Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp, Volume I by Archaeologist James Grant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXI.

SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF CASTELERMO.

While Signor Belcastro scanned the star-lighted valley to trace the march of those troops whom he had no wish to see, servants laid a hasty supper of various cold meats, boiled maccheroni, and fruit, all of which were very acceptable to the cavaliere and myself; we were well appetized by our ride over the mountains, exposed to a keen tramontana, or north wind, which had been blowing for the last two hours.

"Be seated, gentlemen!" said our host, as he took the head of the table. "Will you not lay aside your swords?"

"We have been so much accustomed to them of late, that mine is no encumbrance."

"Nor mine," said Marco, bestowing on me a glance so peculiar, that I refrained from unclasping my belt. There was so much blunt distrust in this, that the face of Belcastro flushed.

"Shall we not have the pleasure of seeing the signora at supper?" said Marco, as he spread his table napkin, and attacked a plate of cold roasted meat, affecting to be unconscious that he stung Belcastro to the quick by the question.

"I regret that she is indisposed," he replied, regarding the cavalier with furtive glances, his eyes burning like red sparks beneath his shaggy brows; "seriously so: but, indeed, she never appears before visitors."

"So I have heard at Palermo," said Marco, drily, and in the same peculiar tone, while the face of Belcastro grew purple and the gash black; though he continued his supper with apparent composure. "'T is said, signor," continued his tormentor, "that being jealous of her surpassing beauty, you keep her a little too close, after the old Italian fashion. I have heard the captive lady of Belcastro spoken of more than once at the Sicilian court; and truly, but that the days of chivalry are gone by, our grand master would have sent a squadron of his best knights to summon your stronghold——"

"Cavaliere Marco!" said our host, sternly, "those persons at Palermo or elsewhere, who meddle with my affairs, will act a wiser part in attending to their own. Massena is now hovering on the frontiers of Upper Calabria with a force that must sweep the British from Italy—ay, and from Sicily, too! Where, then, will be the lazzaroni court? Signor, cease your jesting. Cospetto! this is not a time for the courtiers of Ferdinand to create enemies."

There was something in all this beyond my comprehension. I supped rather uncomfortably: some mischief was brewing. Why, I knew not; but the half nonchalant, half contemptuous manner of Castelermo, and the sullen air of Belcastro, were not calculated to make me feel perfectly "at home." The conversation that passed was purely political, and conducted in a very unpleasant style of sarcasm and retort. Our host seemed no friend to the Bourbon cause, and freely abused the character of Ferdinand.

"But glory to Carolina!" he added, "she is worth a legion of such men as her husband; and but for her influence alone, the spirit of resistance (you term it honour and freedom) had long since been scared from Naples by the eagles of Napoleon!"

"'T is a sad truth," said Castelermo, with a sigh. "Oh, that the pure flame of patriotism which burns in my own breast could be kindled in every Italian heart!—that my countrymen, instead of their silly desire for separate dukedoms and independent commonwealths, would cherish a spirit of love and union, and exalt the standard of their country to that place which it once held. Then the Ausonians would become once more a people, like their Latin fathers: the first on earth. Think of the richness of our soil, which yields in abundance all that man can desire; the magnificence of our cities, which have ever been famous for the great men they have produced—historians, politicians, poets, painters, musicians, and sculptors. 'T is the land to which all Europe owes its religion, its civilization, and its laws! But, alas! its spirit is dead; or Italy would become once more a nation, and a great one: not a land of shreds and patches—of principalities, republics, and seignories, pining and withering amid dissensions and jealousies at home, and wars and woes abroad. But Italia! Italia, as she was once—a glorious and united nation—one kingdom from the mountains of Savoy to the Capo del Armi—where would be her equal?"

"Chimera all!" replied Belcastro, coolly draining a glass of wine; while Marco, whose eyes sparkled, and whose cheek flushed scarlet during this outburst, continued with a tone of sadness—

"I know it. Never will her people or her wicked rulers be aware of this: as Austria is, and other nations are, whose interest it is to keep Italy feeble, partitioned, and divided."

"Europe must bow to France," said Belcastro, who was a confirmed Buonapartist. "Look around us! Ferdinand styles himself King of Naples and of Sicily: whether he is likely to keep that little long, even though protected by the fleets and armies of Britain, is very problematical. You fight for his crown here among the wilds of Calabria, while he spends his days ingloriously at Palermo; and instead of leading on his Italians to battle, to gain a kingdom or a grave, he hunts in the woods of Sicily, clad in a grey doublet, greasy cap and worsted hose, like some ignoble peasant rather than the son of Charles of Parma and Placentia. In truth, he is the most cowardly, ignorant, and indolent sloth on this side of the Alps. His feeble cause would expire altogether, but for the indomitable spirit of Carolina of Austria; who is the very reverse of such a husband: her presence at the council-table, when fired with ardour and indignation against the destroyers of her sister Marie Antoinette, is alone sufficient to keep alive the sinking patriotism of our nobles."

"Cavalier Galdino," said Marco, angrily, "there is much truth in what you have said: yet remember, that even truth may be treason; and that, if you always express yourself so freely, there are those not far off who will not permit you to pass without molestation. You are aware how merciless our countrymen are to all favourers of Napoleon. Scarolla is among these mountains with his people——"

"Talk not to me of Scarolla!" cried Belcastro, furiously—"a base-born brigand, to whom this very Carolina sends arms and money: and perhaps she has disgraced the order of St. Constantine by hanging it on his villainous neck, as on that of Francatripa, and Mamone the blood-quaffer. A thousand devils! tell me not of Scarolla—but, fico! never mind politics. Here, Baptistello! clear the table, and bring more wine. What shall it be? Malvasia or Champagne? I have some excellent Muscatelle—its flavour is matchless. Shall it be placed before you?"

"Thank you, with pleasure," said I, bowing, glad to find that our irritable host was discovering a little more of the gentleman in his manner.

"I never drink Muscatelle," said Castelermo. This I knew to be false: it was his favourite wine. "But, Signor Belcastro, I——'

"Have no objection to try yours, you would say? Right, Varro—hand down the old silver jars from the left side of the cabinet there: the lower shelf," he added, throwing a ring with keys towards the servant.

The latter opened the antique piece of furniture, which was composed of ebony, ivory, and silver; the pillars, carving, and figures, being all equally elaborate and beautiful. He brought forth from its dark recesses two flasks, or silver vases, of ample dimensions. Each had a small mouth rising from a tall and taper neck; one was closed by a red, the other by a green crystal stopper. Their workmanship was exquisite, but I doubted if the contents were so. Grapes, bacchanals, and nymphs appeared in rich embossage, and a shield on each side bore a coat of arms deeply engraved. Belcastro's dark eyes flashed, but I thought it was with pride, as he pushed the massive flasks towards us, saying—

"These were made by Cellini, the famous Florentine, for Pope Clement VII., and when Rome was sacked by the Constable de Bourbon, an ancestor of mine, who served with his vassals under the papal banner, picked them up in the confusion."

Baptistello placed the vases officiously before Castelermo, whispering to us hastily but audibly the ill-omened words—

"La bella-donna!"

Marco's cheek flushed, and I started, on observing that Varro's usually swart visage was pale as death.

"The vases are indeed superb," said my companion, turning them round with an air of unconcern; which I had some trouble in imitating, feeling certain that a catastrophe was at hand. "Beautiful, truly, and I doubt not that Clement of holy memory prized them highly, and regretted their loss in an equal degree."

"I have goblets to match, said to be made from part of the treasure stolen by the same cunning sculptor from the castle of St. Angelo. Bring them forth, Baptistello."

The servant, after searching for a time in the depths of the cabinet, declared that the goblets were not there.

"Not there, said you? Satan! they have been stolen; and if so, your bare back shall feel a stripe of the scurlada for every bajoccho they were worth!" cried Belcastro passionately, as he started up and flung open the doors of the cabinet.

"Admirable!" muttered Castelermo, changing the crystal stoppers, and receiving a keen glance from Varro, the moment our host's back was turned. "Be still," he added, grasping my arm energetically, "be patient—our lives are hanging by a hair."

"Saved—buono—O, Gran Dio!" added Varro.

"You must be either blind or drunk, Varro, or have the eyes of a mole, for here are the cups," said the cavaliere, placing three silver-chased tankards on the table. "You may retire now—we need you no more," and our friend retired, but only to the hall-door.

"Shall I fill for you, signori," continued Belcastro, taking out the stoppers and filling our cups from one of the flasks; then, as if inadvertently, he filled his own from the other, and drank it off. The commander of Malta crossed himself: his brow was black as night, but his emotion was unnoticed; he took up his cup, and bowing to the host, drained the bright Muscatelle fearlessly. I had no pretence for delay, and to have lingered would have seemed cowardice to Castelermo. It was a horrid dilemma. My brain reeled, my pulses beat thick and fast, my heart sank, and my whole soul was troubled with sensations such as I had never before experienced—and certainly never have since.

It was a frightful moment of doubt and agony. But I drank off the wine (which, for aught that I knew, was charged with a deadly drug), resolving to run the Cavaliere Galdino through the body, the instant I felt the least symptom of illness from it.

"Well, signori, I hope you like my favourite wine," said he, as we set down our cups; a dark smile gathering on his sombre features. But Baptistello, too, was smiling; and I gathered comfort from that. The liquor tasted like ordinary Muscatelle: a little sweeter perhaps in flavour. We had soon no doubt, from the grave, grim, and altered aspect of the cavaliere, that he had filled his own goblet with the poisoned wine intended for our destruction (as it had, perhaps, already been for others) and drugged with an infusion of Solarium, or the deadly nightshade; called Bella-donna by the Italians, because ladies make a cosmetic of the juice. I felt that our safety was entirely owing to Castelermo's presence of mind in changing the stoppers, and became deeply grateful to Varro for his tact and friendly warning.

An awkward pause ensued as we set down our cups. It was a grave moment for us all: we felt in our hearts that a terrible crisis was past. But for my friend's peculiar tact and stern example, I would have flung the goblet at Galdino's head on his invitation to drink, and by refusing to taste the Muscatelle have discovered the dark suspicions we entertained. However, we were safe, while this modern Borgia had fallen into his own snare.

"Come, signori, why pause you thus? You seem not to have relished the wine," said our entertainer, again filling his silver cup from the fatal vase, and draining it to the dregs. "Buono! of all our Italian wines, I prefer the Muscatelle; but this, of course, I produce only on certain occasions, and to certain friends," he added, with a hideous laugh, which made the dark corners of the hall echo hollowly. My heart chilled with abhorrence of the man, and apprehension of what was to ensue.

"Croce di Malta!" muttered Marco, surveying him with a glance of stern curiosity; "his potion operates already."

"His death rests with himself—the guilt, I mean: the deed was his own doing," said I, in the same low tone.

Belcastro, lolling back in his chair, laughed and hallooed in a manner so unusual, that a number of his household crowded about the hall door, and were seen peering fearfully upon our dismal carousal. He showed all the symptoms of sudden intoxication: but the disease that was then spreading through every vein took a new and unexpected turn. Bella-donna often produces idiotcy or folly; and Belcastro became quite insane. The white froth of madness hung from his livid lips and black mustachios, and his eyes, while sparkling with all the fury of a tiger's, were glazing fast with the ghastly glare of death. He laughed boisterously: but such laughter! Regarding him more as a wild beast than a man, I thought only of what my fate might have been, and loosened my sabre in its sheath, ready to draw it the instant his fit took a dangerous turn. Castelermo clenched the hilt of his poniard, and the assembled servants shrank behind our chairs for protection.

"Ha, ha! ho, ho! the wine!—'t is like the flames of hell! O Apostoli! the signora of Belcastro—look well about ye, ye vagabonds! She would have been a capitanessa if she could; but I slashed the gay uniform of her beardless capitano! The traitress, Piozzi! poisoned, per Baccho!" and his head settled down on his breast. The white saliva ran from his mouth over his chin and white ruffled shirt; while his eyes, which were fixed on the face of the cavaliere Marco, flashed like those of a fiend rather than a mortal man. From their position, and the slanting manner in which the light fell on them, they seemed absolutely to shoot forth a blue glare from beneath his beetling brows. His visage was pale as death: all, save the scar, which was still of a dark purple hue.

"Villain!" cried he, pointing to it, and starting up in a new frenzy, "have you forgotten that your poniard disfigured me thus? Have you forgotten that night in the Strada di Toledo, at Naples?"

Marco laughed sternly, and the insane man, quailing before his firm glance, again sank down in his seat: for a time he became silent and still.

"Come hither, Baptistello, and you, Signor Claude," said Castelermo; "aid me to disarm him, or he may turn on us, and with some concealed weapon be the death of us all."

We advanced simultaneously towards him; but with a yell so loud and shrill, that (as Varro afterwards protested) it brought forth an echo from each of the twelve figures of Campanini marble, he leaped from his chair, and rushed towards the windows; through which the bright moonlight streamed, as if vying with the illuminated girandoles of the hall. Impelled by madness, or some strange terror, he dashed headlong through the casement, sending the fragments flying in every direction, and sprang out upon the massive stone balcony. There he tossed his arms wildly, while his domestics, overcome with terror, held aloft their crucifixes, and muttered Aves.

"Dog as he is, let us save him, in the name of mercy! Meet him at the other end of the balcony; and stand well on your guard," exclaimed Castelermo, as we stepped out upon the platform. The Cavaliere Galdino was thus placed between us; but the moment he found us advancing deliberately upon him, he placed both hands on the cope of the stone balustrade, and, uttering a shout of triumph, vaulted over and fell headlong through the space below. Far beneath us we heard a slight brushing on the furzy rocks, a falling of dislodged stones, and all was still.

Half sick and giddy, I clung to the balcony, and looked over on the dark pine forest and winding valley below the tower; from which a plumb-line might have been dropped to the depth of two hundred feet without meeting with an obstacle. He must have been dead before he reached the bottom.

"Devil as he was, and though he has cast a dark shadow on the brightest path that ever opened to me through life, I would rather that he had died at Cassano with his face to the enemy, than thus miserably and ignobly," said Castelermo. "Basta! in making his elegy, I must not forget to thank St. John for our narrow escape, and the author of some ancient story for that blessed hint about changing those coloured stoppers. Ah! the cunning villain. My blood boils while I think of his stern treachery. Approach Baptistello Varro: you shall have a score of bright ducats for this good service to-night," he added, slapping the servant familiarly on the shoulder.

"May my fingers be blistered if I touch them!" said Varro. "Signor, I have only requited the good service you did me on the plains of Apulia, when the Frenchman's plaguy bayonet was at my throat. To any other man than yourself, illustrissimo, I might have behaved like a true sbirro, and allowed him to drink a skinful of la belladonna, if such was the pleasure of his Excellency. 'Tis the third time I have seen these rascally jars produced."

"Then you are the greater rogue, Varro: but as you are deprived of one master, we must find you another. Seek the Cavaliere del Castagno at Crotona, who in my name will enrol you in the Free Corps; where you will do more good service to your country by serving under their colours, than by wearing the livery of these dissipated and tyrannical feudatories, who are a curse to the land they rule."

"Would it please you to see the cavalieressa?" asked Baptistello: "she will be a free woman now, since this last prank of her husband's; and I know a certain capitano who will throw up his cap when he hears of it. A sad life she has endured with him, signor; mewed up in this desolate place, where never a soul was to be seen save a lonely shepherd on the distant mountains, or a stray peasant cutting wood in the valley below. Via! I will quit it this hour, and rather fight under Scarolla than again don the livery and aiguilette of a sbirro."

"Silenca, Varro," said Marco; "silence, and lead on to the apartment of the lady. If it should be so: she whom I loved so much. Basta! I have faced Frenchmen, Turks, and Algerines; but this meeting—forward! It is fitter that she should learn her misfortune, or deliverance, (term it which you may) from the mouth of a gentleman, than from a rabble of serving-men."

We followed Baptistello across the court or quadrangle, and ascending a flight of narrow steps lighted by flickering lamps, arrived at a corridor, where the voices of females and sounds of lamentation became audible.

"This leads to the apartments of the signora," said our guide.

"It seems more like the lighthouse of Messina," I observed, "or the stair to a prison."

"And the poor lady has found it a prison dreary enough," continued the garrulous Italian. "Here she has dwelt for three long years, and seen but seldom the face of her husband. Cattivo! often I have heard her lamenting in the dreary nights, when I kept watch in the gallery: for this is a tower of the villa, and its window commands a view as far as to the Tacina. Then I wished that I was a noble cavalier instead of a poor serving-man, that I might free her from such thraldom. You must know, Signor Marco," and here his voice sank into a very confidential whisper, "the gay captain who used to serenade the cavalieressa at Venice did not die when the hired bravo stabbed him. The wound was inflicted by a glass poniard, and the blade was broken in the wound; it was long of being extracted, and longer of being healed: but he recovered, and is now at Catanzaro; and, having bribed Scarolla, he has made more than one attempt to carry off his mistress: but, by Excellenza's orders, we always kept such close watch——"

"Basta, forward!" exclaimed Marco, impatiently. "Do you take us for brothers of the shoulder-knot, that we are to stand here listening to your household scandal? I must see your lady without delay."

"To judge by what we hear, her women have been beforehand with you, signor," replied Varro, again taking the lead; and as a proof how little the cavalier's treatment of his wife caused her to be respected by his dependants, the sbirro threw open her chamber-door, and without knock or warning ushered us unceremoniously in.

The apartment was elegant: through parted hangings of blue silk and gold, festooned between columns of white marble rising from vases of green jasper, was revealed an inner chamber, where stood a couch formed like a large gilded shell; above it drooped drapery of white satin, edged with the richest lace. Books, music, mandolins, were scattered about, together with work-baskets, flowers, and various gewgaws: everything that taste, wealth, or luxury could wish were there—save happiness. Sadly pale were the careworn but beautiful features of the lady, and strongly they contrasted with the plump, red cheek of her robust Calabrian waiting-woman; who stuck close to her skirts on our entrance.

She started, shook back the heavy ringlets from her snowy brow, and gazed upon us with dark but brilliant eyes, which expressed more astonishment than grief.

"Despina Vignola," exclaimed Castelermo, as he started back apace, and regarded her with a glance rather of deep sorrow than wonder. "Ah, Despina! how little could I once have dreamed we should have met here, and greeted each other thus!"

She gazed alternately at the dark but handsome features of the cavaliere and the broad black velvet cross on the breast of his scarlet uniform; and her glance of wonder gradually changed to one of confusion, recognition, and anger: she covered her blushing features with her pale hand, but for an instant only, and then looking up with an air of hauteur, said—

"This meeting is quite as unexpected to me as it may be to you, Signori Cavalieri. How is it that you have this night slain my dear husband, the Signor Galdino; and within his own house of Belcastro?"

"A cool question!" said Marco, bitterly, gnawing his glove, while his proud spirit was roused by her cold nonchalance; "admirably so! and to be asked by a notary's niece, of a cavaliere of the house of Ruffo Sciglio——"

"Ruffo, the traitor!" said she, scornfully: "but you reply not to my question."

"I will ask but another, Why the devil your amiable sposo slew himself? Basta! he fell into that deadly snare which his deliberate villany and groundless hate prepared for better men. But let me be gentle: perhaps at this moment he is making answer for his misdeeds before that dread tribunal where all men must one day stand—the prince and the peasant, the high-born lord and the homeless lazarone. (Here Marco signed the cross, and all bowed their heads, save myself.) Peace be with his ashes! I shall forget that in the days of my joyous youth he robbed me of my poor patrimony, and deprived me of that which was dearer to me than all the world beside—the love of thee, Despina; forcing me to abandon my country, and serve in the wars of the Maltese knights as a humble musketeer of the galleys. A knight of St. John should bear no enmity to the dead, and wars not with Christian men; unless another's sword is drawn upon him, after which I trust he will stand buffets and blows like a true cavalier of the Rock."

"Bravissimo!" said the lady, affecting to smile scornfully through the tears which glittered in her fine eyes, "a woman's apartment is an excellent place to swagger and bluster in. You have all the manners of a Venetian bravo, signor."

"Those of a Venetian captain might be more pleasing," retorted the excited cavalier. "But I will quit your roof, signora, and travel to Belcastro; though this night Charybdis yawned in my path. Basta! the wearer of such a badge as this cross is scarcely safe in the house of a damsel so famous for her gallantries."

"By the blessed Madonna! Belcastro you shall never see," exclaimed Despina, aroused to passion by his taunts. "Olà, Baptistello! where is the Teniente Guesippe and his sbirri? Here, Signor Guesippe di Gondezani! Dio! I shall burst with fury!"

In a few minutes the teniente, with twelve armed servants at his back, entered the apartment, and surrounded us with levelled musquetoons and fixed bayonets.

"If this adventure ends in blows, I at least shall have one man's life in exchange for my own," said I, drawing my sabre. Castelermo folded his arms beneath the dark military cloak which bore the red cross of his order on the left shoulder, and surveyed the lady and her unscrupulous rabble with a frown of contempt.

"Molest us, if you dare!" said he. "Bear in remembrance, that though the holy office has passed away, he who raises his hand against a Maltese knight commits sacrilege. Insult me, and think how it will be avenged! There are no less than fifty cavaliers of my old commandery scattered through this very province, and in two days they would hurl this mansion into the valley below. Not less will be the vengeance of the British general, if this officer, my friend, is maltreated by those wretches and malefactors who wear your husband's livery. Back, ye scoundrels!" he suddenly exclaimed, and drew his sword; "and you, Baptistello, lead our horses to the gate. Santa notte, la Signora Cavalieressa! we shall not forget our entertainment in this diabolical lazaretto. And good-night to you, Signor Guesippe, and your myrmidons," continued Marco, with fierce irony. "Basta! the malaria of the valley, and the chance of being riddled by the rifles of Scarolla, are preferable to remaining here, where poison and cold lead seem your best welcome to visitors. And so, once more, a most holy night to all this noble company."

We descended to the piazza, where, mounting our half-refreshed horses, we again set forth on our journey; wishing the Villa Belcastro and all its inmates in a hotter place than Italy.

"Signor Marco, I shall be particularly careful how I thrust myself uninvited upon a Calabrian mansion in future," said I, yawning as we descended the hills.

"You have seen Despina, and this night have had the sequel to my story. How little I expected it, when yesterday I whiled away an hour during our ride by a relation of my adventures. I long suspected that Belcastro was my rival; but never had proof of the fact until to-night."

I addressed him once or twice, but he heard me not, and continued to ride on with his head bent forward, and his bridle-hand resting listlessly on the pommel of the saddle. He was, no doubt, deeply immersed in sad thoughts and recollections, which this unexpected interview with the woman he once loved so tenderly had recalled from oblivion.

END OF VOL. I.