would have the honor of being received by his holiness the next day. At
each previous visit he had made to Rome, he had solicited and obtained
the same favor; and incited as much by a religious feeling as by
gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital of the Christian world
without laying his respectful homage at the feet of one of St. Peter's
successors who has set the rare example of all the virtues. He did
not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his condescension and
touching kindness, one cannot incline one's self without awe before the
venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI. On his return from the
Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he brought away with him a
treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad gayety of the maskers
would have been profanation. At ten minutes past five Albert entered
overjoyed. The harlequin had reassumed her peasant's costume, and as
she passed she raised her mask. She was charming. Franz congratulated
Albert, who received his congratulations with the air of a man conscious
that they are merited. He had recognized by certain unmistakable signs,
that his fair incognita belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his
mind to write to her the next day. Franz remarked, while he gave these
details, that Albert seemed to have something to ask of him, but that he
was unwilling to ask it. He insisted upon it, declaring beforehand
that he was willing to make any sacrifice the other wished. Albert let
himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and then avowed
to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him to occupy
the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz's absence
the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask. Franz
was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of an
adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and so
flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect indiscretion
of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened; and as, during
three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a similar piece of
good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was by no means sorry
to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore promised Albert
that he would content himself the morrow with witnessing the Carnival
from the windows of the Rospoli Palace.
The next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous
bouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous
epistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the
bouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a
charming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin. The evening was no
longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but that the fair
unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated his wishes by
saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should pass the next day
in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was not deceived, for
the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly shaking a folded paper
which he held by one corner. "Well," said he, "was I mistaken?"
"She has answered you!" cried Franz.
"Read." This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe.
Franz took the letter, and read:--
Tuesday evening, at seven o'clock, descend from your carriage opposite
the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your
torch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of
San Giacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the
shoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be recognized.
Until then you will not see me.
Constancy and Discretion.
"Well," asked he, when Franz had finished, "what do you think of that?"
"I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance."
"I think so, also," replied Albert; "and I very much fear you will go
alone to the Duke of Bracciano's ball." Franz and Albert had received
that morning an invitation from the celebrated Roman banker. "Take care,
Albert," said Franz. "All the nobility of Rome will be present, and if
your fair incognita belong to the higher class of society, she must go
there."
"Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same," returned
Albert. "You have read the letter?"
"Yes."
"You know how imperfectly the women of the mezzo cito are educated in
Italy?" (This is the name of the lower class.)
"Yes."
"Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you
can, any blemish in the language or orthography." (The writing was, in
reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.) "You are born to
good fortune," said Franz, as he returned the letter.
"Laugh as much as you will," replied Albert, "I am in love."
"You alarm me," cried Franz. "I see that I shall not only go alone to
the Duke of Bracciano's, but also return to Florence alone."
"If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful," said Albert, "I shall
fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I have
always had a great taste for archaeology."
"Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of seeing
you a member of the Academy." Doubtless Albert was about to discuss
seriously his right to the academic chair when they were informed that
dinner was ready. Albert's love had not taken away his appetite. He
hastened with Franz to seat himself, free to recommence the discussion
after dinner. After dinner, the Count of Monte Cristo was announced.
They had not seen him for two days. Signor Pastrini informed them that
business had called him to Civita Vecchia. He had started the previous
evening, and had only returned an hour since. He was charming. Whether
he kept a watch over himself, or whether by accident he did not sound
the acrimonious chords that in other circumstances had been touched, he
was to-night like everybody else. The man was an enigma to Franz. The
count must feel sure that Franz recognized him; and yet he had not let
fall a single word indicating any previous acquaintance between them.
On his side, however great Franz's desire was to allude to their former
interview, the fear of being disagreeable to the man who had loaded him
and his friend with kindness prevented him from mentioning it. The
count had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at the
Argentina Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence, he
brought them the key of his own--at least such was the apparent motive
of his visit. Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging their fear
of depriving him of it; but the count replied that, as he was going to
the Palli Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would be lost if
they did not profit by it. This assurance determined the two friends to
accept it.
Franz had by degrees become accustomed to the count's pallor, which had
so forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain from
admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or rather
the principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic hero!
Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him without
imagining his stern head upon Manfred's shoulders, or beneath Lara's
helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the
constant presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem
to penetrate to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip
that gives to the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses
them on the minds of those to whom they are addressed. The count was no
longer young. He was at least forty; and yet it was easy to understand
that he was formed to rule the young men with whom he associated at
present. And, to complete his resemblance with the fantastic heroes of
the English poet, the count seemed to have the power of fascination.
Albert was constantly expatiating on their good fortune in meeting such
a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the count exercised over him
also the ascendency a strong mind always acquires over a mind less
domineering. He thought several times of the project the count had
of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that, with his eccentric
character, his characteristic face, and his colossal fortune, he would
produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish to be at Paris
when the count was there. The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at
Italian theatres; that is, not in listening to the music, but in paying
visits and conversing. The Countess G---- wished to revive the subject of
the count, but Franz announced he had something far newer to tell her,
and, in spite of Albert's demonstrations of false modesty, he informed
the countess of the great event which had preoccupied them for the last
three days. As similar intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may
credit travellers, the comtess did not manifest the least incredulity,
but congratulated Albert on his success. They promised, upon separating,
to meet at the Duke of Bracciano's ball, to which all Rome was invited.
The heroine of the bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of her
existence the morrow or the day after.
At length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the
Carnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o'clock in the morning,
as Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through
want of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival
before, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to the noise and
excitement. From two o'clock till five Franz and Albert followed in the
fete, exchanging handfuls of confetti with the other carriages and
the pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses' feet and the carriage
wheels without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight.
The fetes are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of
this history, who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not
recollect to have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those
events so common in other countries. Albert was triumphant in his
harlequin costume. A knot of rose-colored ribbons fell from his shoulder
almost to the ground. In order that there might be no confusion, Franz
wore his peasant's costume.
As the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the
pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was
silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up
of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs, oranges,
and nosegays. At three o'clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the
Piazza del Popolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid
the din and confusion) announced that the races were about to begin. The
races, like the moccoli, are one of the episodes peculiar to the last
days of the Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages
instantly broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these
evolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous
rapidity, without the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians
ranged themselves against the walls; then the trampling of horses and
the clashing of steel were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen
abreast, galloped up the Corso in order to clear it for the barberi.
When the detachment arrived at the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley of
fireworks was discharged, to announce that the street was clear. Almost
instantly, in the midst of a tremendous and general outcry, seven
or eight horses, excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand
spectators, passed by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo
fired three cannon to indicate that number three had won. Immediately,
without any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing on towards the
Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a while, which
again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream again continued
its course between its two granite banks.
A new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers
of moccoletti entered on the scene. The moccoli, or moccoletti, are
candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight, and
which give to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival two
very serious problems to grapple with,--first, how to keep his own
moccoletto alight; and secondly, how to extinguish the moccoletti of
others. The moccoletto is like life: man has found but one means of
transmitting it, and that one comes from God. But he has discovered a
thousand means of taking it away, and the devil has somewhat aided him.
The moccoletto is kindled by approaching it to a light. But who can
describe the thousand means of extinguishing the moccoletto?--the
gigantic bellows, the monstrous extinguishers, the superhuman fans.
Every one hastened to purchase moccoletti--Franz and Albert among the
rest.
The night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of
"Moccoletti!" repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors, two
or three stars began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At the
end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from
the Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the
Piazzo del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the fete of
jack-o'-lanterns. It is impossible to form any idea of it without having
seen it. Suppose that all the stars had descended from the sky and
mingled in a wild dance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied
by cries that were never heard in any other part of the world. The
facchino follows the prince, the Transteverin the citizen, every one
blowing, extinguishing, relighting. Had old AEolus appeared at this
moment, he would have been proclaimed king of the moccoli, and Aquilo
the heir-presumptive to the throne. This battle of folly and flame
