The Count of Monte Cristo
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 the 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?”
20147m
“Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form.”
This fresh allusion to Byron5 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.”
“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, good-night; 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, these 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, ‘where sounds
the _si_,’ as Dante writes, 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