A Creature of the Night: An Italian Enigma. Fergus Hume
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along the wall, and speedily arrived at the curtained opening. Being afraid to pull it to one side lest I should be discovered, I took out my penknife and made a slit in the heavy embroidery; then, looking through the opening thus obtained, I beheld a most extraordinary spectacle.
A circular chamber, not very large, but very lofty, surrounded by eight half-pillars of veined white marble built into the wall, and supporting a domed ceiling richly painted with garlands of flowers, from amid which peered the smiling faces of beautiful women. Between these noble pillars hung voluminous draperies of darkly red velvet, all magnificently embroidered with fantastic designs in tarnished gold thread, but, curiously enough, the apartment had no windows, neither in the ceiling nor at the sides, so whatever took place within could not be seen save through the curtained archway.
In the centre of the white marble floor stood a low, heavy table, richly gilt, and covered with the remains of a splendid feast. The gorgeousness of the vessels thereon was truly marvellous, consisting, as they did, of elaborately chased silver epergnes filled with brilliantly-coloured fruits; many-branched candelabra of gold, bearing slender wax tapers to illuminate the apartment; gracefully carved jugs, of wonderful designs which must have emanated from the brains of Cellini himself; and strangely shaped antique goblets which put me in mind of the sacramental cups used in Italian churches at the celebration of the mass. The voluptuous scent of sandalwood pervaded the heavy atmosphere of the chamber; gold and silver and crystal shone in the mellow light of the myriad tapers, and the whole appearance of this sensuous banquet was like those of former ages presided over by Can Grande or splendour-loving Cæsar Borgia. I thought I was in dreamland, the more so when I saw the bizarre costumes worn by the two occupants of the room.
One was the lady I had followed from the graveyard, who, having thrown off her heavy cloak, now appeared in a white silk dress of antique cut, richly embroidered with gold. Round her slender neck she wore an old-fashioned necklace of superb rubies, set in silver, which flashed forth crimson flame with every heave of her snowy bosom, while strings of soft-shining pearls were twisted in her magnificent red hair; an Eastern girdle of gold fretwork encircled her waist, and broad gold bracelets radiant with gems clasped her milk-white arms. The profusion of jewels she wore scintillated, with her every motion, throwing out sparks of many-coloured fire, and she looked like one of those proud dames of Venice who smile so haughtily in the pictures of Titian. But her face! Oh, heavens! what a beautiful, cruel, relentless face!--the tigerish look in the splendid eyes, the wicked laugh of the full red lips! Was she truly a woman, or some fiend sent upon earth to lure men to hell by the fascination of her evil beauty?
If the woman was curiously dressed for modern days, her companion, a handsome young man of seven-and-twenty was still more so, as he wore a doublet of pale-blue velvet slashed with white satin and diapered with gold embroidery; a small ruff round his neck; high riding-boots of black leather, reaching to the thigh, with gilt spurs; and a short mantle of azure silk, which drooped gracefully from his shoulders. He had no rapier, but at his girdle hung a small poniard, the handle of which was thickly encrusted with gems, and on the velvet-covered chair beside him lay a large cloak and a small mask of black velvet. I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself to see if I were really awake, for the whole fantastic scene looked like one of those which had doubtless taken place at Verona in the opulent days of her splendour.
"I am mad, asleep, or intoxicated," I thought, as I looked at this Boccaccian feast, at these Boccaccian lovers. "What does it mean? This must be the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia, who has risen from the tomb to meet one of her dead lovers and renew for a time the joys of the past. Oh! I am mad or asleep. I will wake up and find this is all a dream--some fantasy of the brain created by the delirium of fever!"
Between the lovers lay the broken mandolin, and the woman, pointing to this, talked volubly while the young man stood listening with a scornful smile on his lips. Not being a very good Italian scholar, I could not follow all this rapid talk without great difficulty, but from what I could gather it seemed to me that the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia was accusing her lover of infidelity. At length, when she seemed exhausted, he caught up his mantle and mask as if about to go, but she fell prostrate before him, and seemed to implore him to stay. He shook his head, and then springing to her feet in anger, she snatched the poniard from his belt and tried to strike him. The young man warded off the thrust with his left arm, round which was wrapped his heavy black cloak, whereupon she let the dagger fall and began to beseech him again. I could not understand the meaning of this terrible dumb-show any more than I could the curious dresses, the antique chamber or the deserted palace. It was the phantasmagoria of a dream seen by the soft light of the tapers, and my brain being quite upset by the strange events of the night, I entirely forgot the nineteenth century, and seemed to live, to breathe, to tremble, on the threshold of one of those fatal chambers wherein the Medici, the Scaligers and the Borgias feasted, loved, betrayed, and slew their friends, their lovers, and their enemies.
The woman, evidently seeing it was useless, stopped beseeching the young man, upon which he picked up his dagger, and throwing the fold of his cloak over his right shoulder, advanced towards the door without saying good-bye to the lady. I withdrew quickly, fearful of discovery, when, just as his hand was on the curtains, her voice sounded once more slow and deliberate, so that I was able to understand what she said:--
"So you leave me for ever?"
"Yes!" he replied with the same deliberation, "for ever."
"Then before you go, let me drink to your future happiness."
"With pleasure, madame."
He appeared to hesitate at first, but after saying these words I heard him move away from the curtain, upon which I looked again and saw him standing by the chair, while the woman, with her face turned away, was filling a goblet with wine. Her back was towards him, so that he could not see what she was doing, but I could perceive her least action. She filled two goblets with wine, then taking something from her breast, dropped it into one of them, and, turning round with a smile, presented the cup to him. It flashed across me that she was trying to poison her lover, and I would have called out to warn him, but the extreme peril of my position, the terrible appearance of this woman, and the uselessness of interference kept me silent during this supreme moment.
The young man took the cup she gave him, and drained it with a bow, while she simply touched her lips with the other goblet, and smiled again.
"To your future happiness," she said in a significant voice, and set the goblet down on the table.
They talked together after this reconciliation for some time and seemed better friends than before, but I saw that the woman kept furtively glancing at his face with a wicked smile on her lips. At length he handed her the mask, which evidently did not belong to him, and, after kissing her hand, was about to turn in the direction of the archway, when suddenly he grew pale, put his hand to his head quickly, and grasped the chair near which he stood to keep himself from falling.
"Why, what is this?" he cried in a hoarse, strained voice. "Gran Dio! what does it mean?"
She bent forward with a wicked laugh, and the rubies flashed forth venomous red flame in the soft light.
"It means that you have betrayed me and I have revenged myself!"
He looked at her with a dazed expression, made a step forward as if to kill this terrible woman, who, dangling the mask in her hand, stood mocking at his agony with a cruel smile, then suddenly flung up his hands with a wild cry of despair and fell at her feet--dead.
"Fool!" she said, without displaying the least sign of emotion. "Fool!"
I wished to rush forward and denounce the demon in woman's shape who had so vilely perpetrated this cold-blooded murder, but, overcome with horror, I reeled away from the curtain and fell--fell into the arms of some one who held me with a powerful grip. I gasped with alarm and was about to call out, when I felt a handkerchief dashed suddenly over my face wet with some liquid. In spite of my struggles it was held firmly there, and I gradually felt my senses leave me until I knew no more.
* * * * * *
When I came to myself it was early morning, and I was seated on a stone bench in the Piazza Vittoria