Chapter VIII

The scene is now changed, and passing over what is not immediately material to be detailed, we behold Gabrielle de Montmorency in Naples, unmolested, and unnoticed in her male attire; and having no imbecile fears of her own to contend against, she had performed her journey without danger, and with little difficulty. She was entering on a world, where all was strange and new to her; but yet her strong mind felt no alarm, nor did she suffer herself to be discouraged; the reflection of her purpose armed her with resolution, and tower-crested fortitude lent her treble shield. Determined to dare the worst in the prosecution of her duty, undismayed she considered every obstacle that might arise, and, undismayed, planned how to surmount them.

Angelo had in his letter informed her, that his stay at Naples would be uncertain. It was not impossible, therefore, but that still he might be there. He had named the place of his residence; at least, the attempt might be made to gain from thence some intelligence of him. Gabrielle had, under the instructions of her departed father, obtained considerable knowledge in various languages; among others, the Italian. She did not, therefore, find it difficult to make herself understood, and by dint of enquiry, and the most patient perseverance, found herself at length on the spot where he had described himself to have taken up his abode.

What now were the sensations of Gabrielle, as she contemplated the exterior of an edifice, which contained, perhaps, the destroyer of her peace and innocence! but still the being whom her heart, in despite of herself, most fondly loved. Trembling, almost overpowered from excessive agitation, the beating of that wayward heart became almost too powerful for its feeble tenement; she leaned for support against some palisadoes, near which she stood, and, for the first time since her undertaking, her firm soul shrunk at what she might have to encounter. Almost in the same instant, however, she became ashamed of this emotion, higher thoughts pervaded her mind, and she determined, ere she left the spot, to be informed whether or not Angelo still dwelt in the mansion before her. It was a late hour of the evening, lights began to appear in most of the apartments; and at least she was convinced that it contained some one who might perhaps, if Angelo were even departed, give her information respecting him. Now she walked to and fro; and now paused in eager examination; presently she beheld the door open, and a servant come forth, who stood beneath the portico. This was the moment for Gabrielle; she hastened towards him, and with as much indifference as she could assume, enquired of him if il Conte D’Albini dwelt in that house.

“He does;” the servant replied, “why do you ask?”

The heart of Gabrielle beat with redoubled violence; but, gathering courage, she said, “Know you if the Conte wants a page? if he does, I would willingly----”

“A page,” interrupted the man, “how came that in your head--who do you come from?”

“I would see your master.”

“No doubt you would, but he’s not to be seen,” he answered, (with a malicious grin) “no page is wanted here;” and entering the house the door was shut, with rude violence, in the face of the disappointed Gabrielle.

Desponding, but not discouraged, she retraced her melancholy steps to the quarter where she had taken up her residence; and though mortified for a moment at the treatment she had experienced from vulgar ignorance, she felt every uneasy sensation more than counterbalanced by the unhoped for conviction that D’Albini was still in Naples; the thought of this was balm for every wound. “Ah!” she mentally cried, “is it then possible,--and shall I again behold that beloved---- Heaven,” (suddenly interrupting herself,) “is this the language for a betrayed forsaken wretch? Oh, let me banish from my mind ideas so degrading, let me think of him as the father and protector of his child, but not as the man who once loved me, and whom I loved.”

Virtue can slumber, even in the midst of misfortune, and Gabrielle was still virtuous, though no longer innocent; she retired to her melancholy bed, and wearied by the succession of new objects during the day, exhausted by fatigue, she soon sunk into peaceful rest, resolving that on the morrow she would renew her endeavors to procure an interview with D’Albini.

On the following morning, at an early hour, she bent her eager steps towards his house; and, now decided that no insolence should check or intimidate her, she placed herself beneath the portico, with firm intent to remain there till she could catch a glimpse of him she sought. A beautiful English carriage stood at the door, and from this circumstance Gabrielle hoped that he would speedily appear. She had not long occupied her position, ere the door was hastily opened, and a servant, whom she perceived was not the same that she had addressed the proceeding evening, came forth. She was on the point of speaking to him, when he exclaimed, “What do you here, boy,--who do you want?” Gabrielle disdained an answer, but did not move, when the same man who had before insulted her made his appearance, and joined his companion. “Ho, ho,” cried he, on perceiving Gabrielle, “what here again, my young Cavaliero, after what I said to you last night? Go, go, get you gone, for my Lord is coming out.”

“I am waiting for him,” coolly answered Gabrielle. The men looked at each other, and he who had first spoken to her, cried, “Why, stripling as thou art, of what service canst thou be?” and turning to his companion, added, “He wants to be page to our master, forsooth.”

“Oh, is it so!” replied the other, “Go, go, my boy! if you want bread, you are light and supple, enlist with the Lazaroni, you would soon out do the best of them, I’d warrant you.” This observation was seconded by a loud laugh from the first man, when, at this very moment, the voice of Angelo was heard, and the mirth of his menials gave way to the most obsequious appearance of respect.

Gabrielle heard too that well-known voice, and her heart died within her;--in a few moments he was before her;--she dared not lift her eyes, but she felt that his were fixed upon her, and she was ready to sink into the earth. In truth, Angelo was regarding her with attention, and turning to his servants, he enquired if they knew aught of the youth, or what he desired; at this question they looked confusedly at one another, uncertain what to reply; when Gabrielle, gathering courage, said, “My Lord, I am an unfortunate orphan, I have no friend,--nor have I the means of procuring bread in this country; if, therefore, you deem not the request too bold, humbly I would entreat, that you should take me into your service.”

“If I were not in want of a page,” returned Angelo, with one of those soft smiles that Gabrielle well remembered, “so interesting a youth as you appear must ever be an acquisition.”

“Do you consent then, my Lord, do you grant my wish?” cried Gabrielle, with undisguised joy.

“I do, most readily;” replied Angelo, “and since you are friendless, I take you into my service without other recommendation than your countenance and appearance.” And nothing, surely, could be more calculated to interest than the countenance and appearance of Gabrielle; her attire, though simple, and that of a page, was highly becoming,--it was grey, van-dyked with black; and a large Spanish hat and feather, while it partly shaded her face, rather added to, than detracted from its beautiful expression.

“I am going,” continued Angelo, “to the Corso; enter the house, and on my return we will have some further conversation.” Then seating himself in the carriage, he gracefully, with a smile, waved his hand to the agitated Gabrielle, who, gazing after him while he remained in sight, with eyes that in another garb would have betrayed her, slowly, as he disappeared, entered the house.

Behold her now in the habitation of her lover, near his person, and empowered to watch his every action; this point gained, she had leisure to re-consider, or improve her plans, and decided that she would not discover herself to him, now that she possessed the means of doing so when she chose, till time had developed to her his present pursuits, and how far, if possible, his sentiments had changed towards herself.

In the capacity of a page, she was almost a constant attendant upon his person; this circumstance of itself produced frequent conversation between them, but, independently of that, there seemed to Angelo so interesting and peculiar a charm in the manners and deportment of the young Eugene, (for so Gabrielle had designated herself) that often he unnecessarily summoned him into his presence, and contrived pretexts for detaining him, in order to indulge, without committing his dignity, in the pleasure he took in his society. In the reply that Gabrielle had made to his enquries, respecting her history, she had added little of embellishment; she had represented herself as an orphan, and most truly she was such; that she was of French extraction, and having been fondly educated and cherished by a tender father, her only surviving parent, was, on his death, which had recently occurred, thrown without support upon the world; that unwilling to struggle for bread in her native country, France, it had been more consonant to her feelings and inclinations, to seek it in another land; for this purpose she had travelled into Italy, and, fortunately, as she would observe, with an animated look which powerfully affected Angelo, she had obtained her object far sooner than she could have presumed to hope. But though Angelo had heard all this often and often, he was still unsatisfied, and could not reconcile to himself, that a youth of such extraordinary mind, seeming so superior to present circumstances, should have nothing more peculiar attached to his history. Sometimes he would make him repeat his little narative, to discover if possible some variation; but no, Gabrielle, ever on her guard, related still the same, and with a look of interest Angelo would occassionally suggest his doubts, and seem to solicit further confidence. Eugene, however, as we must call Gabrielle, would then only bow, and reply, with an air of indifference, that such was his history.

But a short time elapsed, and the supposed page became so endeared to his master, that he could no longer suffer him to associate at any period with his other dependants, which painful degradation the mortified, yet determined Gabrielle, had been sometimes obliged to submit to, and had endured with that forbearing patience that ever attends the consciousness of an exalted motive. Now, however, this temporary humiliation was at an end; she was more properly the companion than servant of Angelo, and was seldom from his presence. When he rose she attended his breakfast table, and partook with him the morning’s repast; the hours of noon she whiled away, by reading to him the newest productions of the day, or often, sighing with the tender Tasso, or lovelorn Petrarch, or smiling with the romantic Ariosto. Sometimes the philosophical works of her countryman, Voltaire, engaged her, or history, or metaphysics, and sometimes even the best English authors; each had its turn, and at these periods the surprise and admiration of Angelo would increase. “Your father must have given you, indeed, a superior education,” would he involuntarily exclaim, fixing his eyes upon her.

“He did his utmost,” Gabrielle would answer, with a sigh, and without raising her eyes from the book she might be reading.

Angelo usually dined abroad, or otherwise had large companies at his house; yet even then he felt uneasy, dissatisfied and anxious to escape again to his youthful companion, in whose society he felt almost exclusively happy, and who, distant from these scenes of revelry, adding in his solitary chamber to the treasures of his well-stored mind, he fancied superior to all present. To excuse his frequent unlooked for appearance, and to prevent Eugene from surmising the true reason of his visits, he would say that he felt not well, that conversation was fatiguing to him, or that he had drank too much wine, and had escaped to avoid drinking more; then, in his presence, enjoying his society, the lassitude or melancholy of Angelo would speedily vanish, and books, music, or conversation beguile agreeably the night, till the hour of repose. Often on his pillow would he enquire of himself, and endeavour to trace the cause of the excessive interest he felt for a comparative stranger, but he could discover only the absoluteness of the sentiment, without being able to ascertain its source, and, half uneasy at the inexplicable feelings he experienced, he determined to see less of the youth, and to treat him if possible with greater coolness. These resolutions however, vanished always with the night, and the next day, and the next, found him still the same, still irresistibly associating with the attractive Eugene, and becoming more and more attached to him.

Meantime Gabrielle, blessing the Providence which had thus early conducted her beneath the roof of him, on whom her best hopes were fixed, began to experience some melioration of that deep-seated sorrow which for long had corroded her heart; yet hoping nought, nor presuming to expect aught, her thoughts and feelings were resolutely suppressed, or concentered to a single point--the future interests of her child. Her genuine and unsophisticated ideas of duty taught her that to ensure protection for the unconscious being she had been the means of ushering into life, her whole efforts should be directed, and no sacrifices of self be esteemed too great to achieve an end so momentous, and so simply due to the object for whom they were made. Such was the pure morality of a nature uncontaminated by association with the world, unbiassed by its contracted estimates of right and wrong.

In various ways had Angelo evinced extraordinary friendship towards Eugene; it now remained to demonstrate still higher his regard for him, by giving him his confidence. On those days when he dined abroad, it sometimes happened that he did not return till a late hour of the night, or towards morning; and sometimes not till the following day. Gabrielle, who never accompanied him from home, knew not whither he went at these times; but naturally concluded that convivial or agreeable society occasionally detained him thus long. It remained, however, for her to become more accurately informed.

The departed Montmorency had taught her to play on various instruments, among others on the lute; with that was she occupied when, one evening, Angelo entering her apartment, caused her to cease, and she arose.

“Resume your seat, Eugene,” cried Angelo, “why all this ceremony? will you never forget the idle distinction fortune has placed between us?--Come, I have something to say to you.”

“I am attentive,” replied Gabrielle, immediately seating herself.

“Your secrecy, first,” cried Angelo, with a smile, and taking her hand.

“On what subject, my Lord,” asked Gabrielle, faintly smiling in return.

“I am going to give you my confidence, Eugene,”--he paused--“I have a mistress!”

Gabrielle involuntarily started; the lute fell from her nerveless hand, and she was on the point of sinking, when suddenly recollecting herself, and rallying her perturbed spirits, she said, laying her hand upon her heart, “Excuse me, my Lord,--I felt a pain here!”

“Poor boy!” said Angelo, looking anxiously in her face, “are you often thus?”

“Sometimes, my Lord; but this is the severest pang I have had for some time past,” answered Gabrielle, with a quivering lip--“I feel better now.” Angelo still held her hand, and his eyes were rivetted upon her countenance; at that moment how did Gabrielle bless the artificial colouring which veiled from his eager glance the strong and momentary changes of her natural complexion.

“I am indeed recovered, my Lord,” she said, withdrawing her trembling hand, and stooping for her lute to divert his attention.

“Well, then hear me, Eugene,--I have, as I have said, a mistress!”--Gabrielle could now bear the word, though it grated on her ear.--“This evening I am going to visit her;--certain reasons, which I may in time explain to you, render it necessary that I should do so secretly. I seldom visit her during the day, and am never accompanied by any one to her house; it would, however, be highly agreeable to me, Eugene, that you should accompany me, first for the pleasure of your society, and secondly because I frequently require one whom who I could trust to convey to her my letters, bring me her answers, and occasionally reconnoitre the space before her house;--indeed it is far from impossible, Eugene, but I may introduce you to her; she will not, I am certain, disdain one whom I regard, and thus I could often enjoy, at the same time, your society and the society of her I love.”

“Her I love!” repeated Gabrielle to herself with horror, and a half-stifled groan escaped her.

“Are you ill again, Eugene?” cried Angelo, with alarm.

“No--no, my Lord,--a slight oppression only at my breast.”

“I will not say any more to you, my dear Eugene,--you shall not accompany me this evening; retire to your bed, and I will go alone.” He gazed affectionately in her agitated countenance, and again took her hand to bid her farewell.--A tear dropped upon his hand as he held her’s, and his eyes following the pellucid gem, he exclaimed, “Does your pain cause you to shed tears, my dear boy?”

“Yes, yes; or it would kill me;” replied Gabrielle, unable to controul her emotion;--“but let me not distress you, my Lord, I shall recover when alone.”

“Indeed I will not leave you, Eugene,--lean on me, I entreat you, and give free vent to your tears, if they relieve you.”--So saying, he supported the trembling Gabrielle on one arm, and gently laid her head upon his shoulder, while with the disengaged hand he tenderly pressed her forehead, as though he sought to allay the throbbing of her burning temples. “Ah!” thought Gabrielle, “these kind offices, performed in friendship,--would he thus, if he really knew the object on whom he bestowed his pity?” This thought, while it conveyed an additional pang, yet helped to arouse her spirits, for she felt the necessity of checking this excessive emotion, lest it should indeed excite some ideas detrimental to the prosecution of her purpose; she therefore made an effort, and raising her head from the shoulder of Angelo, she said, brushing off her tears, “My Lord, I am grateful to you for the interest you are pleased to manifest; my heart thanks you;--I am well.”

“I am most happy, Eugene; but you shall remain at home this night; retire to bed, and I will leave you.”

“Ah, whither to go!” thought Gabrielle, as Angelo, rising, drew near the door, and gazing after him, a sigh escaped her; Angelo turned, but perceiving a faint smile, which with a heavy heart she had forced upon her features, he concluded that the sigh was merely accidental, and waving his hand towards her, left the room.

Now alone, Gabrielle had leisure to ponder over the imprudence of which she had been guilty; she justly feared another such scene, if it led not to discovery, must inevitably to suspicion, and might ultimately defeat her every view; she therefore, after severely arraigning herself, determined to keep in future a strict guard over her feelings, and never, upon any occasion, permit them to overcome her. True, Angelo had imparted to her a most painful secret; but even so, was it not far better that a secret so material for her to know, should not have been withheld, she might otherwise have acted erroneously, her plan of conduct wholly undirected by the knowledge of important circumstances; the chief advantage to be obtained under her disguise, was in the discovery of events, in which he could not thus suppose her interested, and of which she must otherwise have remained in ignorance.

Perhaps the attempt in her own person to have banished from his breast a later passion, might have been vain; her claims might have been slighted, her remonstrances disregarded; as a youth, however, the task appeared less difficult; she would see this favourite, yes, painful as would be the effort, she would see her; perhaps she might discover much respecting her; she might be unworthy of the love of Angelo; she might be even infamous; as a female any conviction of this nature must be useless, for whatever she might reveal, whatever she might urge upon the subject, would in all probability be attributed to envy, jealousy, or disappointed love. As a youth, the confidant and friend of Angelo, no motive, no interest could be supposed to influence such representation. Suspicion must at all events be excited, and thus some steps would be advanced; Angelo would be weaned from an improper attachment, and then would be the favourable moment to appear before him.

What grief and anguish filled her breast to discover that he had not only forsaken and forgotten her, but that her image in his heart, or rather, as she believed, in his fancy, had been displaced by another. She had thought him cruel and insensible, she now beheld that he was faithless; but must this deter her from her purpose? no, his infidelty to her could not exonerate her from prosecuting, with undiminished energy, the interests of her child; why, because self-love was wounded, her tenderness outraged, or weakness despised, turn traitor to an innocent cause, or neglect the claims of one who called imperiously for the most persevering efforts? Well she argued, that to remain unshaken she must be divested of self, she must require no tokens of a former love, no tenderness, no homage, no consideration; her aim must be higher, nobler, more honorable; she had the welfare of another to contend for, one whom her own errors had rendered dependent on her exertions. “Let me then acquit myself of my high duties towards that other,” she cried, “and then let me die.”