Chapter XIII

The female who has once erred, and who does not hate the author of her error, should beware of confiding in her own strength, or relying on the firmness of repentant virtue;—for her, there is no safety but in flight; and if she desire to retrieve her path, she should never behold him who caused her to wander aside. This, without further comment, may be sufficient to illustrate, that the protracted residence of Gabrielle, beneath the roof of her lover, was attended with those fatal consequences against which no human foresight or resolution could have shielded her, who lingered in so much danger. Gabrielle knew not the extent of the hazard she ran, till that knowledge became useless, and bitter self-reproach, and horror, roused her from her delusive security. When the mind is unwarily led to the commission of deep and irretrievable error, it seeks, naturally seeks, to reconcile itself to what is past recall. Thus was it with the unhappy Gabrielle. She sought to persuade herself, when the first sensations of remorseful agony were somewhat abated, that Angelo was now altered; that, indelibly impressed with the remembrance of the misfortunes that he had heaped upon her, he would never more neglect or forsake her; but, in endeavours to expiate the past, remain for ever fond, faithful, and sincere. Yet, still something remained behind which would not bear the touchstone of argument, or refletion; why, if such were his feelings towards her, hesitated he to bind his fate eternally to her’s? Ah! This was a thought which, like an intrusive creditor, was hastily dispatched with an evasive reply;—but, independently of such refinement of scrutiny, the conduct of Angelo was such, certainly, as to allow the indulgence of sanguine hope.

Time stole on, and two years elapsed of a re-union that, had Gabrielle possessed less virtue, or sensibility, might have rendered her for the present happy, and tranquil as to the future. Angelo became the father of a son, and his conduct was characterised by the best and finest attributes of the husband, and the parent; as a husband, he was tender, attentive, domesticated—— as a father, fond, to idolatry, of his child: Gabrielle endeavoured to banish the terrifying idea, that her children would live to reproach her for giving them existence, and to indulge the flattering hope, that the effects of her errors would never be extended to them.

At the commencement of their re-union, Angelo had expressed an ardent wish, to behold his daughter, and intreated Gabrielle, that she would propose to Madame Bertrand, to quit Switzerland for ever, to bring their daughter with her, and to reside with them. “But no,” wrote this excellent friend, “my dear Gabrielle, I will neither quit our peaceful retreat myself, which almost induces me to forget there is such a place beyond, as the busy world you reside in; nor, if I may be allowed a voice, shall our beloved child quit it either.—Ah, my dear young friend, be not offended with me, if I would venture to insinuate, that, though you have at present every reason to be satisfied with the conduct of D’Albini, and that he is as the best of husbands to you, in all but the name, yet that name, so far from being an inconsiderable idea, or unnecessary to ensure the happiness of your situation, is the only thing which could render it either prudent, or safe, for me to resign your daughter to you.—At this time, she is taught to respect a fond, though absent mother; her juvenile mind conceives of you the highest sentiment of which it is capable; why then would you desire, unnecessarily, to give birth to, and gradually to impress upon it, different and perplexing ideas? Trust me, D’Albini has not yet passed the fiery ordeal,—the season of folly is not yet at an end. If his reformation were perfect and sincere, he would not hesitate, nay, he would be anxious, to rivet by those bonds to which mankind have justly affixed the idea of virtue and propriety, your present union, to preclude from himself the power, or the possibility, of forming other ties. Till then, or till age shall have taught him, with a smile of contempt, to look back on the follies of youth, rely not wholly, nor securely upon him; nor snatch your child from the positive safety of her present asylum, to introduce her, perhaps to misfortune, but certainly to danger, for which you would suffer unavailing repentance and remorse.

“You have already with you, one child, my dear Gabrielle; if children are a bond of union between the sexes, is not one child sufficient to ensure it?—If it is not, one is too much; and miserable would be the fate of more. Thus, then, let me implore you, forego your wish for the present. Consent to wait, at least till the character of D’Albini is more fixed; till it has stood the test of time, and till you have better ascertained his principles of action; then, if you will insist, you shall be at liberty to reclaim your daughter.”

This letter produced upon Gabrielle a most salutary effect; her mind, which present peace had rendered hopeful for the future, was now taught to look within itself, and admit the painful probability, that this comparative felicity might not last for ever;—the idea made her tremble, and even over-clouded the peacefulness of the present; it humbled her mind from the vain and insecure eminence of sanguine hope; it prepared her, by anticipation, for any future blow, and taught her, with rational and pensive eye, to regard and appreciate passing events.

In the impassioned eyes of Angelo, she read, it is true, no mysterious intimation of future fickleness, or indifference; yet unalloyed pleasure was not thus conveyed to her heart, for she could remember, with pain, that the eyes of a lover are but an uncertain index of his soul, and never presage the future to her he seems to love. She did not communicate to him the too just observations of Madame Bertrand, but merely that she desired earnestly to be permitted to retain, yet a little longer, the child, that from infancy she had nursed and cherished. Angelo formed no objection to the request of Madame Bertrand; he possessed one child, and he possessed its mother, and he could endure to resign, for a while, to a dear and sincere friend, the one he had never beheld.

It is necessary we now return to Oriana, whose perfidy and ingratitude had furnished the unguarded Angelo with an additional example, to the many he had already had, of the danger resulting from an association with those females, whose depravity forms their only rule of action, and who never admit, for a moment, the influence of feeling, honor, or a shadow of principle, to regulate their conduct.

Humiliated, foiled, and entirely defeated, at once in her views and calculations, the rage of the abandoned Oriana knew no bounds; she breathed only death and vengeance; and her chiefest desire was to inflict the first with her own hand, upon the supposed Eugene, who, in that character, had obtained knowledge, so complete, of her infamy, and used that knowledge only to circumvent, and render it abortive. Nothing so much excites the rage of an artful and unprincipled mind, as the idea of having been deceived, and of having betrayed its inmost guilty workings. The superiority of virtue never strikes them in a point of view so manifest, and so detested, as when it possesses the resolution and the power to frustrate their evil machinations. That virtue should be combined with policy, and be endowed, at once, with the energy and ingenuity to confound vice, and to entangle it in its own snares, seems to be a sort of supererogation, and a detraction from its own peculiar prerogative, as if it were incompatible with virtue to be wise, and vice alone, from its superior cunning, should ever triumphantly bear off the palm. In such case, virtue would be weaker, and have fewer means of defence than vice; consequently, it would be the latter that ever would be lord of the ascendant.

The death of her associate Fiorenza, however when her wandering eyes had selected a newer object of passion she might have considered it desirable, now that, with all its stinging and mortifying concomitants, she had in that experienced the most aggravating disappointment, became to her matter of most serious moment, and regret. Fiorenza had been throughout her meretricious career, when personal regard for her had ceased to exist, and assumed, as he pretended, the more valuable character of a regard for her interest, as a sort of tutelar dæmon, advising, forwarding, and directing her in plans, of his own suggestion, to the injury and destruction of others, for her, or rather his advantage;—and Oriana, though she duped the unwary, was herself the dupe of superior artifice.—Still his death left her alone in the world; in the prosecution of her desired revenge, who could have participated with, or assisted her, like Fiorenza? But she was sufficiently imbued with the spirit of her late master, to determine on it, if necessary, singly, and unaided, though she should perish in the attempt.

During the two years which the objects of her hate and envy had continued to exist in seeming happy union, beneath her eyes, her revenge had not slumbered, nor had her vigilance relaxed; every mean that the vilest artifice, and the most determined resolution to insure could suggest, was instantly had recourse to. Now, calumniating anonymous letters accused them to each other of the blackest crimes and intentions, and mutual treachery. Now the allurements of love, in the form of tender confession from some susceptible Italian fair-one, appointing an assignation, were held out to the vanity and warm temperament of Angelo.—Now, similar arts were practised against the unshaken constancy and firm principles of Gabrielle;—and now, in despair at the failure of every attempt, various pretexts of urgent occasion were contrived to delude each, separately, from home, at various hours of the night, for the basest purpose of destruction—secret assassination!

Hitherto, however, every machination had proved abortive, either from exciting suspicion, or from being detected in time. These two persons, at this juncture so dear to each other, had neither inclination nor leisure to punish a feeble, though malicious enemy. Suspicion of aught that appeared equivocal, had now become so habitual to them, that, added to their perfect knowledge of the infamous Oriana, they considered themselves as sufficiently protected from her power to injure them, and from the possibility of being betrayed by her into a situation of danger.

It was with the utmost difficulty, indeed, that Angelo could ever be induced from the long untasted charms of domestic comfort, but at the earnest solicitations of Gabrielle, who, with her usual fine sense, could endure that he should sometimes be amused, even out of her society; he was occasionally prevailed on to pass a few hours among friends of his own rank of life, rendered agreeable to him by similarity of disposition and long association. One night that he was returning home late from a select party of male companions, with whom he had dined, and in convivial converse, heightened by the juice of the grape, in social gaiety passed the evening, he imagined he heard, at a short distance from him, female plaints.

Ever alive to the impulse of humanity, he stopped immediately, and listened; a young mournful voice continued to bewail, and he soon ascertained that the object could not be far off. Instantly conceiving it possible there might be some cause of grief which he could remedy, and distressed at hearing the accents of sorrow from a tender female, in the streets at this unseasonable hour, he hastened onwards, and soon discovered her who had attracted his attention, seated beneath a portico, leaning on the cold step, and weeping bitterly: he advanced towards her, and remarking that she was extremely young, his compassion encreased, while in a soothing voice he enquired the cause of her distress.

“Alas, Eccellentissimo Signore,” she replied, timidly raising her eyes, and instantly again looking down, “neither you nor any one can assist me, for my misfortune is beyond the reach of aid.”

“But what misfortune,” asked Angelo, “can occasion a young and innocent girl, as you appear, to be unprotected in the streets at this hour of the night?”

“Oh, do not ask me, Eccellentissimo Signore—do not ask me, for it reminds me of every thing.”

“Reminds you of what?” enquired Angelo.

“I cannot, no, I cannot bear, Signore,” cried the young girl, suddenly, “that such a kind Signore as you should think ill of me; therefore, I must tell you, that it was my father—yes, Signore, it was my father, who turned me into the streets this night, and bade me never return till—till——”

“Till what?—” asked Angelo, impatiently.

“Till—— till——” she answered, bursting afresh into tears, “I can determine to marry Castro Nardi, the old fisherman; he has asked me of my father, only to beat and misuse me; to make me carry his fish to market, and half kill me with blows and hard treatment, as he did his first wife; and he is so old and so ugly, Signore, my heart rises against him. No, no, I will never return home, never, sooner than marry Castro Nardi.”

This artless narrative sensibly affected Angelo, though, at the same time, he could not avoid smiling at its simplicity; he persuaded the young girl, however, to return home, for he was shocked at reflecting on the consequences that might ensue to such guileless innocence, if remaining, unprotected, during a night, in the street; and to induce her compliance, he promised, that in the morning he would call upon her father, and prevail upon him to forego his intention of marrying her to the hated Castro Nardi.

“Will you, indeed, Signore?” cried she, hastily rising, and displaying, suddenly, to the astonished Angelo, beneath the feeble rays of the lamp, some traits of a countenance that seemed of most surpassing beauty, “if you will promise to call upon my father, I will return home immediately; he could not, sure, refuse such a Signore as you,” she added, timidly, “whatever he should request.”

“Well, well, we will try,” returned Angelo, with a smile; “but see first how he receives you to-night; perhaps he may relent, and there may be even no occasion for my intercession.”

“Then, if he receives me kindly, Signore, I shall never see you any more?” returned the girl, with bewitching naiveté, and in a tone of regret.

“Oh!” cried Angelo, involuntarily, a little flattered, and desiring, even unknown to himself, to behold that beautiful countenance by the light of day, “you can easily, if you wish it, let me know how he receives you in the morning.”

“How can I, Signore? For I should like to inform you, after all your kindness, if I could,” faltered the maid.

“Well, then,” stammered Angelo, who felt he was verging on the confines of wrong, “well, then, you can meet me, if you please—— on the hill of Pausilyppo, near the church of Santa Maria a Fortuna.”

“Near the church;—I will be punctual, Signore—I will, indeed, be punctual; and I humbly thank you for your goodness towards a poor girl; and if my father, Eccellentissimo Signore, should continue hard, you will deign to speak a word for me, Signore?”

“Assuredly I will;—— but—— but I had forgot; I must know your name.”

“My name is Paulina Mezzotetto, Signore.”

“Paulina Mezzotetto;—well, I shall remember; return at once, then, Paulina—and good night.”

“Good night, Eccellentissimo Signore, and a thousand blessings attend you.” Her sylph-like figure then bounded down the steps of the portico, with graceful movement; she hastened on, and was out of sight in a moment.

Angelo returned home; he walked quicker than usual, for his mind not being perfectly at rest, he sought, by rapidity of motion, to escape those reflections which could not be shaken off. He clearly felt, that, in having promised to meet the young girl, he had acted decidedly wrong, and conscience told him, that to keep a promise improperly made, would be still more wrong. But the sophistry of inclination urged in reply, that, however hastily, or injudiciously a promise were given, that nothing, certainly, could excuse the performance of it. “And I need never see her again,” added Angelo to himself; “then why not inform Gabrielle of the whole?” demanded conscience, “and if aught, in a mere case of humanity, requires to be done, act in conjunction; since Gabrielle, under such circumstances, would not hesitate, but unite with you in the desire to render service. And why,” objected his worser reason, “run, unnecessarily, even the chance of rendering Gabrielle uneasy upon a subject, in itself so trifling, and which may be concluded, for ever, in less time than it would take me to relate it? I am growing ridiculously conscientious.”

So argued Angelo, who forgot, in the midst of his delusive reasoning, that “Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate.” Gabrielle, in consequence, received no information; Angelo retired to rest, harbouring concealment in his mind from the friend of his bosom; he endeavoured, therefore, to persuade himself that he did no wrong; and this very toleration jarred, in a degree, those delicate fibres of affection, which are ultimately broken and destroyed by repeated disloyalties to its faith.

Morning came, and as yet only half decided, Angelo prepared to keep his appointment; still undecided, he found himself at the spot agreed on, and did not fully know that he had determined, till he beheld, bounding towards him, the heavenly beauty he was to meet. Thus progressively are men led on to evil; too weak to be more than negatively virtuous, nor firm enough to resist from the first the temptations of vice.

The moment the irresolute Angelo beheld Paulina, his doubts and hesitations vanished; unknowing, with alacrity, he flew to meet her, and involuntarily held out to her his hand. Paulina, with a modest diffidence, gave him her hand, and advanced, raising her eyes of cerulean blue, to the countenance of Angelo. If he had been struck, with amazement, at the slight view he had of her charms the preceding night, he now felt that sentiment in a stronger degree, and was absolutely confused with admiration, as he looked upon her. Paulina was simply habited, her dress, indeed, bespoke that the lovely wearer was not rich; yet this very circumstance, joined to her modesty and the blushing innocence of her deportment, gave her only new and exquisite graces in the eyes of the susceptible Angelo.

Seeming unconscious of the admiration she excited, in simple and artless language, she related to Angelo her success with her father; she said that he had received her kindly, his anger being over, and professed himself grieved for the rashness he had been guilty of, but absolutely refused to relax a tittle of his determination swearing by the holy virgin, that she must marry Castro Nardi. “Thus, Signore, you see,” she continued, “you must condescend to speak with him at last.” Angelo promised her, that whenever her father should name the day for her nuptials, provided she informed him of it, he would make use of such arguments as should cause him speedily to resign his intentions, by convincing him that it would be for his interest to do so.

Here, as this was alone the given motive of the meeting, the interview might have terminated; but, not so, Angelo felt himself irresistibly drawn on, and he endeavoured to believe it was compassionate interest merely that influenced him in the fate of a beautiful girl; he prolonged the conversation, and was only recalled by the observation from Paulina, that she must hasten home. Angelo longed to ask the fair girl when he should behold her again, but honor and conscience made for once successful opposition. He resigned reluctantly the hand which a second time he had taken, and returned home with less alacrity than he had departed thence.

No appointment existed for the ensuing day, yet Angelo mechanically bent his steps towards the spot; the lovely Paulina, however, was not there; he measured back his way, restless and disgusted, and could not avoid feeling that he was so. The succeeding day, he renewed his attempt, and was more successful; he persuaded himself that he neither wished, nor expected to see the fair object who had so much interested him; yet, spite of himself, his eyes wandered eagerly round, and, with a sudden joy, he beheld her at a great distance, holding a small basket on her arm.

Involuntarily his pace quickened; he sought to restrain his feet, but the principle that actuated the movement was too strong for mechanical regulation, and he found himself at her side, confused, perturbed at his own sensations. The fair Paulina, however, received him with joy, though timid, unembarrassed, and affected not to disguise the pleasure she felt at beholding him. She offered him some fruit from her basket, and artlessly observed that she had gathered and brought it out, on purpose for him, in case chance should procure her the pleasure of meeting with him. How Angelo admired this bewitching simplicity! He admired it too much; and the conflict between a sense of duty, and the feelings he experienced, kept him silent. Paulina, however, prattled on, gay, unrestrained, and seeming unconscious of an idea that she ought to suppress.—Again it devolved on her to pronounce the parting, and again the uneasy, conscience-stricken Angelo bade her a reluctant “farewell.”

Weak, deluded man; each day he became more deeply entangled in the web weaving for his destruction; each day his misguided sentiments acquired fresh strength, and his peace and happiness diminished. In vain he represented to himself, that the course he was pursuing was not imprudent merely, but dishonorable, and base; and not more dishonorable and base towards the injured Gabrielle, than towards the innocent object that had allured him. What could be foreseen as the result, but the misery of the one, and the ruin of the other? Could he act consistently with honor, towards both, if he pursued his infatuation? no; for honor to one, must inevitably be baseness to the other.

Sometimes these reflections spoke so powerfully above the weakness of his heart, that he determined he would no more behold the fair girl who had excited this commotion in his breast; but these resolutions were, unhappily transient, displaced when he beheld her by opposite thoughts. Then he would endeavour to persuade himself, that simply conversing with a young artless girl, to while away sometimes a few moments which would not have been better employed, could not surely be a very momentous crime. But these moments might have been more innocently employed, and consequently better. Besides, it was not the conversations merely, but their tendency and effect that made the danger, and led progressively to the crime.

On those mornings when Angelo did not behold Paulina, he became influenced for the day; he was fretful, restless, and uneasy. Gabrielle began to observe a change in the naturally gay and happy disposition of Angelo; she attributed it, in a great degree, to the uniformity of his life, and solicited him to go frequently among his friends, and to seek amusement. Moreover, she studied, by every possible attention, to increase his comforts at home; but vain was every effort; the dissatisfaction and gloom of Angelo became daily more apparent, and peace having dwelt with them so long, now spread her fair wings, and fled their habitation.

The interviews of Angelo with Paulina were now become habitual. Gradually he struggled less against the pleasure he experienced in her society, but he sought to dupe himself into a belief, that that pleasure was harmless, because it contained no positive injury to any one, and because, being unknown, it could not even convey an imaginary one. He would not acknowledge that he loved, but simply that he was charmed with Paulina. For a time he thus aimed to deceive his reason, but soon could no longer conceal from himself the depth and extent of the sentiments with which she had inspired him.

One morning that, deeply affected by the soft smiles of his child, and the gentle unvaried kindness of Gabrielle, he had taken himself more severely to task than usual for the system he was now pursuing, yet even, while he so arraigned himself, was walking on to the accustomed spot to meet Paulina, and she perceiving him at a distance, hastened forward to meet him; when taking his arm, with that innocent familiarity which wore such charms to Angelo, she said to him, after a short silence, with an air of melancholy, “Signore, I shall certainly be obliged to marry Castro Nardi,—and I hate him more than ever.”

This subject for some time past had not been touched on, it appeared even to have been forgotten by both, but now that it was thus revived, and introduced by Paulina, the feelings of Angelo, at the moment, convinced him how much he loved. The most beautiful, the most innocent, and delicate of creatures, become the companion of a vile fisherman; be subject now, perhaps, to his disgusting tenderness, and now, to the unfeeling brutality of savage ill treatment. The idea was sacrilege, it could not be endured, and Angelo swore, with an emotion that could never have been excited by compassionate interest merely in the fate of a lovely girl, that such an unheard-of impious sacrifice must not, nor should not be.

“But, Signore,” cried Paulina, in a mournful voice, though her eyes sparkled with delight, at the warmth of Angelo, “if you were even to succeed with my father, and prevail on him to forego his intention of marrying me to Castro Nardi, even then,—— I,—— should not be happy.”

“And why not, lovely Paulina? what could then remain to afflict such innocence?”

“If I,—if I,—Signore,”—she stopped confusedly.

“Proceed, proceed;” cried Angelo.—

“If I then, Signore, had never seen you, I think,—— I might have been happy,—but,”——

“But what,” cried Angelo out of breath.—

“But now I think so much of you, Signore, I always see you before me,—— and,”—— again she stopped, and Angelo too was silent from conflicting emotion. The blood which had been kindling in his cheek, from the commencement of Paulina’s speech now, at its conclusion, had mounted into a crimson blush, and his heart beat with violence against his bosom as he faltered to himself, “She loves me!”

“I hope, Eccellentissimo Signore,” resumed Paulina, timidly raising her eyes to his face; “I hope that I have not said any thing to offend, or——”

“Offend me, sweet girl!—No, no!” cried Angelo; “you have given me only too much pleasure—pleasure which I tremble to feel—yet know not how to repress.”

This being above the comprehension of Paulina, she merely said, with a smile, and gently pressing his hand to her lips, “It is enough for me that you are not offended—for worlds I would not offend, or pain you!”

“I believe it, indeed, sweet girl!” answered Angelo, not daring to look at her: “But, for the present, I must leave you;—I must fly from you!—To-morrow we will meet again.”

Paulina cast down her eyes, and in a broken voice she said, “Now then I see that you are indeed angry with me;—for never, never yet, did you propose to leave Paulina.”

“Oh! distraction!” cried Angelo; pressing her in his arms, and as suddenly releasing her. “No, no, sweet Paulina, I am not angry; believe me, I am not, but I must leave you, I have no power to converse with you any longer.” So saying he kissed her hand—pressed it for a moment to his heart, and tore himself away.