The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1, April, 1851

M. H– reflected long on this letter. He hesitated not, because he was used to confidences made in terms and in manner as strange. But the conditions of the mask, so contrary to French habit, almost, in spite of himself, annoyed and troubled him. He, however, began to be inspired with the confidence which the man evidently felt himself. He therefore decided to receive him, and gave orders, that should the masked man present himself he should be admitted into his cabinet. M. H–only took a few measures of prudence, and after having examined the locks and charges of his pistols, which he always wore, and assured himself that the sound of a bell on his table would be heard at once by the attendants, waited attentively for the hour of the interview. The clock of the Palais Royal struck nine, when he was told that a masked man wished to speak to him. A few minutes after the visitor was introduced. He was tall and wrapped in a brown cloak, which he threw off when he had reached the room. He wore a costume half way between a tradesman's and prosperous workman's.

"What do you wish, Monsieur?" asked M. H–, who was sitting in his chair.

Without replying, the stranger, who was standing, pointed to two glass doors on each side of one through which he had entered, behind which were full silk curtains. M. H–understood him, and after a moment's hesitation, decided, and clapped his hands thrice. This was probably a signal well understood, for soon after a slight noise was heard in each of the rooms, and the silk curtains were slightly agitated. Then rising, M. H– opened the two doors and shut two external ones, which doubtless communicated with two other rooms.

"Thank you, sir," said the mask, "you will not regret your confidence."

These words were pronounced with a decidedly foreign air. The man took off his mask, and M. H– examined his features. His physiognomy was that of the south; his expression dark, and his long black hair hung over his face, and rested on his shoulders. The eyes of this man were sad and deep; and glittering beneath his dark brows, added to the ferocity of his expression. He was silent for some time, and then said, in a calm voice, to the chief of police: "I come, Monsieur, to propose a contract to you, which, when you have heard it, you can either accept or reject. An immense volcano undermines Paris; a conspiracy, or rather an immense association is about to be formed. They are not isolated enemies, scattered in small numbers, but a vast family of men, here and every where, in every man's house, and perhaps in the very bureau of the police. Among them are millions of iron-hearted and iron-nerved men, among whom are the mechanic, the day laborer, soldiers of every arm, the financier, the advocate, artist, the scholar, and the priest—every rank and condition is represented. At their head are nobles, lords, and princes; and they wish to accomplish in France what they have already done in the rest of Europe. First, they seek to abolish royalty, and to bestow on the people free and unlimited liberty. Their secret assemblies are called Vente. The association is called Carbonarism, and its members Carbonari."

M. H– sprang up from his chair. Of the plot which he had been so anxious to discover, and of which he had but a vague knowledge, he was now at last to obtain a clue. In a tone exhibiting the most lively curiosity, he bade the man go on. The mask took a seat; he felt that henceforth he might treat with M. H– as an equal.

"I am," said he, with a smile full of venom, "but an unworthy member of this important society, and come to treat with you, therefore, not in my own name—"

"In the name of whom, then, do you come?"

"There is," said the mask, "a man in Paris of high rank, of noble birth, and of great fortune, who, by means of his position and connections, which I cannot reveal, knows, and henceforth will know, all the secrets, all the plans of the Carbonari, from the obscure acts of the humblest of the brothers, to the orders given to the Vente by the supreme chiefs—"

"And this man is willing to surrender his infamous associates to us?" said M. H–.

"He will; but in consideration of this immense sacrifice, he demands certain things which I am charged to communicate to you."

"Tell me," said M. H–, "what he asks."

"We will talk of that hereafter. I, however, propose to you an honest bargain, and you will not be called on to pay the price until the service shall have been performed. I therefore come to ask you not for a reward, but for one word."

"A word?"

"A word, a promise, and an oath."

"If it be compatible with my duties."

"Certainly!" said the stranger. "We conspirators are honest people enough, but we are prudent, and used to secrecy. We never make revelations without exacting a double security."

"That of honor!"

"And displaying the dagger as the certain reward of treachery."

"Stop, sir!" said M. H–, rising, and evidently enraged at the daring of the stranger. "You forget where you are; no one but myself makes threats here; assume, therefore, another tone; for sorry as I should be not to avail myself of your offers, I must, if you persist, terminate our interview at once. But," continued he, "what is required of me?"

"I have told you—an oath. Here it is. You will swear on this," and he took a crucifix from his bosom, "that neither in person, nor otherwise, will you ever attempt to discover the person in behalf of whom I treat. You will swear that when you have been informed of the facts which I shall point out to you, when you shall have received proof of the culpability of certain men, you will cause them to be arrested and give them no clue to, and make no revelation of, the means by which you acquired your information."

"But how will the man who is to furnish this information treat with us?"

"Through me alone," said the stranger, "and I will allow you to be ignorant of nothing. In a few words—I will be his interpreter—the soul of his body, the action of his thought. Here," continued he, again presenting the crucifix to M. H–," an oath for such services is not too much to ask. You do not often get information at so cheap a rate. The form of the oath will doubtless appear strange to you, but I am a native of a land where oaths are taken on the cross alone."

"So be it," said M. H–, who, as he listened to the man, reflected on the small importance of the conditions imposed on him, which did not demand that he should act against the Vente or associations, until there was no doubt of their guilt. "So be it; I accept. I swear that I will never seek to ascertain of whom you are the agent, whether in person or through others." He placed his hand on the crucifix.

"Rely then on him—rely on me," said the stranger.

"Why do you not speak now?" said M. H–.

"Because it is necessary to give the fruit time to ripen before we gather it," said the mysterious stranger; and bowing to M. H–, he left.

"Well," said the chief of the political police, when he was alone, "the bargain I have made is not a rare one. Informers always have scruples at first, especially when they are men of rank;—when those of the man of whom the agent speaks are dissipated, or when by his wants and vices he is forced to draw directly on our chest, his shame will pass away, and his name will be enrolled on the list of our spies like those of M. X., the Baron de W–, the Advocate V–, the Ex-consul R–, and the Countess of Fu. This man is, then, taken in three words, what we call a Spy In Society."

IV.—THE AMBASSADRESS

On the twentieth of June, 1818, six months before the occurrence of the scene we have described in the preceding chapter, the greatest excitement was exhibited in a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The principal entrance of this hotel, or the Faubourg, was occupied by a crowd of workmen, who were busy in arranging a multitude of flower vases, from the court-gate to the door of the hotel. Upholsterers and florists crowded the vestibule, the stairway, and the antechambers with their flowers and carpets. The interior of the rooms on the ground floor presented a scene of a different kind of disorder. A pell-mell—a crowd of men and women were tacking down and sowing rich and sumptuous stuffs on the floors. The rooms of the lower floor of the hotel opened on one of the gardens surrounding the Champs-Elysées towards the Faubourg St. Honoré. An immense ball-room was constructed in the garden. This ball-room was united to the house by richly dressed doors, cut into the windows, and, with the ground floor, formed one immense suite. The garden at this period of the year contributed in no small degree to the pleasures of the festival. The curtains at the doors of this hall could at any time be lifted up so as to permit access to this oasis of verdure. One might have thought a magic ring had transported to this corner of Paris, all the riches of the vegetation of southern climes, and might have, in imagination, strayed beneath the jasmin bowers, amid the roses and orange-groves of Italy, so delicious was the perfume which filled this garden. Its peculiar physiognomy and design, its form, manner, and even the statues, the majority of which were chef-d'-œuvres of Italian art, all proved some foreign taste had presided over its construction, and that this taste had been the passion of some elegant and distinguished man.

But now this paradise had passed into the possession of a charming woman and admirable artiste. This hotel belonged to the beautiful Felina, the Italian queen of song, who had deigned to descend from a throne to be the Duchess of Palma. The lofty brow which had borne so proudly the diadem of Semiramis and Junia, wore now a duchess's coronet. This was a great self-deprecation; for Europe contained a thousand duchesses, and but one Felina. Worse still, many duchesses would not recognize La Felina as one of the number. She was a duchess by chance; a duchess not by the grace of God, but by the grace of talent and beauty. Observe, too, that this version was the most favorable, the most amiable and polite. It was the one adopted by the intelligent, philosophic and sensible duchesses of the empire. The true duchesses, those of other days, who could not understand how any one could wear a ducal coronet without having at least three centuries of nobility, made use of all the grape of their artillery to annihilate the singing woman. It was whispered, but loudly enough to be heard by half a dozen persons, that La Felina, arming herself with that rigidity she kept for the Duke of Palma alone, displaying all her charms, and envying the title and fortune of the noble Neapolitan, had refused to surrender her heart without her hand;—that the poor Duke, entwined in the nets of this modern Circe, wearied of the many love-scrapes which he had undergone, made up his mind, as he could not become a lover, to become a husband. This delightful theme was so decorated by the rich imaginations of the ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that it could scarcely be recognized beneath the inlaying of the rich anecdotes to which it gave occasion; but which lacked only three essentials of merit—good sense, justice, and truth. As far as relates to good sense, we will say that the Duchess of Palma was far richer than her husband. Her talent had long procured her a brilliant income; and to renounce the stage, at the height of her reputation and glory, when every note she uttered was worth a doubloon, was to reject vast wealth, the source of which was her voice and talent. Good sense would not justify the reproach of cupidity; truth and justice would equally have rejected the charge.

La Felina, far from wishing to lead the Duke astray—far from wishing, as was said, to make her fortune by marrying him, had long rejected the hand of the Neapolitan minister of police when the most powerful reasons would have induced her to accept it. She married the Duke only because of the deep and irrepressible passion which animated her heart for the Count Monte-Leone. She knew the Count loved Aminta; she knew that, when at liberty, he would marry the sister of Taddeo. Anxious to contend with herself by creating new weapons to oppose the passion which devoured her, anxious to build up a new barrier between the Count and herself, and to prepare a defence for her own heart, she accepted the hand of the Duke of Palma as a rampart of duty, and, as it were, forcibly to leave a profession, the triumphs of which disgusted and offended her because she regretted having ever experienced them. These were the reasons or reasonings which led La Felina to act as she did. We shall see, at a later period, that she achieved her purpose.

The Duke of Palma having secretly married La Felina in the town of Ferentino, the day Monte-Leone recognized him, took his beautiful wife to a villa he possessed on the lago di Como, and after sojourning there a few days, went to Naples and forced the King to accept his resignation as minister of police. The Duke was dissatisfied with Naples, for no one would forgive him for marrying the Prima-Donna. The two then came to Paris after a brief mission, during which the Duke had been obliged to leave her alone at the lago di Como. There they purchased the hotel of which we have spoken, and prepared to receive the court, and exhibit all the aristocratic luxury with which the Duke of Palma was so familiar. One circumstance, however, which had been entirely unforeseen, wrecked all their hopes. The best society of Paris, which is so lenient to some eccentricities, yet so rigid in its exaction of obedience to certain prejudices—the society to which, from rank and position, the Duke of Palma belonged, was rebellious. Among the nobles of the restoration there were a few exceptions, and though the persons who ventured to the Duke's were perfectly well received—though they praised in the highest degree the graces and exquisite haut-ton of the Duchess, their example was not followed, and the hotel remained silent and empty. The Duke and Duchess lived alone, buried in a magnificent tomb. The cause of this neglect of the invitations of the ex-minister may be easily divined. The Duke had married La Felina, the singer, about whom there had been, and yet were, so many reports. The beautiful artiste was much wounded by this general neglect, not because she regretted the world and its pleasures, but on account of other impressions which had haunted her since she had lived alone at Como. The affront, however, recoiled on her husband, and her deep, resolute soul bitterly resented it. La Felina was an Italian, and those of that nation who receive affronts avenge them. She was not long at a loss. Her vengeance, however, could not easily be attained, for she had to do with a rich and powerful society, which had, as it were, formed a coalition to insult a woman, by rejecting her with disdain and contempt.

The renown of La Felina as a singer had long excited the curiosity of Paris. Her admirable voice, her dramatic talent, her wonderful beauty, made the great artiste to be envied in every theatre in Europe. By a strange caprice, or an exaggerated distrust of her powers, the great artiste had always refused to sing in the capital, though well aware that there alone great artistic talent is baptized. Amazed at the national glory, she had never asked this sacrifice of French cognoscenti. Great, therefore, was the emotion of the various drawing-rooms, when it was said that a great concert would be given by the Duke of Palma, and that his Duchess La Felina would sing. The concert was for the benefit of some interesting charity; and humanity was a pretext to the high Parisian society not to visit La Felina, but to perform a great duty. How though could invitations be had? There was great difficulty, for the invitations were most limited in number. It is always the case in Paris, that as obstacles increase, the desire to overcome them also is multiplied. This was exemplified in the case of the concert. It was, however, strange that the very hotels where the ducal artiste had been worst treated, where her advances had been worst received, were those to which the invitations came first. Here and there some affronts given by the noble Italians who were the intimate friends of the Duke of Palma, but they were all submitted to, so anxious was the world to enjoy the long-desired but unexpected pleasure of hearing La Felina.

This took place many months before the entertainments, the preparations for which we described at the commencement of this chapter. On the day appointed for the concert, a long file of carriages filled up the whole Faubourg St. Honoré, and stopped at the door of the hotel of the Duke of Palma. The Duchess sat in her most remote drawing-room, dressed with extreme simplicity, beautiful without adornment, and waited for the guests, whom an usher at the door of the first drawing-room announced. As each one saluted her, she arose, and thanked them for their visit. This reception, far from gratifying the majority of her guests, seemed to offend them. They fancied they had met on neutral ground, in a room appropriated to charity, and not to wait on a lady who did the honors of her own house. The latter, however, was the case. Multiplying her cares for and attention to her guests, appearing to notice neither the cold politeness of the one nor the rudeness of the other, the Duchess increased her amiability and politeness to all who approached her. The ice was broken. The men could not resist her charms, and many women followed their example. The dazzling luxury of the hotel, the admirable pictures, the majestic beauty of the Duchess, produced such an effect on this society, composed of the most illustrious persons of Paris, and of all who were famous at the epoch, that the success of La Felina was complete. The great feature of the entertainment was impatiently waited for. The concert which the Duchess had announced did not begin, and it was growing late. The artistes, it was said, had not yet come, and all were as impatient as possible, when an excellent orchestra was heard. A few young people, forgetting why they had come, and utterly reckless of the opposition they would give rise to, hurried to the great ball-room, and whiled away the time before the concert in dancing.

About midnight a report was circulated among the guests that the Duchess was fatigued at the reception of so many persons, and the habitues said that her efforts to make her guests happy had been so great that she would not sing, and the entertainment would conclude with a ball. Nothing could equal the vexation and anger which appeared on certain faces, and which were augmented by the fact that La Felina made no apology, but in the kindest terms thanked them for the pleasure she had received from them, and which she feared she could not enjoy again for a long time, her health demanding the most complete solitude. Thus Felina turned a concert into a ball, and forced all Paris to visit her.

The next day the journals said: "Yesterday the Duke and Duchess of Palma gave the most magnificent entertainment of the year. The élite of the faubourg Saint-Germain and the capital were assembled, and all retired delighted with the reception extended to them by the illustrious strangers. The Duke sent ten thousand francs to the poor of his arrondissement, to make up a subscription which could not otherwise be completed."

A few months after, the Duke was appointed ambassador of Naples to the court of France, and in honor of his sovereign's birthday prepared the magnificent entertainment which created such disorder in the faubourg St. Honoré. The new position of the Duke of Palma, his diplomatic character, and the rumor of the beauty and elegance of the Duchess had silenced all complaints, and all now were anxious to be received at the Neapolitan Embassy.

A circumstance, however, of which the world was entirely ignorant, had within a few months made an altogether different woman of the Duchess, who had previously been gay and happy. An air of sadness reigned over her features, and her eyes assumed not unfrequently a wild glare, which could be removed only by tears. Some unknown sorrow had made great inroads even upon her beauty. Always kind and considerate to the Duke and those who surrounded her, she yet seemed to fulfil her requisitions of duty alone in complying with the observances of her rank. She seemed anxious to seclude herself from the world, and to seek to drown her grief in the solitude she had formerly avoided. Whether sorrow had assumed too deep an empire over her heart, or from some other cause, all were struck at the change so suddenly worked in her moral organization and in her beauty. Far, however, from making any opposition to this splendid entertainment, or exhibiting any indifference to its preparations, all were surprised to see the Duchess devote herself to it so fully. Nothing escaped her care; her refined taste neglected nothing which could contribute to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The Duke, delighted at the apparent revival of the Duchess's taste for the pleasures of the world, which she had long disdained, aided her with all his power, and spared no expense to gratify her. The invitations were numerous, and on this occasion there were no refusals; for the most noble persons were anxious to be entertained by the Neapolitan minister. The Duke hesitated only in relation to one of the many persons who were to be invited. This person was the Count Monte-Leone. The secretary who had been directed to prepare the list of persons to be invited had according to custom put down his name among the noble and distinguished Neapolitans who had called at the embassy of their country in Paris. The Duchess saw the list, and said nothing. The Duke hesitated for a long time—not that he had the least suspicion of the Duchess's sentiments towards Monte-Leone: he had attributed the presence of La Felina at the etruscan house to the consequence of an abortive masked-ball pleasantry. Besides, at the time of the arrest there were three other men in the house, and the ex-minister had almost forgotten the affair. The Count, in spite of his acquittal, was known to be an enemy of the government, and he doubted if it was proper to receive him at the embassy. One consideration alone prevented the Duke from erasing his name from the list—it was that the Count would not wish to appear at the embassy, and the Duke would thus be spared the necessity of showing any rudeness to him. The day came at last. The interior of the hotel was really fairy-like, and the rooms on the ground floor joined with the garden ball-room presented one of those magical pictures of which poets dream, but which men rarely see. The arts, luxury, comfort, opulence, and taste, all were united to produce a spectacle, which, lighted by a thousand lamps, spoke both to the mind and senses, and recalled one of those splendid palaces of The Thousand and One Nights, of which we have read, but which none will see.

On that day the Duchess seemed to have regained all her dazzling beauty. An observer might however have asked if the animation of this lady was not derived from a kind of feverish agitation, evident in the brilliancy of her eyes and deep red of her lips, rather than from expectation of pleasure or joy at the realization of the plans she had marked out for herself. Nine o'clock struck when the first guests were introduced. A crowd soon followed them, and the most distinguished names were heard in the saloons. The Duke d'Harcourt! the Vicompte and Mlle. Marie d'Harcourt! the Prince de Maulear! the Marquis and Marquise de Maulear! Signor Taddeo Rovero! Il Conte Monte-Leone!

Corregio, the illustrious painter, is said to have been born and bred, and to have lived and died in extreme poverty. It is stated that he came to his death at the early age of forty, from the fatigue of carrying home a load of halfpence paid for one of his immortal works.

TRANSFORMATION

BY THE LATE MRS. SHELLEY

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it set me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told
This heart within me burns.

    Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.

I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up, as it were, by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the church, is dead. None knows that once—