Chapter XI

Gabrielle saw, and lamented, the degradation of Angelo: “Alas,” thought she, “me, who loved him, he voluntarily abandoned;—and her, who would destroy him, he cannot resign.” He still persisted in visiting Oriana, and since he would so persist, Gabrielle would still accompany him. Though she disdained the infatuation by which he was swayed, she determined to be his guardian angel, and save him from further mischief that might be meditating against him, for the sake of his child,—for his own sake,—and for the love she had once borne him, perhaps bore him still.

How much did she now secretly rejoice, that she had not, in the first instance, precipitately divulged to him the discoveries she had made; the weak Angelo might have disregarded, or, entangled as he was, have discredited her assertions; even if, for a moment, he had listened, the artifices of Oriana would have soon driven from his mind all doubts against herself; and how did Oriana attain this ascendancy? She was neither surprisingly beautiful, accomplished, nor sensible. The modest Gabrielle, when, with all the humility of self-appreciation, she compared their respective merits, could not but behold herself the superior, weighed down, and degraded, as she felt, by guilt and shame.

“He must, then, love Oriana,” thought she, “for her contempt of feeling, principle, and virtue; he must love her for that boldness of character which perseveres, unshrinkingly, in the path of vice, and which induces her, as he conceives, to sacrifice for him all self-estimation and respect. If such is the way to the heart of Angelo, I, alas, shall never regain it; but, no, no, he cannot be for ever dead to all that is noble, to the superiority of virtue; he is only dazzled for a time, by the meteor glare of passion.—Let me, then, still watch over him;—let me save him from threatening danger, and see if his heart be inaccessible, even of gratitude.”

The defeat of the plot arranged between Fiorenza and the Genoese, so far from inducing them to resign all thoughts of mischief against Angelo, served only to sharpen against him the malice and ferocity of the former. Though, in the first instance, he had desired his death, only from an idea of the benefit that would accrue in consequence to himself, he, now that he had escaped, thirsted for his blood; for no one whom his death-dealing eye had marked, had ever escaped the bravo Fiorenza.

“He shall die a thousand times for this,” he emphatically observed to Oriana; and to that unprincipled, and subjugated woman, he, with bitter invectives, attributed the failure of their attempt. She, however, neither daring, nor having sufficient virtue, to desire to rebel against the will of the tyrant who ruled her, fervently promised to be more collected at a future period, and to lend her every power to the achievement of his purpose; nay, to strike, if he required it, with her own hand, the fatal blow.

“No, no, I shall take surer aim than by the hand of a woman,” he scornfully observed; “my plan I shall impart to you when I deem it necessary.”

Oriana began to hate her despotic lover; but she feared him likewise; and, though she would gladly have fled from him, she well knew he would have traced her, even into the depths of the earth, if there she could have hidden, and that life would have been the forfeit of her bold desertion. Meantime, her hatred of him, and indifference towards Angelo, increasing daily, left room in her heart for the indulgence of a warmer sentiment, or rather sensation, which she cherished, at once, for its novelty, and for the pleasure she derived from it;—this sensation was love, as far as it might be thus denominated in her breast, for the youthful Eugene. She pressed his visits with an unceasing anxiety, and, for his sake, sometimes those of Angelo; her conduct towards him, when alone, was sufficiently unequivocal, and she no longer hesitated to express to him, in the most animated terms, the tenderness with which he had inspired her.

Had it not been for the fixed resolution of Gabrielle to remain always near Angelo, she would, at the earliest discovery of the sentiments of Oriana, have kept at a perpetual distance from her house. But stronger interests than those of self, armed her with patience, to bear the pain and embarrassment which her behaviour frequently gave her.

Though Angelo continued still his visits to Oriana, they were less frequent than formerly; nor, except when animated by the juice of the Tuscan grape, was he so tender—so impassioned—or, so lavish of his admiration;—not even when the absence of other society rendered reserve unnecessary. This change of demeanor was no secret to Fiorenza; and it only impelled him to hasten his measures, lest, verging from coolness to disgust, and from disgust to hatred of his lovely mistress, he should ultimately forsake her altogether, and thus rob him of his intended prey.

In truth, Angelo, however he might wish it, could not drive from his mind the remembrance of that eventful night, when the fair Oriana had appeared to so much disadvantage; it perpetually recurred to him, even in moments when he was most inclined to forget it; and, when she bestowed upon him smiles full of innocence and love, he remembered, with an unpleasant feeling, that just so she had smiled and looked, on that very night. In short, so frank was the nature of Angelo, that the least ground for suspicion made him wretched; he could not endure to harbour it, yet could not either divest himself of it; he longed to say to his mistress, “Oriana, explain to me the scene that passed that night.”

Yet, although dissatisfied, tormented occasionally by doubts or vague suspicion, he kept his thoughts secret from Eugene, for he dreaded least his penetration should at once convince him of their just foundation, and of his folly in continuing to be deceived.

It happened one morning, that Gabrielle, having been sent by the restless Angelo on some frivolous occasion to the house of his mistress, hearing that Oriana was in her dressing room, proceeded thither, and, opening the door somewhat abruptly, found her in tears, with a countenance of rage; notwithstanding which, Fiorenza, seated beside her, was looking on with mingled indignation and contempt. As Eugene made his appearance, Oriana started, and retired to a window; but Fiorenza, rising without apparent embarrassment, observed to Eugene, “Eugene, I leave you with my sister; she has been somewhat refractory to my will, but perhaps your good sense may succeed in teaching her, that it is her duty to obey the will of her brother.” As he uttered these words, Oriana turned round, and cast a glance on him without speaking; he preserved his countenance unchanged, and quitted the room.

No sooner was the door closed, than Oriana beckoned Eugene towards her, who immediately approached;—Oriana laid her finger on her lip, and motioned that he should ascertain, by examination, that Fiorenza was not within hearing. Eugene, opening the door, and looking out, convinced her that no one was nigh, feeling a degree of impatience to know what she could have to communicate. Oriana, then taking his hand, said, “Eugene, to what do you conceive the basest of all wretches, the bravo Fiorenza,—yes Eugene, you may look at me with surprise, the bravo Fiorenza, has desired you to enjoin my acquiescence in?”

“I cannot imagine, indeed,” replied Gabrielle.

“Then hear me;—to the murder of your dearest friend, the count Angelo D’Albini.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Gabrielle, with horror, “what injury has the count Angelo D’Albini ever committed against Fiorenza de Vinci?”

“He hates him, and that alone would be sufficient; but there are other causes which induce him to desire his death;—and—Eugene, dare I trust you?”—

“I think you may,” returned Gabrielle.

“Well, then,” pursued Oriana, drawing her chair closer to that of Eugene, “Fiorenza is not my brother, thank heaven!”

This Gabrielle well knew; she affected no surprise, but, seeming to pay the most implicit attention, Oriana continued—

“He is not my brother; he calls himself my lover; but he is, in reality, the most despotic of masters; I tremble in his presence; he treats me like an abject slave; and, but that he considers that I may do him service, and am too contemptible to do him ill, he would long since have taken my life. Fiorenza was formerly a bravo for hire; he is still a bravo in his heart, and ever ready to commit, for his own ends, that which he once executed to serve the ends of others. In short, Eugene, not to trouble you with unnecessary details,” and here the artful Genoese avoided all mention of herself, likely to depreciate her with her auditor, “he is now bent on taking the life of the Count; he detests him, he is jealous of him; and has besides other motives, which it would be useless, at present, to expatiate on to you; he has peremptorily urged me to compliance; and, in case of refusal, threatened me, that he will carry to the ears of the Count, the most dangerous insinuations against me; and that, fly whither I may to escape, he will pursue me, and take my life. Oh! Eugene,” she passionately continued, “to deprive the Count of existence, merely to lead a life of misery with such a wretch as Fiorenza, it is that which I cannot endure;—but for you, for you, dear Eugene, I could, without pain, destroy them both.”

Gabrielle felt curdling horror creep through her veins, at the depravity of this unhappy woman. It was not the murder then of the innocent Angelo, which appalled her; it was the idea only of continuing for life with a man she now detested, and who perhaps, had he been as amiable as he was infamous, her fickle nature would have wearied of in the same length of time. For Eugene, whom she now preferred, she was ready to go any lengths, and hereafter, for another, she would have sacrificed him.

“Speak, Eugene,” she pursued, pressing his hand, “say, do you think you could always love me, provided I became your’s? Do you think that, quitting Italy, and flying to another country, you could be happy with me?—If Angelo were to die—I should be rich—if Fiorenza were no longer living, I should be unrestrained;—— I am indifferent to the first, and the last I hate.”

While Gabrielle felt strong desire to fly from the presence of such a fiend, she felt, at the same time, the necessity of curbing the impulse, and concealing the horror and disgust with which she was inspired, she wished to preserve from danger the threatened Angelo; it was requisite, therefore, to hear all that Oriana had to say; it was necessary she should propose her plans, and be wholly unreserved, or a single impatient exclamation, an unrestrained expression of disgust or indignation, might defeat, beyond repair, the great aim she had in view: and, causing Oriana, disappointed and contemned, to take part with Fiorenza, their plans would be changed and a dreadful blow might be struck, when least it was expected.

When, therefore, she found that the Genoese remained silent, as if in expectation of some reply to what she had been saying, she answered with as much composure as she could assume, “I am grateful, fair Oriana, for the confidence you have reposed in me, and you could not possibly have advanced a stronger claim on my regard, with respect to what you have urged respecting an immediate arrangement between ourselves; I can only for the present observe, I must have time for consideration. The Count D’Albini was the friend of my unaided youth; he has heaped benefits upon me, and it would grieve me that he should die,” she added—her voice involuntarily faltering at the last word.

Finding herself not absolutely repulsed by him, for whom she had conceived so strong a passion, the delighted Oriana eagerly kissed and pressed his hand to her lips, when Gabrielle, desirous of moderating the transports of a gratitude so hateful to her, said, “But, Oriana, you have not yet been sufficiently explicit; it is intended, you say, to take the life of the Count; you have not informed me by what means.”

“The means are precisely such as a bravo would have recourse to; easy from habit, well tried by experience, the means are, assassination!” Gabrielle was silent from dismay, and a dreadful anxiety least all her ingenuity and courage should be incompetent to save the unguarded Angelo.

Oriana proceeded. “Claudio and Piombino, hireling ruffians, and former associates of Fiorenza, are the persons fixed on to complete the deed: he has promised them a hundred zechins each, if they do their business well; for he considers that, by the death of the Count, he should be enabled to do that and more; and, if they fail, provided it be through accident alone, fifty each. To-morrow night, when the Count departs hence, they await him, in the Strado di Toledo; they will distinguish him by his black cloak, and the white feather in his hat. Fiorenza will, as usual, accompany him part of the way, to obviate all suspicion of himself; and the word for the signal of attack will be—Hark!—Thus, Eugene, have I imparted to you all; for from you would I disguise nothing;—I leave to your discretion the mode of procedure; what you determine I will abide by.—Save the Count, if you will, from the fate intended for him,—but promise me, that Fiorenza—shall die, and that you will be mine.”

“Promise me, Oriana,” answered Gabrielle, with firmness, “that, however you see me act to-morrow night, you will not interfere; and promise to retain secret from every one what you have imparted to me.”

“I promise—I swear,” cried Oriana, “I will not even ask your intention, so implicitly do I rely upon you; but, Eugene, to defend your own life, if necessary, and for another purpose, that I will not now enlarge upon, accept of this, and place it within your vest;” so saying, she took from beneath a girdle which she wore, a small dagger, the blade of which, concealed within the handle, might be thrown out at pleasure, by pressing a small spring, and presented it to Gabrielle. Gabrielle accepted the dagger, and said, “Oriana, remember that you must not interfere, and for the rest, leave all to me.”

“But, Fiorenza!”

“Leave all to me—be only passive.”—

“It is enough,” cried the transported Oriana, who now rejoiced in the fancied prospect of the death of the man who, a short time before, she had passionately loved. “It is enough; give me your hand in token that you will not disappoint my hopes.”

“Here is my hand, Oriana; I give it you in token that I will do the best I can.”

“You are cold towards me, dear Eugene; but I hope that hereafter it will be otherwise.”

“Oriana, farewell, I must hasten hence.”

“Farewell Eugene; fortune favour you; would that to-morrow night were come.”

Gabrielle hastened home; but when she arrived Angelo was not there; she did not, however, regret his absence, for it gave her time to consider deeply the plan most prudent to be at this crisis adopted. Such now was her perfect knowledge of the weakness of Angelo, that she determined not, even in the present case, to enforce a belief of the perfidy of his worthless mistress, by any other mode than stubborn proof; mere assertion, however positive, she well knew might fail; and she therefore decided, that he should find himself on the very brink of destruction, to carry conviction to his infatuated mind. Once already she had preserved his life, and she flattered herself, by caution, firmness, and due management, she might render him again, though in a more imminent predicament, the same service. She resolved, however, that first he should rush even within the vortex of danger, desperate as was the expedient; but it was the only means effectually to save and detach him from a dangerous connexion. So reasoned the firm-minded Gabrielle, and such was the result of her final decision.

Angelo did not return during the day; early in the evening she retired to her chamber, first leaving on his dressing table the following lines, closely sealed, and written in a hand as little resembling that in which she had once addressed him as possible.

“Angelo, to-morrow night, at the house of Oriana, your life will be in danger. I ask you not to credit what I write, but do not entirely disregard to visit her according to your intention, for it is proper that you should, and I will accompany you. All I desire of you is, to attend to the following conduct; the first time that I quit the room, appear not to remark it, but be tranquil till my return, the second time; take heed that you follow me speedily, and, whatever you think, be under no apprehensions for the result.

“Eugene.”

From the tenor of this note, Gabrielle readily conceived that Angelo, after reading it, would seek her in her chamber; in this she was not mistaken; finding she had retired, Angelo, as soon as he returned home, unable to find pleasure in remaining up alone, sought his chamber, when the first thing which fixed his attention was her note upon his table, which, instantly opening, he read, and hastening to her apartment. “Eugene,” he cried, “I find you have not retired to rest; but had it been otherwise I must have disturbed you; you have written me the strangest note—what, I conjure you, is the meaning of these mysterious lines?”

“Dear Angelo,” returned Gabrielle, “could I have undertaken to explain to you, succinctly, the purport of those lines, I need not have written them.”

“But, Eugene,” replied Angelo, “you evidently know more than you have expressed; if you have, really, a regard for my safety, and wish to preserve me, you cannot, surely, hesitate to inform me more fully of my danger, in order to convince me of the absolute necessity of being on my guard.”

“That observation, my Lord, is sufficient to shew me, that by revealing to you all I know, I should gain nothing; I must, therefore, persist in adding no more to what I have already said, entreating you only to pay attention to that.”

“Surely, then, Eugene,” answered Angelo, hastily, “I am not wholly inexcusable in attributing your present fearful warning, to some pious superstition, to the recent effects of a fantastic dream, or visionary presentiment.”

“Be it so, my Lord; deign only to observe the slight request I have made you, and your danger will, at all events, I hope, prove no more than a fearful dream.”

When Angelo found that neither ridicule nor entreaty, could draw from Eugene further information, he desisted, with apparent indifference, but in reality with the most extreme anxiety at heart; for some foundation, he well knew, must exist in the rational strong mind of Eugene, beyond mere idle superstition, for the warning he had given; and this conviction, added to the doubts that yet continued to exist in his breast with respect to Oriana, induced him to regard, with increasing unacknowledged suspicion, her kindness, and the consideration she evinced towards him. He determined, therefore, that he would neither slight his intimation, nor refuse to yield implicit attention to the request he had made in his note; he parted coldly with him, however, foiled in his object of provoking an explanation from him, and retired to bed, with a mind by no means perfectly at ease. Still he desired, and hoped, that no confirmation of suspicions, detrimental to his mistress, might ensue; for finding in Naples no other fair than Oriana, who appeared exclusively attached to him, his vanity, equally with his regard, and the amusement with which she filled up many of his idle hours, made him most anxious to preserve her. Such, not unfrequently, are the only ties which cement dangerous connections, which yet resist the united efforts of reason and of virtue, and are seldom broken till experience shakes, too late, her flaming torch over the lengthened track of misery that has been caused.