CHAPTER IV.

"Then lay us together for ever to rest, For the grave ends all strife, and all sorrow: As the sun, which, at eve, sinks in blood to the west, Rises calm and serene on the morrow!"

Forty years had passed over from the date of these events; and the horrors of the plague of Florence were forgotten. The tale lived in the recollection of a few old people who had escaped the wreck; but their accounts wavered between fiction and reality, and were held as exaggerations among the juniors. Times had changed, and things had changed with them. The ploughshare passed over that ground which had been the site of palaces in the time of the pestilence; and churches stood, and streets, where cemeteries had been glutted with the remains of thousands. Those who listened to the stories of mortality--of five hundred dead in one week, and three hundred in another--counted the numbers as men hear of thousands dead upon a field of battle: they believed the fact, because it was avouched, but scarcely could understand the possibility.

And with the traces of the plague, other wonders of the time had disappeared. The mystery of Lorenzo di Vasari's fate was forgotten. The desperate revenge of the outlaw Arionelli lived only in the songs of the lower classes, or in the legends of those who still exercised his dangerous profession. The Count Arestino had long paid the debt which all men owe. His sins might, or they might not, be forgiven; but he was gone to his reckoning--had briefly, indeed, followed her whom his vengeance had sent thither perhaps too soon. The great crowd who had lived in that earlier day were now departed or departing; they gave up the post of action and existence to those who had been children in their day.

And in the Chateau Arestino now, there was feasting and all delight. It was the autumn again, and the hedges of myrtle on the banks of the Arno gave out their most delicious scent. The roses that hung faint with the noonday's heat, gathered new life in the cool of the twilight, as they drooped their heads to drink of that fresh stream; and the last rays of the sun fell with a mellowed brightness upon the red and yellow leaves of the chestnut tree, or lingered, where the eye paused with less effort, among the dark-green branches of the olive.

And in the halls of the castle, too, there was a sound of music, and of dancing, and of revelry. And gay forms flitted lightly along its lofty corridors, or dashed in mimic pursuit, with the light step and lighter laugh of youth, through its water-side arbours and gardens. And there were gallant forms of cavaliers, their crests nodding brightly in the sun; and fair, transparent, sylph-like figures of females, their flowing drapery catching in the light breeze, and but adorning the form it seemed to hide, sported gaily through hall and bower. That day was the new lord's wedding-day. He had wandered long abroad, unknowing of his rich inheritance. But all since his return was splendour and fitting and decoration. For he had sighed sometimes at the thought of that palace when he had little hope to possess it. And now it would become his favourite seat--he kept his day of bridal there.

And his bride was come, and her fair bridesmaids; and she was welcomed by the grey-haired domestics who hoped to live yet in ease and comfort from her bounty. And all was gaiety and sparkle. There was the light boat plied upon the river, filled with such freight as showed as though the nymphs fabled to dwell in ocean's depths had risen to glide upon its surface. And the speckled trout checked at the long line, or snapped the brittle wand, while shouts of triumph or of laughter--equally gay--hailed his appearance above water or his escape.

And in the midst of all this tumult, the bride and her attendants, with girlish curiosity, wandered through the rich saloons, and even through every chamber in the castle. The pictures--the china--the statues--nothing was spared from their curious view. "And what was this? and whence came that? This painting, was it from Venice or from Rome? That armour, was it of the French or of the Danish workmanship? Those jewels too--and those rich plumes, now of past fashion, that filled the Garde-robe--whose had they been? from what great ancestor of Theodore's had they descended?"

The attentive governante's answer was always ready. She had the knowledge and the memory fitting to her station. The china was from one illustrious house--the statues, in succession, from another--the armour had belonged to the first or to the third Lord of Arestino, famous for his conduct in the wars of Charlemagne, against the Saracens or elsewhere. But the jewels and plumes had been the property of the Lady Angiolina Arestino, the wife of the last Count Ubaldi, and one of the handsomest women of her time; "Who died," said the ancient governante, "on this very day forty-four years, even on the very night of the Vigil of St Luke; and on the same night that the young Chevalier di Vasari, whom some--Heaven pardon them!--accounted her lover, was basely murdered. How my lady met her death, some doubted, for the Lord Arestino was of an unforgiving temper, and severe! But it was a strange business, at least for the Chevalier and his attendant, who disappeared on that night, and no traces were ever heard of them more!"

"But the Chevalier's body was found, was it not, good Beatrice?" said a fair Florentine girl; "I am sure I have heard that it was; and that he was one of the noblest cavaliers of his time. And that is a beautiful bust--if it was like him--which stands in the Church of St Marco, on the tomb erected to his memory!"

"His _body_ was found, with your ladyship's leave, three months after he was missing; but never the persons by whom he met his death. And up to this time, the servant who waited on him, and who I always thought had a share in his murder, has never been heard of. Some say that there were signs of his escape to France, and that his master's famous black horse, Bayard, was many years afterwards recognised in the capital of that country. I do not know how that was; but I just recollect the finding of the Chevalier Lorenzo's body, poor gentleman! He was found dead in a ravine, scarce four miles from the city; stripped of everything--naked--no doubt by those who had robbed and murdered him; and would never have been recognised but for his sword, which was found beside him, lying broken within a few yards of the spot where he fell!"

"But the Count Ubaldi----, my Lord Theodore's ancestor--he died, too, early--did he not?" said the fair Lady Amina.

"He did, by your ladyship's pleasure--alas! he did--soon after his lady; and her death was sudden--it was said that she was poisoned. It was all in the dreadful time of the plague, before the eldest of you, fair signoras--before your mothers almost, I might say--were born. Poor lady! it was in this very chamber, this chamber we now stand in, that she died."

"Good Heaven!" said the Lady Amina, "in this chamber? Surely this was not the Countess Angiolina's bed on which I am leaning?"

"Not the bed, your ladyship," said Beatrice, "but all the other furniture of the room is exactly the same. These are the pictures which used to hang in it; and the marble busts; and those fine flower-vases, of which my lady was so fond. This cabinet contained her jewels, and many of them remain still. Some of the diamonds his lordship, the count, presented to the nuns of St Agnes la Fontagna. But the turquoises are here, that my lady wore mightily, for they became her complexion. And the pearls, too; but they are spoiled, quite black with age and want of wearing! That robe-chest, too--I pray your ladyship's pardon for the dust upon it--this house has been unused and empty so long--and servants will neglect where one is not always--that chest was her ladyship's, and I daresay contains choice fineries, for it stood always in her chamber, and has never been opened since she died."

This last fact seemed more extraordinary than any of the wonders which had preceded it. "Has it really never been opened!" said the young Lady Olympia. "But what a pity that such beautiful ornaments should have been left to decay!"

"Never opened, may it please your ladyship; nor could it, but by violence," returned the governante. "For it is a Spanish piece of work, and was sold to my lady by a foreign merchant, who told the secret of opening it only to her. It opens, your ladyship sees, with some spring--Heaven knows where! but there is neither lock nor bolt. Nobody could open it ever but my lady; and I am sure, since I lived in this house, I have tried a hundred times."

There could scarcely fail, in such an assembly, to be some desire as strong as the governante's to see the fair Countess's hidden treasure; but the having to open the chest by force was a difficulty too formidable rather to surmount. To have performed such a feat (independent of any other objection) would apparently have required strong assistance; and therefore, whatever anxiety curiosity felt, modesty checked its expression; and the gay party proceeded on their rambling review, amidst various strange conjectures as to the manner of Di Vasari's death; or comments upon the conduct of the Count Ubaldi, and the unhappy fate of his fair lady.

But at the close of the evening, when the song rose loudest, and the feast was still enlivening the hall, there were two female forms seen to glide with lighted tapers along the oaken gallery, and enter the light-blue chamber; it was the beautiful bride--the Lady Amina--and her favourite companion, Olympia Montefiore.

The Lady Amina led the way, laughing; but there was a touch of apprehension mingled in her smile. "For Heaven's sake," said she, pausing in the doorway, "let us go back!"

"What folly! what can we have to apprehend!" was the reply.

"But Theodore may have missed us."

"And if he has!--Is it not his wedding-night, and can anything you do displease him? Besides--to-morrow he will cause the chest to be opened himself."

"Then let us wait until to-morrow; and we can then see it."

"Yes! and then everybody will have seen it--and it will not be worth seeing!"

As the beautiful tempter passed her companion, and knelt beside the case, her figure looked like that of Psyche, bending on the couch of Cupid.

"If we should not be able to open it after all!" said the bride, half fearful, half laughing.

"We will--depend on me," said the other, anxious and excited. "I know the secret of these Spanish chests. My father has one--they are common now in Venice--the spring is concealed--but once know the situation of it--as I do--and it is simple."

"But--I tremble all over!"

"Why, what nonsense!"

"But--I'll go away if you don't stop."

"But only think how we shall laugh at Lavinia and Euryanthe! Now--hold the taper. It is but one touch. Now--I have it. There!--do you see?--Now--Amina--now--hold here--help me while I lift the lid----"

* * * * *

Within the chest there lay a skeleton--stretched at its length, and bleached to whiteness. There was a jewel mocked one of the bony fingers; and a corslet of mail enclosed the trunk. And the right hand clutched--as though yet in question--a long and massive dagger. Its handle was of gold embossed; its blade was of the manufacture of Damascus. And on that blade, though rusted here and there, were characters which still appeared distinctly. Their pale brightness flashed as the light of the taper fell upon them; they formed the name--and they told the fortunes--of DI VASARI.

SIGISMUND FATELLO.

BY FREDERICK HARDMAN

[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1848.]