CHAPTER 3.VI.
Tu vegga o per violenzia o per inganno
Patire o disonore o mortal danno.
"Orlando Furioso," Cant. xlii. i.
(Thou art about, either through violence or artifice, to suffer
either dishonour or mortal loss.)
It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one
of which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of
the palace. Oh, yes! Zanoni was right. The painter IS a
magician; the gold he at least wrings from his crucible is no
delusion. A Venetian noble might be a fribble, or an assassin,--
a scoundrel, or a dolt; worthless, or worse than worthless, yet
he might have sat to Titian, and his portrait may be
inestimable,--a few inches of painted canvas a thousand times
more valuable than a man with his veins and muscles, brain, will,
heart, and intellect!
In this cabinet sat a man of about three-and-forty,--dark-eyed,
sallow, with short, prominent features, a massive conformation of
jaw, and thick, sensual, but resolute lips; this man was the
Prince di --. His form, above the middle height, and rather
inclined to corpulence, was clad in a loose dressing-robe of rich
brocade. On a table before him lay an old-fashioned sword and
hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio, and an inkstand of
silver curiously carved.
"Well, Mascari," said the prince, looking up towards his
parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep-set barricadoed
window,--"well! the Cardinal sleeps with his fathers. I require
comfort for the loss of so excellent a relation; and where a more
dulcet voice than Viola Pisani's?"
"Is your Excellency serious? So soon after the death of his
Eminence?"
"It will be the less talked of, and I the less suspected. Hast
thou ascertained the name of the insolent who baffled us that
night, and advised the Cardinal the next day?"
"Not yet."
"Sapient Mascari! I will inform thee. It was the strange
Unknown."
"The Signor Zanoni! Are you sure, my prince?"
"Mascari, yes. There is a tone in that man's voice that I never
can mistake; so clear, and so commanding, when I hear it I almost
fancy there is such a thing as conscience. However, we must rid
ourselves of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zanoni hath not yet
honoured our poor house with his presence. He is a distinguished
stranger,--we must give a banquet in his honour."
"Ah, and the Cyprus wine! The cypress is a proper emblem of the
grave."
"But this anon. I am superstitious; there are strange stories of
Zanoni's power and foresight; remember the death of Ughelli. No
matter, though the Fiend were his ally, he should not rob me of
my prize; no, nor my revenge."
"Your Excellency is infatuated; the actress has bewitched you."
"Mascari," said the prince, with a haughty smile, "through these
veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti--of those who boasted
that no woman ever escaped their lust, and no man their
resentment. The crown of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and
a toy,--their ambition and their spirit are undecayed! My honour
is now enlisted in this pursuit,--Viola must be mine!"
"Another ambuscade?" said Mascari, inquiringly.
"Nay, why not enter the house itself?--the situation is lonely,
and the door is not made of iron."
"But what if, on her return home, she tell the tale of our
violence? A house forced,--a virgin stolen! Reflect; though the
feudal privileges are not destroyed, even a Visconti is not now
above the law."
"Is he not, Mascari? Fool! in what age of the world, even if the
Madmen of France succeed in their chimeras, will the iron of law
not bend itself, like an osier twig, to the strong hand of power
and gold? But look not so pale, Mascari; I have foreplanned all
things. The day that she leaves this palace, she will leave it
for France, with Monsieur Jean Nicot."
Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber
announced the Signor Zanoni.
The prince involuntarily laid his hand upon the sword placed on
the table, then with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met
his visitor at the threshold, with all the profuse and respectful
courtesy of Italian simulation.
"This is an honour highly prized," said the prince. "I have long
desired to clasp the hand of one so distinguished."
"And I give it in the spirit with which you seek it," replied
Zanoni.
The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched
it a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still. Zanoni
bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with
a familiar air.
"Thus it is signed and sealed; I mean our friendship, noble
prince. And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find,
Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we
not accommodate out pretensions!"
"Ah!" said the prince, carelessly, "you, then, were the cavalier
who robbed me of the reward of my chase. All stratagems fair in
love, as in war. Reconcile our pretensions! Well, here is the
dice-box; let us throw for her. He who casts the lowest shall
resign his claim."
"Is this a decision by which you will promise to be bound?"
"Yes, on my faith."
"And for him who breaks his word so plighted, what shall be the
forfeit?"
"The sword lies next to the dice-box, Signor Zanoni. Let him who
stands not by his honour fall by the sword."
"And you invoke that sentence if either of us fail his word? Be
it so; let Signor Mascari cast for us."
"Well said!--Mascari, the dice!"
The prince threw himself back in his chair; and, world-hardened
as he was, could not suppress the glow of triumph and
satisfaction that spread itself over his features. Mascari took
up the three dice, and rattled them noisily in the box. Zanoni,
leaning his cheek on his hand, and bending over the table, fixed
his eyes steadfastly on the parasite; Mascari in vain struggled
to extricate from that searching gaze; he grew pale, and
trembled, he put down the box.
"I give the first throw to your Excellency. Signor Mascari, be
pleased to terminate our suspense."
Again Mascari took up the box; again his hand shook so that the
dice rattled within. He threw; the numbers were sixteen.
"It is a high throw," said Zanoni, calmly; "nevertheless, Signor
Mascari, I do not despond."
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the
contents once more on the table: the number was the highest that
can be thrown,--eighteen.
The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with
gaping mouth, staring at the dice, and trembling from head to
foot.
"I have won, you see," said Zanoni; "may we be friends still?"
"Signor," said the prince, obviously struggling with anger and
confusion, "the victory is yours. But pardon me, you have spoken
lightly of this young girl,--will anything tempt you to yield
your claim?"
"Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry; and," resumed Zanoni,
with a stern meaning in his voice, "forget not the forfeit your
own lips have named."
The prince knit his brow, but constrained the haughty answer that
was his first impulse.
"Enough!" he said, forcing a smile; "I yield. Let me prove that
I do not yield ungraciously; will you favour me with your
presence at a little feast I propose to give in honour," he
added, with a sardonic mockery, "of the elevation of my kinsman,
the late Cardinal, of pious memory, to the true seat of St.
Peter?"
"It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one command of yours I can
obey."
Zanoni then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly,
and soon afterwards departed.
"Villain!" then exclaimed the prince, grasping Mascari by the
collar, "you betrayed me!"
"I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged;
he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that's the
end of it."
"There is no time to be lost," said the prince, quitting his hold
of his parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat.
"My blood is up,--I will win this girl, if I die for it! What
noise is that?"
"It is but the sword of your illustrious ancestor that has fallen
from the table."
