The uncle's darling project was utterly defeated, and the hopes thereby of securing himself from his just reward for the dishonest act he had committed in appropriating a large sum of his niece's property, was rendered abortive. What course did the old man pursue in this dilemma? He did that which he should have done years before, as soon as he awoke to the realization of the crime he had committed; he went to Florinda, confessed his dishonesty, and begged her to spare his gray hairs from dishonor. She was but too happy to relieve him from his misery and suffering on this account.
"Uncle," said she, "give thyself no further uneasiness on this point, but sit thee down, and draw a paper absolving thyself from the matter in proper form, and I will sign it."
The paper was drawn and signed, and Signor Latrezzi from that hour became a different man; he had thoroughly repented.
"You are now content?"
"I am, my dear Florinda, and thankful to you for thus relieving my mind."
"Say nothing about it, my dear uncle."
"I will not, save in action towards you, Florinda, who have placed me under lasting obligations."
Though Carlton deeply regretted the fatal occurrence of that night at the inn on the Apennines, still his conscience did not upbraid him for the part he had enacted; for though he had taken the life of Petro, it was done in self-defence, and the court of Florence so decided, Carlton having given himself up to trial. It would have gone hard with him, or any foreigner in Italy, and especially in Tuscany, who should chance to be thus situated; but Carlton had the all-powerful influence of the Grand Duke Leopold exerted in his favor, and in this case justice was rendered.
True, it was some time before the American artist was again received at court, or made his appearance at the Grand Duke's weekly cordon, as public opinion was against him-and very naturally, too, for he was a foreigner, and had taken the life of a citizen of Florence, and one closely allied to the nobility and gentle blood. But after the decision of the court-which the duke took good care to have made in the most imposing and public form-was thoroughly understood, and the memory of the matter had grown a little dim, Carlton again resumed his place at court, as the protege of the Grand Duke, and royal favor was again shown him.
Signor Latrezzi shut himself from society for many months almost broken-hearted, now fully realizing the error of his conduct in relation to Florinda and Petro. The generous act of the former in absolving him from the responsibility he had incurred in relation to her estate, had done much to awaken his better feelings. Petro he had loved with the affection of a father, and he now keenly mourned his untimely end. People saw the great change in Signor Latrezzi, for he no longer sought to oppress any one, but in his few public dealings he was strictly honorable and true.
He had indeed thoroughly reformed; he no longer sought to interfere in the plans of his niece, who was left to follow her own wishes. Out of respect for her own feelings, and those of her uncle-whom Florinda had now begun to respect, seeing a complete change in him that showed an honest and honorable purpose-her proposed marriage was deferred for some weeks, when at length, under the sanction of the Grand Duke, Florinda and Carlton were united to each other, and found happiness in the love and constancy of their own true hearts. Thus happily ended the high thoughts and bright dreams of the humble painter.
In one of the lovely palaces whose lofty walls of white bask in the warm sun of the Val d'Arno, lives the last surviving branch of the noble house of Carrati in the person of the peerless Signora Florinda. Joyful and happy in domestic felicity, there, too, is Carlton, the American artist, surrounded by everything that wealth can procure, or refined taste suggest, and master of the unbounded estates of Carrati, but above all, happy in Florinda's love.
THE END.
[FROM "THE FLAG OF OUR UNION."]
THE PRIMA DONNA.
BY M. V. ST. LEON.
"WHAT is to be done?" exclaimed the manager of the principal theatre in Havana. "What is to be done?" and he paced the room in angry despair. "This is the second time within a week that Signora Buonatti has been too ill to sing-and to-night every seat is engaged, the house will be full to overflowing. The audience scarce endured the first disappointment, and how will they receive the second? O, for some expedient. I must hunt the whole city through till I find some one to supply her place decently!" and seizing his hat, Diego Cartillos rushed into the street, and was out of sight in a few minutes.
"Alfin brillar, nell i rede," sang a voice of surpassing sweetness, which came from round a corner. Cartillos stopped an instant in silent ecstacy, and then hurriedly advanced in the direction of the sound. In front of a handsome house stood a young girl apparently near sixteen years of age, in poor but clean garments, and holding a mandoline in her hand with which she was playing an accompaniment to the words she was singing. The manager stood listening to it attentively, and as the rich, clear tones of the girl dwelt on the lower notes, or rose with a birdlike gush to the higher ones, he could scarce restrain some display of his delight. Such, however, it was not his policy to exhibit, and when at the close of the song, she timidly approached him, and, lifting her mandoline and large, sad eyes at the same time, besought him in broken Spanish to give her a single maravedi for pity's sake, he coldly drew forth a few small coins and handed them to her.
"This is a poor way of earning your support,"' answered he.
"I know it-but it is all the one I have."
"It is a pity, for you seem to be an honest sort of a body, and perhaps with the assistance of friends you might be made something decent," then without noticing the indignant flush that had risen to her check, he continued. "Now I am willing to help you-that is, if you're respectable and humble-minded, and I will let you sing in my theatre, although I am sure I shall lose by it."
The first impulse of the young girl was to refuse with anger, the proposal offered almost in an insulting manner, by the hard, avaricious man, but a moment's reflection showed her she could not afford to be particular in choosing the manners of an employer, and she replied:
"Why are you willing to take a stranger who has no claims upon you, if you are certain you will be a loser by so doing?"
"Because, although I shall be at an extra expense for a while, I am in hopes you will repay it sometime," he replied, with a scowl at being questioned. "Come, what say you?"
"I am willing to better my condition, sir, and as for being humble in my manners, few are otherwise who have their living to earn," replied the maiden, with a touch of haughtiness.
"Then come with me," said Cartillos, leading the way to the house he had quitted a short time previous. When they were seated, the manager commenced questioning his companion.
"It is rather a singular thing for a street musician to sing such songs as you do, and in such a manner,"—then, after a pause, during which she did not volunteer any information on the subject, he renewed the attack, with, "You must have had some instruction. Who was your teacher?"
"A countryman," was the reply.
Baffled in this direction, Cartillos commenced in a fresh quarter.
"You are an Italian, I suppose?"
"I am."
"Of what part are you a native?"
"Before I came to Havana, I resided in Naples."
The manager bit his lip at the small amount of information he obtained, and commenced again.
"One of the troupe is ill, and I wish to obtain some one to supply her place-but I suppose you are unacquainted with any opera?"
"I will engage to perfect myself in any one within a week."
"I cannot wait so long. To-night is the evening I most desire your services," Cartillos replied, in despair.
"What is announced in the programme?"
"Lucia," was the gloomy response.
"If that is all, sir, I ask but seven hours practice and study. I am familiar with it, but need instruction in the acting of it."
Her companion eagerly replied that he would engage her for that night at least, and was de
parting to send some one to instruct her, when she timidly inquired:
"But my dress, sir-how shall I arrange that matter?"
"O, I'll see to that! You prepare yourself in the part-I'll do the rest," and he was gone in an instant.
Night came, and also a crowded house. Presently the people became impatient, and with eagerness called for the commencement of the performance; at the expiration of five minutes whistling, screaming, stamping, etc., the manager made his appearance and announced "that Signora Buanatti was unable to appear, but Signorina Zampieri had kindly offered to take her place!" But the audience did not take it kindly-the lady was unknown to them, and who could say anything about her singing-besides, they had excused the favorite vocalist once, and they were not to be put off in this same way again. Accordingly, a tremendous hiss arose, in the midst of which the unfortunate manager rattled off the physician's certificate, letting his voice drop, and flat away towards the end most comically, then hastily departed for the side scenes.
In a few minutes the young debutante appeared. She was received with a chilling silence, broken only by a few faint claps from some half dozen good-natured persons, in consideration of her youth and beauty. In defiance of her prepossessing appearance, the audience seemed determined that they would not be cheated or flattered into a single expression of approbation, but the manager observed with rising hope that they forbore to hiss. Undismayed, and regardless of the reception she met with, the young girl, with perfect composure, began her role. As she continued, the whole richness and beauty of her voice were brought out, and wholly unable to withstand such wonderful, unexpected melody, the people manifested their delight loudly, and at the conclusion of the opera, Signorina Zampieri was called for loudly. At the request of the manager, she came forward, and with polite indifference bowed in reply to the applause. Signora Buonatti was forgotten! The people were amazed at the nonchalant manner of the young favorite, who actually received a burst of enthusiasm, such as rarely had greeted any singer, with such coolness-who and what was this slender, youthful being, that was neither awed by their sternness, nor delighted at their praises?
The selfish, scheming Cartillos at once perceived he had made a fortunate speculation, and hastened to engage his prize for a year at one third her real value, as the next day proved when notes came flocking in from all directions, urging her to name her own price. With a feeling of deep indignation Teresa Zampieri determined after her engagement with Cartillos expired, that he should never acquire another farthing by her. She speedily became the pet of the people, yet notwithstanding her surprising good fortune, nothing had the power to charm her out of the subdued manner so unnatural in one so young, or throw a lightsome sparkle into those large, dark, melancholy eyes, while almost the first exclamation made by every one on hearing her sing, was, "Her voice sounds like a fountain of tears!" The only thing that absorbed and rendered her forgetful of the present, was her music, and when in the opera, her whole being seemed merged into the character she was representing. Her large, sad eyes grew still larger and sadder, and she seemed like one in a dream-it was with her a passion, an existence.
But she was subject to many annoyances from Cartillos, who constantly took advantage of her ignorance concerning money matters, which Florian Geraldi, the handsome tenor of the troupe, plainly perceived and with burning indignation. He would have protected her and prevented these impositions, but they were both young, and he feared his motives might be misunderstood, and so he continued from day to day, each showing him plainer that his heart was given to the beautiful songstress, whose course had been so like a comet, rising from darkness, and no one knew whither, for all felt instinctively that a mystery hung over the young girl.-At last some fresh act of injustice on the part of Cartillos thoroughly aroused Geraldi, who, at the risk of losing his situation, determined to tell Teresa how much she was imposed upon. The mournful tone and manner with which she replied—"Alas, I am aware I have no friends to protect me," quite startled her companion out of his composure. He had resolved never to speak of his affection till he had more reason for hope than he then possessed, but at these words his resolution was forgotten, and rapidly, earnestly, he detailed his past wishes and present hopes, and urged her to reply. For an instant she was silent, but then she addressed him in firm, sad, yet kind tones.
"This declaration is wholly unexpected to me, and while I cannot but be flattered at the compliment-the highest a man can offer, I am obliged to decline it. Your pity for me has perhaps misled you into the belief that you love me, but you will soon forget one that can never be yours."
Geraldi, who thought she might doubt he loved her sufficiently, was about to assure her on that point, but he had scarcely commenced speaking, ere she interrupted him.
"Even supposing I loved you as I ought to the man whose heart I take into my keeping, there are obstacles-do not ask what-such being the case, is it not best to conquer all but friendship in the beginning?"
"Alas, it may be easy for you to counsel who do not endure, but this is not the beginning of my love," murmured the Italian, in despairing accents, as he left her.
The tone and mournful eyes made Teresa unhappy; she regretted deeply the necessity of giving pain in this world, though she felt she might unavoidably be the cause of more disappointments than even the beautiful are generally, and with a sigh realized that in accordance with her principles, she must draw yet more tightly the lines of isolation about her. Life already had but few pleasures, and even this scanty list must be curtailed. Geraldi, convinced that his poverty and comparative obscurity were the objections to him, determined they should not long remain a barrier, and immediately on the expiration of his engagement with Cartillos, departed for his native land, determined not to see Teresa Zampieri again till he had won a name worthy her acceptance. He mentioned his plans to no one, however, but bidding farewell to his friends departed on his errand. Time flew by, and Teresa was released from her engagement. Cartillos begged earnestly that she would continue with him, but the young girl told him just her sentiments regarding his conduct, and much as he regretted his past error, it did not help the matter in the least. Engagements from far and near poured in upon her, and the only difficulty was, which to choose.
"Somewhat of contrast!" thought Teresa. "One short year ago, I scarce knew where to lay my head. Heigho! Methinks my present station elevated as it may appear-but what! is this foolish heart forever crying more?" and the tears so seldom permitted to visit those sad, dreamy eyes, now came unchecked. Her sorrow once indulged, returned more and more often; so to divert her mind, Teresa Zampieri visited distant countries, always avoiding Italy, however, and journeyed and sang without cessation. This constant exertion was too much for her to bear, and she was obliged to omit singing entirely for several months, during which time she travelled through many delightful places, and frequently recalled those days in after years, as some of the happiest she had known. At the expiration of her wanderings she returned to Havana refreshed, and comparatively happy, to commence a new engagement. This was the third year of her theatrical life, and Teresa was now nearly twenty years of age, and though so young, she possessed the manners of an accomplished, experienced woman. It was a matter of wonder to all, that amid such a throng of suitors as she was known to possess, she yet remained Teresa Zampieri; but few dared request the guardianship of the peerless girl, for it seemed as though between her and themselves a vast gulf lay. And notwithstanding superior rank and position, many a noble felt himself awed by the unaffected dignity of the actress.
One evening as the breathless multitude were listening to the soft, high note the songstress had already sustained for several measures, as her eyes suddenly rested on a figure in a box near the stage, it was interrupted by a wild, piercing shriek from the blanched lips of Teresa, who instantly fell senseless. In a second all was confusion. The orchestra stopped short in the middle of a note, the curtain was speedily lowered, several ladies fainted, and the audience were in a fever
of excitement, each one talking to his neighbor.
"We must be careful of our treasure," said one, "or we shall lose it."
"What is the matter?" eagerly asked another.
"That last note was held too long," suggested a third.
"A touch of the heart complaint I should think," etc.
When the manager announced that Signorini Zampieri requested the indulgence of a few minutes before resuming her performance, there was a general expostulation, so much had she endeared herself to every heart. But the manager assured the audience that the lady thanked them for their considerate kindness, but that she was perfectly recovered, and preferred finishing the little that remained of the opera. When she reappeared, the burning cheek and glittering eye deceived many as to the suffering she endured. Her gaze restlessly sought the figure that had caused her emotion, and as she met the person's glance, a shudder passed over her. At first her voice trembled with weakness, but meeting the mocking, sneering triumph in that sarcastic face, the blood boiled in her veins, and trembling with indignation, she startled the audience with the wild burst of scorn she threw into the part she was representing. The stranger at first turned pale with anger and surprise at the surpassing delineation, but the next instant his eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction, which seemed to chafe the singer to madness.
At the conclusion of the opera, Teresa, with feverish impatience to arrive at home, was hastily leaving the theatre, when she fancied she saw in the front entrance doorway that Mephistophiles-like face, and ordering the coachman to drive to her lodgings as speedily as possible, threw herself back upon the cushions, and repressed a strong inclination to take a certain individual's web of life out of the hands of Fate. In a few minutes she arrived at the hotel, and entering her parlor stood face to face with the stranger, who had risen with the most easy coolness, and advanced to meet her.
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