row, was a woman of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek costume, which
evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore it, was her
national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was the outline of a
masculine figure; but the features of this latter personage it was not
possible to distinguish. Franz could not forbear breaking in upon the
apparently interesting conversation passing between the countess and
Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew who was the fair Albanian
opposite, since beauty such as hers was well worthy of being observed by
either sex. "All I can tell about her," replied the countess, "is, that
she has been at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her
where she now sits the very first night of the season, and since then
she has never missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the
person who is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a
black servant."
"And what do you think of her personal appearance?"
"Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely--she is just my idea of what Medora
must have been."
Franz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the latter resumed
her conversation with Albert, while Franz returned to his previous
survey of the house and company. The curtain rose on the ballet, which
was one of those excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably
arranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established for himself
a great reputation throughout Italy for his taste and skill in the
choreographic art--one of those masterly productions of grace, method,
and elegance in which the whole corps de ballet, from the principal
dancers to the humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at
the same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen exhibiting
the same attitude, or elevating the same arm or leg with a simultaneous
movement, that would lead you to suppose that but one mind, one act of
volition, influenced the moving mass--the ballet was called "Poliska."
However much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was too
deeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any note of it; while
she seemed to experience an almost childlike delight in watching it, her
eager, animated looks contrasting strongly with the utter 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?"
"Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form."
This fresh allusion to Byron [*] 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."
* Scott, of course: "The son of an ill-fated sire, and the
father of a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks
that cast of inauspicious melancholy by which the
physiognomists of that time pretended to distinguish those
who were predestined to a violent and unhappy death."--The
Abbot, ch. xxii.
"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 to-night; and if to-morrow your curiosity still continues
as great, pursue your researches if you will; but to-night 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 to-night, 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 to-night. 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow."
"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 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
