die,” he murmured, “but I die for thee! Thy vapo has kept his word, he has defended thee until his last breath! How good is God! He lets me die in thy service!”
“No, no, you must not die!” cried Natalie, her calmness giving way to the wildest sorrow. “No, Carlo, you must live! Oh, say not that you die! Ah, you love me, and yet you would leave me alone! Only live, and I also will love you, Carlo, as warmly and as glowingly as you love me! Do but remain with me, and my heart, my life shall be yours!”
“Too late! too late!” murmured Carlo, with dying lips. “Remember me, Natalie—I have dearly loved you. I die happy, for I die in your arms!”
“No, no, you shall live in my arms!” sobbed she. “I will be yours—your bride!”
“Kiss me, my bride,” he falteringly stammered.
She bent over him, and with hers she touched his lips, already stiffening in death. She laid her warm, glowing cheek to his cold and marble-pale face; that full, fresh life pressed that which was cold and expiring to her bosom in an ardent struggle with death! In vain!
Death is inexorable. What he has once touched with his hand, that is past recovery, it is his.
The blood no longer flowed from Carlo’s wound, the breath no longer rattled in his throat—it was silent; but a blessed smile still lay upon his lips. With this smile had he died, happy, blessed in the embrace of her he had so truly loved.
When Marianne, after long and vain efforts to open the door, had finally managed, by tying her bed-clothes together, to let herself down into the garden, and had thence hastened into the house, and up into Natalie’s chamber, she found there all silent and still. Nothing stirred. Natalie lay in a deathlike swoon.
He, Carlo, already stiffened in death, and she, the senseless Natalie, with her head reclining against the marble face of her friend!
Poor Natalie! Why must Marianne succeed in awakening thee from thy swoon? Why did you not let her continue in her insensibility, Marianne? In sleep, she at least would not have realized that she was now left entirely alone, entirely abandoned, with no one to defend her against her cruel and artful enemies, of whose existence she never once dreamed!