Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “I thank you—thank you from the bottom of my soul, Signor Verrina,” she said in another moment; for she felt how completely circumstances had placed her in the power of the bandit-chief, and how useless it was to offend him. “Here is your reward,” and she presented him a heavy purse of gold.

  “Nay, keep the jingling metal, lady,” said Stephano; “I stand in no need of it—at least for the present. The reward I crave is of a different nature, and will even cost you less than you proffer me.”

  “What other recompense can I give you?” demanded Giulia, painfully alarmed.

  “A few lines written by thy fair hand to my dictation,” answered Stephano.

  Giulia cast upon him a look of profound surprise.

  “Here, lady, take my tablets, for I see that your own are not at hand,” cried the chief. “Delay not—it grows late, and we may be interrupted.”

  “We may indeed,” murmured Giulia, darting a rapid look at the water-clock. “It is within a few minutes of midnight.”

  She might have added—“And at midnight I expect a brief visit from Manuel d’Orsini, ere the return of my husband from a banquet at a friend’s villa.” But of course this was her secret; and anxious to rid herself of the company of Stephano, she took the tablets with trembling hands and prepared to write.

  “I, Giulia, Countess of Arestino,” began the brigand, dictating to her, “confess myself to owe Stephano Verrina a deep debt of gratitude for his kindness in recovering my diamonds from the possession of the Jew Isaachar, to whom they were pledged for a sum which I could not pay.”

  “But wherefore this document?” exclaimed the countess, looking up in a searching manner at the robber-chief; for she had seated herself at the table to write, and he was leaning over the back of her chair.

  “’Tis my way at times,” he answered, carelessly, “when I perform some service for a noble lord or a great lady, to solicit an acknowledgment of this kind in preference to gold.” Then, sinking his voice to a low whisper, he added with an air of deep meaning, “Who knows but that this document may some day save my head?”

  Giulia uttered a faint shriek, for she comprehended in a moment how cruelly she might sooner or later be compromised through that document, and how entirely she was placing herself in the bandit’s power.

  But Stephano’s hand clutched the tablets whereon the countess had, almost mechanically, written to his subtle dictation; and he said, coolly: “Fear not, lady—I must be reduced to a desperate strait indeed when my safety shall depend on the use I can make of this fair handwriting.”

  Giulia felt partially relieved by this assurance: and it was with ill-concealed delight that she acknowledged the ceremonial bow with which the bandit-chief intimated his readiness to depart.

  But at that moment three low and distinct knocks were heard at the little door behind the arras.

  Giulia’s countenance became suffused with blushes: then, instantly recovering her presence of mind, she said in a rapid, earnest tone, “He who is coming knows nothing concerning the jewels, and will be surprised to find a stranger with me. Perhaps he may even recognize you—perhaps he knows you by sight——”

  “What would you have me do, lady?” demanded Stephano. “Speak, and I obey you.”

  “Conceal yourself—here—and I will soon release you.”

  She raised the tapestry on the side opposite to that by which Stephano had entered the room; and the robber-chief hid himself in the wide interval between the hangings in the wall.

  All this had scarcely occupied a minute; and Giulia now hastened to open the private door, which instantly gave admittance to the young, handsome, and dissipated Marquis of Orsini.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  THE LOVE OF WOMAN—GIULIA AND HER LOVER.

  Silence, and calmness, and moonlight were without the walls of the Arestino villa; for the goddess of night shone sweetly but coldly on the city of Florence, and asserted her empire even over the clouds that ere now had seemed laden with storm. Nor beamed she there alone—that fair Diana; for a countless host of handmaidens—the silver-faced stars—had spread themselves over the deep purple sky; and there—there—they all shone in subdued and modest glory—those myriads of beacons floating on the eternal waves of that far-off and silent sea!

  Shine on, sweet regent of the night—and ye, too, silver-faced stars, whose countenances are reflected and multiplied endlessly, as they are rocked to and fro, on the deep blue bosom of the Arno; while on the banks of that widely-famed stream, Nature herself, as if wearied of her toils, appears to be sleeping.

  Would that the soul of man could thus lie down in its night of sorrow or of racking passion, on the margin of the waters of hope, confident that the slumber of contentment and peace will seal his eyelids, heavy with long vigils in a world where conflicting interests need constant watching, and that the stillness of the unfathomable depths of those waters will impart its influence unto him!

  For, oh! if calmness, silence, and moonlight prevail without the walls of the Arestino villa, yet within there be hearts agitated by passions and emotions, from which the gentle genius of slumber shrinks back aghast.

  In the brilliantly lighted apartment, to which we have already introduced our readers, the Countess Giulia receives her lover, the dissipated but handsome Marquis of Orsini; the bandit-captain is concealed behind the richly-worked tapestry; and at the door—not the little private one—of that room, an old man is listening; an old man whose ashy pale countenance, clinched hands, quivering white lips, and wildly rolling eyes indicate how terrible are the feelings which agitate within his breast.

  This old man was the Count of Arestino, one of the mightiest nobles of the republic. Naturally his heart was good, and his disposition kind and generous—but, then, he was an Italian—and he was jealous! Need we say more to account for the change which had now taken place in his usually calm, tranquil, yet dignified, demeanor? Or shall we inform our readers that at the banquet to which he had been invited at a friend’s villa that evening, he had overheard two young nobles, in a conversation which the generous wine they had been too freely imbibing rendered indiscreetly loud, couple the names of Giulia Arestino, his own much-loved wife, and Manuel d’Orsini, in a manner which suddenly excited a fearful, a blasting suspicion in his mind? Stealing away unperceived from the scene of revelry, the count had returned unattended to the immediate vicinity of his mansion; and from the shade of a detached building he had observed the Marquis of Orsini traverse the gardens and enter a portico leading to the private staircase communicating with that wing of the palace which contained the suit of apartments occupied by Giulia.

  This was enough to strengthen the suspicion already excited in the old nobleman’s mind; but not quite sufficient to confirm it. The countess had several beautiful girls attached to her person; and the marquis might have stooped to an intrigue with one of them. The Lord of Arestino was therefore resolved to act with the caution of a prudent man: but he was also prepared to avenge, in case of the worst, with the spirit of an Italian.

  He hurried round to the principal entrance of his palace, and gave some brief but energetic instructions to a faithful valet, who instantly departed to execute them. The count then ascended the marble staircase, traversed the corridors leading toward his lady’s apartments, and placed himself against the door of that one wherein Giulia had already received her lover.

  Thus, while silence, and calmness, and moonlight reign without—yet within the walls of the Arestino mansion a storm has gathered, to explode fearfully. And all through the unlawful, but not less ardent, love of Giulia for the spendthrift Marquis of Orsini!

  Sober-minded men, philosophic reasoners, persons of business-habits, stern moralists—all these may ridicule the poet or the novelist who makes Love his everlasting theme; they may hug themselves, in the apathy of their own cold hearts, with the belief that all the attributes of the passion have been immensely exaggerated; but they are in error, deeply, profoundly, indisputably in error.
For Love, in its various phases, among which are Jealousy, Suspicion, Infidelity, Rivalry, and Revenge, has agitated the world from time immemorial—has overthrown empires, has engendered exterminating wars, and has extended its despotic sway alike over the gorgeous city of a consummate civilization, and the miserable wigwam of a heathen barbarism! Who, then, can wonder—if the theme of Love be universal—that it should have evoked the rude and iron eloquence of the Scandinavian Scald as well as the soft and witching poesy of the bards of more genial climes, or that its praises or its sorrows should be sung on the banks of the Arno, the Seine, or the Thames, as well as amidst the pathless forests of America, or the burning sands of Africa, or in the far-off islands of the Southern Seas.

  But, alas! it is thou, O woman! who art called on to make the most cruel sacrifices at the altar of this imperious deity—love! If thou lovest honorably, ’tis well; but if thou lovest unlawfully how wretched is thy fate! The lover, for whose sake thou hast forgotten thy duties as a wife, has sacrificed nothing to thee, whilst thou hast sacrificed everything to him. Let the amour be discovered, and who suffers? Thou! He loses not caste, station, name, nor honor;—thou art suddenly robbed of all these! The gilded saloons of fashion throw open their doors to the seducer; but bars of adamant defend that entrance against the seduced. For his sake thou risketh contumely, shame, reviling, scorn, and the lingering death of a breaking heart,—for thee he would not risk one millionth part of all that! Shouldst thou be starving, say to him, “Go forth and steal to give me bread; dare the dishonor of the deed, and make the sacrifice of thy good name for me. Or go and forge, or swindle, or lie foully, so that thou bringest me bread; for have I not dared dishonor, made the sacrifice of my good name, and done as much, ay, far more than all that, for thee?”

  Shouldst thou, poor, seduced, weak one, address thy seducer thus, he will look upon thee as a fiend-like tempter—he will rush from thy sight—he will never see thee more; his love will be suddenly converted into hatred! Yes, man demands that woman should dishonor herself for his sake; but he will not allow a speck to appear upon what he calls his good name—no, not to save that poor, confiding, lost creature from the lowest depths and dregs of penury into which her frailty may have plunged her!

  Such is the selfishness of man! Where is his chivalry?

  But let us return to the Arestino Palace.

  The moment Manuel d’Orsini entered the apartment by means of the private door, he embraced Giulia with a fondness which was more than half affected—at least on that occasion—and she herself returned the kiss less warmly than usual—but this was because she was constrained and embarrassed by the presence of the bandit-captain, who was concealed behind the tapestry.

  “You appear cool—distant, Giulia,” said Manuel, casting upon her an inquiring glance.

  “And you either love me less, or you have something on your mind,” returned the countess, in a low tone.

  “In the first instance you are wrong—in the second you are right, my well-beloved,” answered the marquis. “But tell me——”

  “Speak lower, Manuel—we may be overheard. Some of my dependents are in the adjacent room, and——”

  “And you wish me to depart as soon as possible, no doubt?” said the marquis, impatiently.

  “Oh! Manuel—how can you reproach me thus?” asked Giulia, in a voice scarcely above a whisper; for that woman who dared be unfaithful to her husband revolted from the thought that a coarse-minded bandit should be in a position to overhear her conversation with her lover:—“how can you reproach me thus, Manuel?” she repeated;—“have I not given thee all the proofs of tenderest love which woman can bestow? Have I not risked everything for thee?”

  “I do not reproach you, Giulia,” he replied, pressing his hand to his brow, “but I am unhappy—miserable!”

  And he flung himself upon the nearest ottoman.

  “Oh! what has occurred to distract thee thus?” exclaimed the countess, forgetting the presence of Stephano Verrina in the all-absorbing interest of her lover’s evident grief.

  “Am I ever to find thee oppressed with care—thee, who art so young—and so gloriously handsome?” she added, her voice suddenly sinking to a whisper.

  Manuel gazed for a few moments, without speaking, on the countenance of his mistress as she leant over him: then, in a deep, hollow tone—a tone the despair of which was too real and natural to be in the slightest degree affected, he said, “Giulia, I am a wretch,—unworthy of all this sweet love of thine!—I have broken the solemn vow which I pledged thee—I have violated my oath——”

  “Oh, Manuel!” ejaculated the countess, still forgetting the presence of the bandit: “thou hast——”

  “Gambled once more—and lost!” cried the marquis wildly. “And the sum that I am bound in honor to pay on Monday—by noon, is nearly equal in amount to that which thy generosity lent me the other day.”

  “Holy Virgin aid you, my unhappy Manuel!” said Giulia.

  “For thou canst not?” exclaimed the young noble, with a profound sigh. “Oh! I am well aware that I have no claim upon thee——”

  “Ah! wherefore that reproach?—for a reproach it is!” interrupted the countess. “No claim on me! Hast thou not my heart? and in giving thee that, Manuel, I laid at thy feet a poor offering, which, though so poor, yet absorbs all others of which I may dispose! Do not reproach me, Manuel—for I would lay down my life to save thy soul from pain, or thy name from dishonor!”

  “Now art thou my own Giulia!” cried the marquis, pressing her hand to his lips. “An accursed fatality seems to hang over me! This habit of gaming entraps me as the wine cup fascinates the bibber who would fain avoid it, but cannot. Listen to me for one moment, Giulia. In the public casino—which, as thou well knowest, is a place of resort where fortunes are lost and won in an hour—ay, sometimes in a minute—I have met a man whose attire is good, and whose purse is well filled, but whose countenance I like as little as I should that of the captain of the sbirri, or his lieutenant, if I had committed a crime. This individual of whom I speak—for I know not his name—was the favored votary of Dame Fortune who won of me that sum which thy kindness, Giulia, alone enabled me to pay but a few days past. And now am I a second time this man’s debtor. An hour ago he entered the casino; he stayed but for ten minutes—and in that time——”

  “Oh! Manuel, is not this conduct of thine something bordering on madness?” interrupted the countess. “And if thou art thus wedded to that fatal habit, how canst thou find room in thy heart for a single gleam of affection for me?”

  “Now dost thou reproach me in thy turn, Giulia!” exclaimed the young marquis. “But believe me, my angel,” he continued, exerting all his powers to bend her to his purpose,—“believe me when I declare—oh! most solemnly declare, by all that I put faith in, and by all I hope for hereafter—that could I be relieved from this embarrassment—extricated from this difficulty——”

  “Heavens! how can it be done?” interrupted the countess, casting her eyes wildly round; for the time was passing—she suddenly remembered that the bandit was still concealed in the room—and then, her husband might return earlier than was expected.

  “Oh! if you despair of the means, Giulia,” said the marquis, “I must fly from Florence—I must exile myself forever from the city of my birth, and which is still more endeared to me because,” he added, sinking his voice to a tender tone,—“because, my well-beloved, it contains thee!”

  “No, Manuel—you must not quit Florence and leave a dishonored name behind thee!” exclaimed this lovely woman, who was thus sublimely careful of the reputation of him for whom she had so long compromised her own. “What can be done? would that I had the means to raise this sum——”

  “It is with shame that I suggest——” said Manuel.

  “What? Speak—speak! The means?”

  “Thy jewels, dearest—thy diamonds——”

  “Merciful heavens! if you did but know all!” cried Giulia, almost frantically. �
��These diamonds were pledged to the Jew Isaachar ben Solomon, to raise the sum with which thy last debt was paid, Manuel; and—but forgive me if I did not tell thee all this before—not half an hour has elapsed since——”

  She stopped short; for she knew that the bandit overheard every syllable she uttered.

  Nor had she time, even if she possessed the power, to continue her most painful explanation; for scarcely had she thus paused abruptly, when the door burst open, and the Count of Arestino stood in the presence of the guilty pair.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  THE INJURED HUSBAND—THE GUILTY WIFE—AND THE INSOLENT LOVER.

  In fury of heart and agony of mind, rushed the old lord into that apartment. Oh! how had he even been able to restrain himself so long, while listening at the door? It was that the conversation between his wife and the marquis had, as the reader is aware, been carried on in so low a tone—especially on the side of the countess, that he had not been able to gather sufficient to place beyond all doubt the guilt of that fair creature; and even in the midst of his Italian ire, he had clung to the hope that she might have been imprudent—but not culpable, as yet!

  Oh! in this case, how gladly would that old lord have forgiven the past, on condition of complete reformation for the future! He would have removed his young wife afar from the scene of temptation—to a distant estate which he possessed; and there by gentle remonstrances and redoubled attention, he would have sought to bind her to him by the links of gratitude and respect, if not by those of love.

  But this dream—so honorable to that old man’s heart—was not to be realized; for scarcely was it conceived, when the discourse of the youthful pair turned upon the diamonds—those diamonds which he had given her on the bridal day!

  Giulia spoke clearly and plainly enough then—in spite of the presence of the bandit in that chamber; for she was about to explain to her lover how willingly she would comply with his suggestion to raise upon the jewels the sum he again required—a readiness on her part which might be corroborated by the fact that she had already once had recourse to this expedient, and for him—but she dared not adopt the same course again, as her husband might detect the absence of the valuables ere she could obtain funds to redeem them.