# Forget Me Not/1826/The Bridge of Sighs

Translation of "Die Seufzerbrücke" from Jährliche Mittheilungen von 1821 (1820)
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
Naples is remarkable for its picturesque situation, Rome and Florence for their exquisite treasures of art; while Venice alone, which has no delicious scenery, and but few collections to boast, possesses, on the other hand, a peculiar charm which the above-mentioned cities have not---that of the romantic. What, indeed, has a better claim to the epithet of romantic, than the celebrated Place of St. Mark, with the adjoining piazzetta? Enclosed on three sides by magnificent edifices, this place runs down close to the sea; the spray of which, when it is agitated, reaches the pillars, supporting the one the celebrated lion, and the other the image of St. Theodore. On the left appears the lofty pointed steeple, and near it the church of St. Mark, with its numerous singularly shaped cupolas, which have more of an oriental than christian air. In front of it, on metal pedestals, magnificently decorated, are planted three tall masts, bearing at their tops the arms of Candia, Cyprus, and the Morea; from which, on particular occasions, prodigiously large red and white streamers float down to the ground. On the right, upon the ​roof of a palace that forms an archway, is the remarkable clock, with its large detached bell, upon which, at noon and midnight, two metal giants, called i Mori, strike twelve prodigious blows with their ponderous hammers. Proceeding down the Riva de’ Schiavoni, the street of the Slavonians, towards the Doge’s palace, supported by innumerable arches curiously wrought, and resting upon as many pillars, what an extraordinary scene presents itself! It is not merely that jugglers and conjurers of all sorts here display their tricks, while the more elegant population of Venice, intermixed with Turks, Greeks, and Dalmatians, in splendid national costumes, pours along towards the Giardini publici; no, the eye of the intelligent observer is here met by a very grave but not less romantic point of view, namely, the palace of the state inquisitors, the prisons of three different kinds, (of which the Piombi, or lead roofs, and the Pozzi, or wells, were the most famous,) and a structure, the name of which strikes painfully on the ear---the Ponte de’ Sospiri, the Bridge of Sighs, bestriding the dark canal del Orfano. Through its silent walls, with their small closely-grated windows, the condemned were conducted from sentence to execution. The entrances are secured on both sides with immense iron bars and padlocks. We need, in fact, neither the mysterious descriptions ​of the more ancient writers on Venice, nor the exposure of the most atrocious cruelty and the most arbitrary despotism, furnished by Count Daru in his recent masterly History of that Republic, to form some conception of the horrors of the secret tribunal. The mere sight of the gloomy arches, and of the strong iron gratings, is quite sufficient.
When, in the course of the late political revolutions, these edifices were in part appropriated to other purposes, there was found on the wall an inscription, apparently in a female hand, hastily scrawled, perhaps in the last awful moment. The writer, who has seen this inscription, subjoins the story connected with it, as preserved by tradition in Venice, without however guaranteeing its authenticity.
Among the flower of the Venetian nobility, who in the year 1524 joined the army sent by the senate, under the command of the Duke of Urbino, to assist its ally, Francis I. of France, in opposing the Austrian power under Charles V., the most conspicuous alike for personal qualities and wealth was Count Christopher Frangipani. Though born in Venice, yet no sooner was he of ​an age to form his own opinion of things, than he expressed with great freedom his disapprobation of the mystery which pervaded the political and judicial administration of that state: and if no notice seemed at first to be taken of this, perhaps on account of his youth, it was certainly nothing but the fair hopes which he authorised, that subsequently screened him from severe punishment. With a bold and vigorous mind he united a commanding and handsome person. Victorious in all the chivalrous sports common at that period in Italy, he chiefly delighted to employ his superior powers in the protection of the weak. Hence it is not surprising that he should have been at once the darling of the people and of the fair sex. All these brilliant qualities, nevertheless, excited the envy of many, who attached a malicious interpretation to each of his actions. None, however, cared less for these strictures than the high-spirited Frangipani; he let people talk as they pleased, and did what was right. Arrived at maturer years, he looked about for a wife worthy of himself. Such a one he found in Apollonia, Marchioness of Modrusa. On returning, after the nuptial ceremony, from attending mass in the church of St. Mark, with this lovely female hanging on his arm, through the concourse of people in the piazza, the rare beauty of the new-married couple extorted on all sides expressions of the ​warmest admiration. Apollonia received this unbought homage with downcast looks, while the flush of modesty that mantled her cheek seemed to heighten her charms; but Frangipani with the tranquil, unassuming consciousness of desert, which so well becomes the man. Apollonia had hitherto been known as a pattern of all the female virtues: her intimate friends, when speaking of her domestic qualities, and of her reverence and affection for her blind and aged mother, could not describe, in sufficiently glowing colours, the unusual charms that seemed to be diffused over her person, while engaged in these dutiful attentions; so that in fact she looked more like a supernatural being than one of mortal mould. Titian, the celebrated painter, during his residence at Venice as a pupil of the great Bellini, once beheld her thus seated on a low stool at the feet of the venerable sightless matron, while the moon threw its silver light over her touchingly beautiful face, and tempered the fire of her dark eyes. She held the lute in her hand, singing with melodious voice a religious hymn, while the cool sea-breeze, pouring through the open windows, played in her dark hair that waved over her neck and bosom. “O fascinating marchesina!” exclaimed the enraptured painter; “I just need an angel, absorbed in melancholy musing on the beloved but fallen human race: permit me to take you for my model; for here on ​earth I shall not find any thing more beautiful!” The youthful Apollonia, her modesty deeply wounded, and glowing with confusion, had well nigh given a severe reproof to the young artist for what appeared to her to be the height of presumption. After she had become, however, the wife of the illustrious Frangipani, she furnished proofs of an intrepidity and heroism that would not have been expected in the bosom of a female. Not only did she accompany the count on horse-back in the chace, when he visited his and her patrimonial estates in the Trevisan, but in the sequel, when, as has been mentioned above, he repaired to the camp at the head of a body of Venetian nobles, she went with him, and was even at his side, only rather more lightly armed than himself, in several skirmishes, defending her husband whenever danger approached him with a hand nerved by the strongest conjugal love. Notwithstanding the advantages she derived from a majestic stature and her extraordinary capacity, the count, whose enterprising spirit was restrained by his constant anxiety for her safety, at length prevailed on her to repair with a proper escort to their estates in the rear of the army. Though this resolution cost Apollonia many tears, still she admitted the justice of the apprehensions by which her husband was actuated. Circumstances seemed to indicate the near approach of a general engagement; and Count Frangipani, conspicuous ​as he was for intelligence and valour, had become so great a favourite with the chivalrous monarch of France, that he wished to have him by his side, not only in the field but also in the council. To this end he had, by permission of the sublime republic, removed him from its troops into his own camp, and caused a tent to be erected for him not far from his own. Frangipani’s time was so wholly occupied by the important events that were preparing, and the numerous consultations held respecting them, that he had not a moment to spare for the endearments of love.
The city of Milan had surrendered to King Francis by capitulation: almost all the other towns in the duchy had fallen into his hands, and he therefore invested Pavia, which alone put itself in a posture of resistance, in the confident hope that he should make himself master of it in a few weeks. The garrison, however, composed of Spanish troops under the brave Leyra, made such a gallant defence, that at the expiration of four months the besiegers had not gained the slightest advantage. This loss of time was the more ruinous, as it enabled the constable of Bourbon, one of the greatest generals of his age, to hasten with a considerable force to the relief of Pavia, and to offer battle to the enemy under its walls. Whether Frangipani’s heroism, and the eagerness of the young Venetian nobility for fighting, obscured his otherwise so clear military ​views to such a degree, that he too was for accepting battle; or whether, well knowing the little reliance that was to be placed on mercenaries, and those not regularly paid, as was here unfortunately the case, he foresaw the probability that the Condottieri would withdraw their forces, and that therefore a glorious death was at any rate to be preferred to a disgraceful retreat,—we know not: so much is certain, that after a considerable party, supported, it is true, by reason and the rules of military science, had obstinately opposed it, the king, to whom retreat without an appeal to the sword seemed too dishonourable, decided on giving battle, and the requisite preparations were made accordingly. This resolution, which, according to Count Frangipani’s enemies, the King of France was induced by him to adopt, excited great hostility against him at Venice; but to this he paid at the time no particular attention.
Among the Condottieri who had furnished the Venetian Republic with troops, there was one named Camillo Ursino, not less distinguished for courage than for his noble person and polished manners. When it was made known that the battle was accepted, and the unpaid troops demanded their arrears before they again risked their lives, Camillo found means, partly by advances from his private funds, and partly by persuasion, to inspire the rude multitude with such ​enthusiasm, that most of them rejoined their colours, and promised to share the fortune of the day. The service thus rendered by Camillo to King Francis was the more important, as the army had been greatly weakened by the unseasonable detachment of sixteen thousand men on an expedition to Naples. The commander was honoured for it with a heavy gold chain.
History has recorded what a bloody day the fifteenth of February, 1525, was for France and Venice. The French rushed with impetuous valour upon the enemy, and forced particular portions of their army to give way; but fortune soon deserted their banners. The perfidy of the Swiss, who forsook their post; and the fury with which the imperial cavalry under the Marchese Pescara charged the French squadrons; while the Venetian mercenaries, posted to cover them, were overthrown in spite of their resistance, and the garrison of Pavia under Antonio de Leyra fell unexpectedly on the enemy’s rear; decided the fate of the day. The rout became general, and the conflict changed into the most sanguinary carnage. In vain did Francis the First, surrounded by the French and Italian nobility, who lay bleeding about him, strive by the most daring intrepidity to renew the contest. His horse was already killed under him, and he was fighting on foot, when he too was at length overpowered and taken prisoner, with the king of Navarre.
​The French army was almost entirely cut in pieces, and the Venetians lost nearly the whole of their principal nobility, and half of their mercenary troops. Frangipani, though himself wounded, had gone with a deputation to the camp of the haughty conqueror, and on learning that Ursino was to set out as a special messenger for Venice, though he had no opportunity of speaking to him, he sent a note by him for the countess.
Camillo, on landing from the gondola, and crossing the Place of St. Mark to the palace of the Doge, observed to his astonishment the insignia of mourning waving at the door of almost every mansion. He could not have believed the loss of the Venetians to be so great; and on entering the Doge’s antechamber, he perceived that the lamentable tidings had arrived before him. Sorrow and dismay were legible in every countenance; and even the Doge himself, Andrea Gritti, a lofty, austere man, on receiving the report, had great difficulty to repress his feelings, and to preserve his dignity in the presence of the young soldier. The Doge intimated to him that in a few days he should return to the army; meanwhile he might rest and recruit himself in the lodging allotted to him. It so happened that he was quartered in the Frangipani palace. He was not personally acquainted with the count, and knew nothing of his domestic circumstances; ​he was therefore not a little surprised when, on the opening of the folding doors, he was met by a lady of the most exquisite beauty, heightened by the deep black of a mourning dress, whom her attendant introduced as Countess Apollonia Frangipani. Ursino, not less warm an admirer of the fair sex than a brave soldier, had no sooner recovered from the agreeable alarm, than with the characteristic boldness of his profession he thus accosted the lady: “This gloomy dress, by which the most divine charms reluctantly suffer themselves to be enveloped, becomes you not, fair countess. Your husband lives, and is but slightly wounded. I, Camillo Ursino, captain in the service of the serene Republic, can assure you of this; and that billet bears witness to the truth of what I say.”
“You must have a very bad opinion of me,” replied Apollonia, “if the first time you have the honour of being in the presence of the wife of Count Frangipani, you can venture to address to her so unseasonable and so bold a piece of flattery. Neither can you consider me as a Venetian, if you are surprised to find me in mourning on an occasion that has cost my country so many and so severe sacrifices. From your accent, however, you are a foreigner: in your country perhaps other sentiments may prevail. My husband, you say, is wounded, and yet he wrote these lines?”
“He did write them, and is but slightly ​wounded; certainly more slightly than I am by your eyes.”
“You did not see him?”
“I am not acquainted with the happy man, though I was told that an officer who frequently rode past during the engagement with his visor down, and in steel-blue armour, was Count Frangipani. By Heaven! were I in his enviable place, the whole army should know me by Apollonia’s breast-knot attached to my helmet.”
The countess dropped the veil over her lovely blushing face, and ordered her attendant to conduct the captain to the strangers’ apartments, and to provide him with every thing requisite for his accommodation.
Camillo had too nice a sense of honour not to feel Apollonia’s rebuke, but he was too much of a sensualist to regard it as any other than a challenge to venture still further. He considered every female as a lawful prize, and as having been endowed with beauty merely to embellish with it the hard life of the soldier. This notion is but too prevalent at the present day, though it is a disgrace to the noble profession of arms. The genuine soldier respects the property of others, and protects female virtue that is committed to his care. The rude mercenary, the vulgar free-booter, himself wholly destitute of moral worth, disbelieves its existence in others, and is on a level with the robber. Like the latter, he will ​steal the fruit for which he longs; he will lay snares for innocence, at which he scoffs; and in the unbridled indulgence of appetite he finds the most alluring side of his profession.
Such, too, were the sentiments of Camillo. Notwithstanding Apollonia’s blushes, and the most rigid modesty, he felt convinced that she, like all the other women in the world, would be incapable of resistance when her hour was come; and to hasten it seemed to him the triumph of worldly wisdom, and an enterprise worthy of himself.
At dinner the lovely countess appeared so amiable and so attentive to her guest, that her behaviour must have convinced him of his error, had he not been already too deeply involved in it. As it was, however, he mistook Apollonia’s hospitality for solicitude to make amends for her former coldness, and he generously resolved not to be too severe. Such a ridiculous infatuation would be almost incredible, did we not in our days see instances enough of it. The conversation soon turned upon the count. Camillo knew no more than that the intimate friendship with which Frangipani was honoured by King Francis the First, the brilliant distinctions which that monarch was constantly conferring on him, and, lastly, the circumstance of the count’s having, by the king’s express desire, removed his tent from the Venetian camp, and pitched it near that ​of his majesty,—had given offence to many illustrious officers, who had perhaps done as much as the count, though none of them ever thought of making much ado about it. Upon the whole, he added, the count had more enemies than friends; and this was owing, perhaps, not less to his conspicuous valour, than to the frankness with which he was accustomed to express himself on every occasion.
At these words, the fair countess heaved a deep sigh, and her large eyes filled with tears. “So then,” said she, “envy every where pursues the steps of merit. Here too—would you believe it?—here, in his own country, jealousy and malice are busily striving to undermine my lord’s reputation.”
“Whoever has seen you,” replied Camillo, “can easily conceive that your husband must be exposed to envy.”
“Would to God it were excited by such trifles only!” ejaculated Apollonia. “No; his enemies envy him the consideration which he has acquired with the army, and the love manifested for him by his countrymen; nay, they accuse him of having sought the friendship of the King of France, in hopes of obtaining, through his influence, the supreme command of the troops—which no native is by right permitted to hold—and then subverting by force of arms the liberties of the people. Every one who is acquainted with the ​count must know whether his generous soul is capable of such ideas.”
“So much the less, fair countess,” rejoined Camillo, “need you fear those slanderers.”
“As if,” replied Apollonia, “people were not always disposed to believe the worst, be it ever so improbable! And are you, indeed, such a stranger in Venice, as not to know how the most upright is rendered an object of suspicion to the secret tribunal; how the attention of the three formidable judges, who render no account, whom no one knows, is directed towards him? It is not the open, the public accusations that are most to be feared”——
“But may not this be unfounded?” asked the captain, interrupting the countess.
“Oh! it is but too true?” answered Apollonia—“to the disgrace of the republic, but too well founded. Nay, the most superficial, the most unsubstantiated charge preferred anonymously in writing, on any scrap of paper, and thrown into the jaws of one of those iron lions’ heads that are to be seen in all the public places, and that have subterraneous communications with the secret tribunal, is sufficient to tear the son from the arms of the parent, the husband from the bosom of his wife. In the ​depth of repose, under the mantle of night, and often in a wholly inexplicable manner, the unfortunate accused disappear, and fall victims to that horrible spirit of revenge which we here call policy, and which, like Satan himself, carries on its operations in the dark. Oh! how it wrings the heart to think it possible that”——
“Torment yourself not so needlessly,” said Camillo, striving to soothe the countess, whose tears flowed apace. “How can you suffer a circumstance that is so unlikely ever to befall you, to affect you so keenly?”
Apollonia replied, that she had not herself alone in view,—no, she had in view here a happy married pair, there affectionately attached brothers and sisters or friends, nay, all mankind, whose sacred rights were most flagrantly violated by such atrocities. She bade him consider how mutual confidence and the holiest ties might thus be rent asunder; every germ of morality stifled; and society degraded into a horde of poisoners, murderers, and banditti. She directed his view to scenes of heart-rending anguish; when, as she had herself witnessed, mutilated bodies had been found in the streets, in which the sister recognised her brother, the wife her husband. Carried by virtuous enthusiasm to the highest pitch of emotion, she required Camillo to swear, never, while he lived, to resort to the detestable expedient of secret accusation.
​“I swear it, by your beauteous eyes!” replied the love-intoxicated young man, seizing her delicate hand, and pressing it to his glowing lips.
After dinner, he was summoned by a senatorial messenger to attend the Doge in the evening, for the purpose of receiving his despatches. He punctually obeyed the order: but some delay took place. While he was pacing the anteroom to and fro, and admiring the master-pieces of art with which it was adorned, a man of gloomy aspect, and from his dress a nobile, was introduced, and desired to wait in the same room, till the Doge, who was engaged, had leisure to speak to him. A conversation soon commenced between Camillo and the stranger; and it naturally turned upon the event which then agitated all Europe, and particularly concerned the Venetians—the battle of Pavia. The nobile, who, as he said, had also to deplore the loss of two sons, threw, with undisguised resentment, the whole blame of this catastrophe on Count Frangipani, who, contrary to the opinion of the Duke of Urbino and all the experienced captains, and supported only by Bonniveau, the worst of the French generals, had encouraged the king’s romantic notions of honour and desire to fight against his own conviction. “But to be sure,” continued he, “the traitor well knew what he was about. Before he could rule, it was absolutely necessary that all ​his opponents should be prostrated at his feet; and how could this be done more easily and more effectually, and without laying himself open for a moment to direct accusation? The Mocenigos, the Contarinos, the Foscarinis, and all the truly noble families, are enemies to a man like Frangipani, who tramples upon the nobility of his race, and courts the favour of kings, that he may some day, with foreign money, foreign influence, and foreign arms, inflict a death-blow on the liberties of his country.”
“I am not acquainted with the count, and therefore cannot make any reply to your accusation,” said Camillo, with indifference. “But a lucky chance has assigned me quarters in his palace; and indeed, when one sees the divinely beautiful Apollonia, and hears her descant on her husband’s merits”——
“Divinely beautiful Apollonia, indeed!” reiterated the nobile, with a sarcastic sneer. “We know this divine Apollonia pretty well. In the absence of a third person, she can be human enough.”
“What do you say?” hastily exclaimed Camillo, who had listened to the charge against the count, preferred by one who was evidently his enemy, without believing a word of it; but who found the more probability in his malicious insinuation against Apollonia.
“I say,” rejoined the Venetian, “that the ​prudish countess, in the presence of her servants, and Apollonia unobserved in her chamber, are two totally different persons.”
“Heaven and earth!” cried the inflamed Camillo. “Is it then really so? can that proud heart throb for something more ardent than cold duty? can that marble bosom be made to heave higher by the anticipation of joy? could I myself”——
“Raise your voice a little more,” said the nobile, “and then the Doge himself can give you answers to all your questions, which to me seem very ridiculous in the mouth of a young and handsome soldier.”
At that moment the silver bell rang, the lofty doors flew open, and Camillo was ushered into the inner apartment of the Doge, hung with red velvet.
When, after receiving his despatches, he again left it, the nobile was gone. Nor did he miss him. How could the ardent Camillo, who, in the presence of the Doge himself, was thinking of scarcely any thing but Apollonia’s charms, hanker after the odious innuendoes of one who manifestly hated and envied Frangipani, perhaps on the same account? No; a very different subject engaged his excited imagination, which impelled his inflamed blood with tenfold force through his swollen veins. His penetration then had not been at fault. Apollonia was in​clined, like all women in like circumstances, to console herself for the absence of her husband, and, with genuine female art, had contrived to disguise with the mask of lofty virtue the transport she felt on account of the opportunity that presented itself, and perhaps the liking that had sprung up for him at the moment. He determined to punish her with a shower of burning kisses for this little deception. That Apollonia was waiting, waiting with anxiety for him, was as clear to his mind, as that the expression of innocence in her looks, and of the purest modesty in dress and demeanour, was nothing but an appearance, which the highest proficiency in the arts of deception enabled her to assume. But how, when, and where he was to pluck the doubly sweet because forbidden fruit, was what he now had to discover. Apollonia herself had told him, that she should not return till late from a visit of condolence to some of her relations. He, on the other hand, was to be by break of day at the Rialto, where his gondola would be waiting for him. To chance, which had so often befriended him, he at length resolved to leave the decision of this matter. At all events, he had gold and steel in readiness, according as he might need the service of either. To beguile the slow pace of time, he traversed Venice in all directions, visited the public places, and, when night had enveloped town and ​sea in darkness, he entered a house, the lighted window of which indicated a tavern. He knew not one of the company whom he there found engaged in drinking and play. After some time, whom should he espy in a corner, seated quite alone at a small table, but the nobile. Nothing could be more seasonable—he should drink with him, and wine might perhaps make him communicative in regard to Apollonia. He accordingly addressed him, and proposed that they should have a bottle of Cyprus together. The stranger assented: they drank, talked, grew warmer and more familiar. Wine unsealed more and more the lips of the nobile, and this man, who before looked so dull, had soon drawn so lively a picture, not only of the Venetian women in general, but also of Apollonia herself, that were but half of what he said true, Camillo had reason to anticipate the most welcome reception. As he kept plying the bottle, the generous liquor opened his heart also, and when the Venetian inquired what Apollonia had said during dinner, he faithfully recapitulated the whole conversation, and dwelt particularly on Apollonia’s terror of secret accusations. The nobile observed with a smile, that on this point the fascinating countess had grossly exaggerated; adding, that there was no instance of a person having been apprehended immediately after a secret charge, several warnings ​being always previously given; and it was only in case the party proved incorrigible that punishment ensued.
The clock now struck one, and the nobile, who could not be prevailed on to take another drop, quitted the house with firm step, while Camillo, with a head confused by the fumes of wine, reeled through the streets to the Frangipani palace. With tottering feet he ascended the marble steps, glistening in the brightest moonlight; and on entering, the tones of a lute met his ear. He mechanically followed the melodious sound, which led him into a lofty vaulted gallery, and soon stood before an open door, through which the fragrance of flowers, the harmony of sweet sounds, and the silver rays of the moon, poured in a torrent that bewildered the senses. It was Apollonia’s chamber. Lofty pillars of white marble supported a rose-coloured silk awning; the drapery, descending in rich folds to the floor, was held back by silver arms twisted into the form of serpents, and shewed the swelling pillows on which the first beauty of her time was wont to repose. At the open bow-window, before which the sea glistened tremulously in the moonbeams, was seated ​Apollonia in the lightest negligée, with her eyes upraised to heaven. The soft breezes that played through the apartment had blown aside the light covering from her bosom, which heaved in unrestrained loveliness to meet the sportive zephyrs. Her hair flowed freely in long black ringlets over her majestic form. Her delicate fingers drew melancholy tones from the lute that lay upon her arm, while the big tear slowly trickled from her overcharged eye. Oh! had this object been reflected in the soul of a youth fraught with love and delicacy, long would it have shone refulgent there, as in the most glorious temple! On the contrary, it met the view of a half-intoxicated debauchee, whose gross appetite transformed it into the idol of the moment. Unable to contain himself, and determined on proceeding to the last extremity, he rushed precipitately on the countess, who dropped the lute with a shriek of terror. Regardless of her cries for assistance, he clasped her in his arms and covered her with kisses, which she vainly struggled to avoid. “No prudery, adored Apollonia!” said he with unsteady voice; “mine thou shalt and must be, and that this very hour.” Strengthened by the genius of insulted innocence, Apollonia disengaged herself from his grasp, and fled by a door leading into a contiguous apartment. Camillo ​heard the key instantly turned in the lock; he heard the repeated ringing of the countess, and, foaming with rage, hastened to reach his chamber, before the servants should intercept him. He succeeded in securing his retreat, and, furiously cursing his disappointment, threw himself upon his couch. Scarcely had his rage given place to the heavy sleep of intoxication, when he found himself shaken by no very delicate arm: he awoke. A lofty figure in armour stood beside him, with his visor closed. “Up,” cried he, in a hollow tone, “and arm without delay! The Marchese Modrusi, the brother of the countess, awaits you in the marble hall, to make bloody atonement for your misconduct.” There was no time for reflection, as an immediate answer was required. Camillo, scarcely awake, began to equip himself in silence for the combat. He repaired to the marble hall, where his antagonist, likewise in armour, was waiting for him with drawn sword. Camillo’s guide now raised his visor, and displayed, in the clear moonlight, the face of a venerable old man. “I am,” said he, “the Cavaliere Modrusi, Apollonia’s uncle. You scarcely number so many years as I do scars of wounds received in glorious battles. This young man opposite to you is my nephew, who lends to my infirmity and the insulted honour of his cousin his arm ​against a scoundrel. Now you know the whole.” At these words young Modrusi placed himself in a fencing attitude, and though considerably smaller than Camillo, it was nevertheless evident that he was determined to leave with his antagonist a lasting memorial of this meeting. Whether Camillo had not duly equipped himself, or the vapours of his preceding night’s debauch dimmed his sight, or conscious guilt unnerved his arm, while he neglected to cover himself, a desperate cut of Modrusi’s separated the band of his helmet, which fell to the floor, and Camillo’s antagonist seized the opportunity to inflict a gash on the cheek. Camillo mustered all his strength, designing to put an end to the conflict with one tremendous blow: but the elder Modrusi immediately interposed his sword. “Hold, captain!” he cried; “you are wounded, my nephew is satisfied, and you have no right to continue the combat. But, to shame you still more, behold who it is that has wounded you!” At the same moment the young champion loosed his helmet, and, taking it off, displayed to the astonished Camillo the features of Apollonia. “Yes,” cried she, with a look of noble indignation, “you are conquered by a woman. Had you not been heated with wine, I should have charged my husband to take a more signal vengeance. For the present, let this slight chastisement from a female hand suffice; and may it ​teach you in future to make a better return for the hospitality you receive!” With these words she retired, followed by the marchese.
Imprecating all the spirits of hell to aid his revenge, and loading the countess with the most opprobrious epithets, Camillo, after he had bound up his wound, ran from the palace, with his helmet in his hand, through the lonely streets to the Rialto, with the intention of immediately quitting the detested Venice. His soliloquy was an uninterrupted series of execrations against the lewd courtesan, when, turning sharply round a corner, he felt himself detained. On looking about, it appeared that his long scarf, which hung down behind, had been caught by one of the iron lions’ heads, which projected from the wall. “Ha!” cried he, with malignant exultation, “such an opportunity will not speedily occur again.” Hastily drawing forth his pocket-book from beneath his armour, he wrote a few words upon a slip of paper, doubled it up, and threw it into the lion’s mouth. “At any rate you shall not escape without a proper fright, my coy beauty!”
Thus did a man, who, when not hurried away by his passions, could be brave, generous, nay, tender-hearted, perpetrate a deed, than which a blacker could not have been devised by the most vindictive villain. To disgrace was added guilt, and crime to crime, by one who, had it ​been predicted that he should on the self-same day commit so foul an attack on female honour and a twofold murder, would have deemed the thing absurd, nay, utterly impossible. So very closely do virtue and vice dwell in the human breast.
Such reflections probably darted across the mind of Camillo, when, throwing off the mantle in which he had muffled himself, he stepped to the head of the vessel. The golden orb of day was just rising from the dark bosom of the sea, filling the firmament with new glories. As the splendid purple, azure, saffron, and golden tints of morning gradually chased away the dun shades of night,—so the young soldier strove to remove the remembrance of his deed farther and farther into the back-ground of his soul. He was oppressed by the idea of standing thus alone in the region of returning light, which was already hailed by the feathered songsters, and gilded the peaceful habitations—as a guilty son of night, who had not thrust the sword with the rapidity of lightning into the breast of a fierce adversary, but secretly, more secretly than by poison or the poniard, murdered by a word two innocent persons. This idea had well nigh made his hair stand on end, when the assurance of the nobile, that a secret accusation was merely attended with reproof and warning, served to pacify him a little. “The tribunal will not ​make an exception in this case,” said he to himself, grasping the more eagerly at the consolation which these words afforded, the less foundation there seemed to be for it.
The vessel soon reached the land. There Camillo found his horses and met with troops and stores, and being thus again involved in the bustle of a military life, the voice of remorse ceased by degrees to make an impression upon him. He soon arrived at the camp, delivered his despatches to the Duke of Urbino, and was about to rejoin his own men, who had retreated with the great mass of the French army, when a horseman summoned him to attend Count Frangipani, who had occasion to speak to him on business. Camillo imagined that he could clearly foresee what awaited him: yet, to his astonishment, the count not only received him in the most courteous manner, and did full justice to the signal valour which he had displayed in the recent engagement, but added, that the emperor Charles having granted permission to the King of France, to repair with such of his officers as he should himself select to Pizzighittone, the king had appointed to this duty himself and Camillo Ursino, who might therefore make immediate preparations for the journey. The captain was thunderstruck. To Frangipani’s kindness, it was very evident, he owed the honour and the advantages that ​awaited him: with what front then could he appear in the presence of one so generous, and whom he had so deeply injured!
His troops, dwindled to one-half, had totally dispersed, after their claims had been satisfied by the Duke of Urbino, and we next find our hero, honoured by King Francis, beloved by Frangipani, and esteemed by the Spanish commanders, at Madrid, whither the King of France had been conveyed at his own request, because he hoped much from a personal interview with his conqueror. The more Frangipani attached himself to Camillo, whose ardent spirit seemed to delight him, the more the astonishment of the young man at the count’s conduct was converted into admiration of him. Such noble pride, such constancy of attachment, such determined perseverance in that which was once for all acknowledged to be just and right, he had never yet found combined in any individual. It is the fair side of youth, that, quickly discerning excellence, it feels itself powerfully attracted by it, and cheerfully and wholly resigns itself to its influence. Such too was the case with Camillo; he conceived the warmest affection for the generous man, who so kindly met every advance of his young friend. But the higher Camillo found himself raised by so many honourable distinctions, the more he felt it out of his power to reveal to him the dreadful secret, ​which frequently hovered upon his lips. He kept hoping that Apollonia’s letters would report the circumstance, and thus afford him occasion to disburden his conscience; but, with celestial kindness and the most extraordinary resignation, the countess never took the least notice of the affair: nay, when her husband expressed how happy he was in the society of his young and distinguished friend, Apollonia in her answer congratulated him on having won over so promising a young man, by his example, to virtue and honour. The count shewed the two letters to Camillo, who, in his solitary moments, could not help confessing to himself, that he appeared between this noble pair like Satan between two angels.
It happened about this time, that the Republic of Venice was ready to conclude an alliance with Pope Clement the Seventh, Genoa, Florence, and Francis Sforza the Second, of Milan, against the Emperor Charles the Fifth. What fitter person could the senate have chosen to negotiate with so many potentates, than the illustrious and celebrated Count Frangipani? Accordingly he received instructions to return to Venice, in order, as it was expressly stated, to be employed in this mission. It was requisite, of course, that this step should be kept secret. None was therefore made acquainted with it but King Francis and Camillo, who, falling in an agony ​at the feet of the count, implored him to reveal the cause that summoned him back to Venice. Far as was Frangipani from comprehending the cause of the emotion of his young friend, he nevertheless cheerfully complied with his request, and having pacified him, set out the following night. King Francis the First, burning with desire to revenge on his conqueror the disgrace he had suffered, had by secret messengers sent orders to France for the most extensive armaments; and that his sentiments might be clearly understood, he despatched Camillo to his mother, Queen Louisa, whom he had appointed regent of the kingdom, and strongly recommended him to her notice; so that this officer, who soon shewed that he was capable of rendering good service in his profession, was promoted to be colonel of one of the new-raised regiments, which may perhaps be considered as the ground-work of the standing army of France. Here he daily looked for the arrival of Count Frangipani, but in vain. In answer to the inquiries which he caused to be made at Venice respecting him, he was informed that the countess resided on her estate in the Trevisan, and that her husband was ambassador at Genoa or Rome. Seized with a gloomy presentiment, he wrote to both cities, and addressed a letter to the countess herself. He received no reply. His anxiety was now increased to the highest pitch; and as ​the second Italian war had just commenced, he easily obtained permission to precede the troops he was to command, and to make inquiry at Venice for the count, for whom he was charged with a letter from the king himself. He hastened through the Trevisan to the residence of the countess, which he had so often heard named. There he was told that she had accompanied her husband on his embassy. Oppressed by the most dismal forebodings, he pursued his route to Venice, and hurried to the Frangipani palace. At its gate, he learned the intelligence which extended him, as if thunderstruck, upon the marble pavement. Apollonia and her husband had disappeared, and the senate—so the porter informed him with tears in his eyes—had summoned the nearest relatives to take possession of the Frangipani property, unless the count made his appearance within the space of a year. “But,” added the old man in a tremulous and hollow tone, “the year will pass away, and they will neither of them be seen again.”
Whoever had beheld the unfortunate Camillo when he awoke from a deep swoon in the porter’s lodge, would have felt sincere compassion for him. He was no longer the same man. His haggard eyes were deeply sunk in their sockets, and his deathly pale brow was covered with perspiration. His dark hair stood erect; his ​lips quivered; his knees shook; conscious guilt was depicted in all his features. Towards evening he repaired, with a full purse in his bosom, to the palace of the supreme tribunal. The habitation of the gaoler was soon found. His heart was moved, not by the gold, which he proudly rejected, but by the deplorable state of Camillo, to whom he disclosed what he was desirous of knowing. He had himself conducted Apollonia and her husband, after their examination, to their fate across the Bridge of Sighs. “Then”—he made gestures to signify strangulation; and Camillo was obliged to lay hold of the iron gate to keep himself from falling. In the prison where they had been confined together, they had left some words written on the wall. Camillo begged as the highest favour to be permitted to see this writing, and his request was granted. The writing was Apollonia’s, which Camillo knew but too well, only traced by a trembling hand. Silently weeping, he fell upon his knees, apparently offering up a short prayer: he then quitted the terrific building, and hastened back to the Frangipani palace, where he gave the porter all his money, with the injunction to cause masses to be said annually on the 3d of September for his master and mistress. He then hurried away, and was never heard of afterwards.
C. B. von Miltitz.
* ↑ The inscription is as follows:—Ioan . . . f . . . . l . . . . incluso qua. introise . . . fin a terzo zorno. de. Setembro. del. M.D . . . . XVIII. io. cristofero. fragipanibus. chonte. de vegia. sen . . . et. modrusa. et. io. apolonia chonsorte. de Sopradito. Signior chonte . . .
* ↑ The holes that were covered by those lions’ heads are still visible, but the heads themselves are removed, and their object and subterraneous communication suppressed.
* ↑ What the nature of these warnings was may be inferred from the circumstance, that those to whom they were given fell down insensible, and were obliged to be carried away.—See Daru, tom. v. p. 549.
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