i need hardly say that i was very much excited over the strange discovery i had made, as there now appeared to be a reasonable chance of clearing up the mystery of the palazzo morone. i had discovered the name of the unhappy young man, which gave me a most important clue to the reading of the enigma; but i had yet to find out the name of the lady who had behaved in such an extraordinary manner and committed so daring a crime. after hearing peppino's story i fancied that she might perchance be the contessa morone, but had later on dismissed this idea as idle, seeing that she had been absent from verona for many months; but now that bianca had told me that pallanza had come straight from rome, i began to suspect that i had been right in my surmise. according to peppino the contessa had taken up her residence at the italian capital, so what was more likely than that she had fallen in love with guiseppe while he was singing at the teatro apollo, and, following him to verona, had killed him by means of poison, in revenge for his determination to leave her?
so far everything was feasible enough, but two points of the affair perplexed me very much, one being the choosing of the deserted palace as a place of meeting, the other the visit to the burial ground by the woman. we do not live in the times of the borgias, when noble ladies can thus rid themselves of their lovers with impunity, else i might have believed that this phantom of donna lucrezia had gone to the old veronese cemetery to select a grave for the unfortunate young man she intended to murder. to think thus, however, was foolish, and although i guessed that she had used the old palace of her family as a safe place for a lovers' meeting, seeing its gruesome reputation secured it from public curiosity, yet i was quite unable to explain the cemetery mystery. one thing, however, appeared to me to be certain, that guiseppe pallanza had been carrying on an intrigue with the contessa--presuming the ghoul to be her--and that he had gone to the palazzo morone on the night in question at her request. as to the sick friend----
now i greatly mistrusted that sick-friend story. so many fast young englishmen whom i knew had adopted the same lie to cover their little peccadilloes that i was quite sure pallanza had employed the same fiction to prevent the scandal of his intrigue with this unknown woman from reaching the ears of his fiancée. bianca was a very proud girl, and i felt certain, from what little i had seen of her character, that if she discovered guiseppe was playing her false, she would at once break off the engagement at any cost. like all italian women, when she loved she loved with her whole soul, and expected the same single-hearted return to her passion; so that the discovery of her lover's infidelity could only be punished sufficiently, according to her ideas, by an everlasting parting between them. pallanza knew this, and therefore tried to hide his guilt by the plausible story of his dying friend, which appeared to me to be such a remarkably weak fabrication that, before going to the palazzo morone, i determined to find out if this mythical invalid existed.
curiously enough, although i was studying for the musical profession and was devoted to operatic performances, i had not been to the teatro ezzelino since my arrival at verona, preferring to wander about the streets of the romantic old city in the moonlight to sitting night after night in a stifling atmosphere of heat, glare, and noise. i made up my mind, however, to go on this special night, in the hope that i might hear some talk about pallanza's disappearance, and be guided thereby in any future movements; but meantime i went to the theatre in the afternoon, and, introducing myself to the impresario as a friend of guiseppe's, asked him if he had heard any news of the missing tenor.
the impresario, a dingy old man of doubtful cleanliness, was in despair, and raged against the absent pallanza like a garrick of the gutter. he had heard nothing of this birbánte--this ladrone who had thus disappeared, and left an honest impresario in the lurch. "faust" was the success of the season; without pallanza there could be no "faust," and the season would be a failure. what was he to do? cospetto! it was the luck of the devil. why had this scellerato run away? a sick friend? bah! there was no sick friend. it was a woman who had enticed away this pazzo. a dying friend from rome was not a very likely story, but a lie--a large and magnificent lie. here was the basso of his company, who had been singing with pallanza at the apollo; ask him, truth is on his lips, behold this good man!
signor basso-profundo advanced, and though truth might have been on his lips it certainly was not apparent on his face, for a more deceitful countenance i never beheld. however, i have no doubt he spoke truth on this occasion, as there was no money to be made by telling a lie, and he confirmed the words of the wrathful impresario. the sick friend was a myth, but in rome pallanza had been friendly with a lady. per bacco! a great lady, but the name was unknown to him. it appeared that signor basso-profundo dressed in the same room as pallanza, and it was just before the last act of "faust" that guiseppe received the note. he told the basso-profundo that it was from a dying friend, and had departed quickly when the opera was ended, in his stage-dress, with a cloak wrapped round him. the basso-profundo was sure the note was from a lady. the impresario was also sure, and devoted the lady in question to the infernal gods with a richness of expression i have never heard equalled in any language.
having thus found out what i suspected from the first, that the dying friend was a mere invention to cloak an intrigue, i left the impresario to tear his hair and call guiseppe names in company with signor basso-profundo, and went back to my hotel, where i found peppino waiting with his fiacre to drive me to the palazzo morone.
he was still unwilling to take me to this place of evil reputation, and made one last effort to shake my determination by gruesome stories of people who had gone into the palazzo and never came out again; but i laughed at all these hobgoblin romances, and getting into the fiacre, told him to drive off at once, which he did, after crossing himself twice, so as to secure his own safety should the ghosts of palazzo morone take a fancy to carry me off as a heretic.
we speedily left the broad, modern streets, and rattled down gloomy, medi?val passages, the humid atmosphere of which chilled me to the bone, in spite of the heat of the day. the fiacre--with its jingling bells--bumped on the uneven stones, turned abruptly round unexpected corners, corkscrewed itself between narrow walls, crept under low archways, and after innumerable dodgings, twistings, hairbreadth escapes from upsettings, and perilous balancings on the edges of drains, at length emerged into that queer little piazza at the end of which i saw the great fa?ade of the richly-decorated palace i had beheld in the moonlight of two nights before.
i had been an ardent student of baedeker since my arrival in italy, and from the fortified appearance of the palazzo, judged that it had been built by michelo sammicheli, who, according to the guide-book, was the greatest military architect of the middle ages. the building was four stories high, with long lines of narrow windows closely barred by curiously ornamented iron cages--which bulged outward,---as a protection against thieves or enemies, and the whole front was adorned with almost obliterated paintings after the style of the genoese palaces. in addition to the brush, the chisel had done its work, and wreaths of flowers, grinning masks, nude figures of boys and girls, elaborate crests and armorial devices with fishes, birds, tritons, shells, and fruit were sculptured round the windows, along the fortified castellated top, and over the great portal. all the square in front of this splendid specimen of renaissance art was overgrown with grass. the houses on every side were also deserted, and what with the broken windows, the empty piazza, and the closed doors, everything had a melancholy, desolate appearance, as if a curse rested upon the whole neighbourhood.
peppino evidently was of this opinion, for although it was broad daylight, and the hot sunlight poured down on the grass-grown square, yet he kept muttering prayers in a low voice; and if by chance he looked towards the palazza, he always crossed himself with great devoutness. i was not, however, going to be baulked of my intention by any superstitious feeling on the part of an italian cab-driver, so i ordered peppino to tie up his horse and come with me into the palace. this modest request, however, so horrified peppino that he absolutely squeaked with horror, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
"i, signore!" he whimpered, touching the relic on his breast. "dio! not to be king of italy would i go into that house! if you are wise, signore, look and come away lest evil befall you. cospetto! signore, remember the frate. think of madonna matilda!"
"what about madonna matilda, peppino?"
"eh, illustrious, do you not know? she was a friend of his holiness at canossa, and, though a woman, wanted to celebrate mass, but il cristo burnt her to ashes with fire from above!--and she died. ecco! cospetto! signore, it is foolish to meddle with holy things."
"well, you can't call this palace holy, peppino?"
"no, illustrious. it is accursed!" replied the italian, crossing himself, "but there is fire below as well as above, and you are a heretic."
"which means that i had better beware of the devil! eh, peppino. well, well; i'm not afraid, so i will enter the palace, and if you see me carried off by the ghosts, you can tell the carabinieri."
"dio! illustrious, do not jest; but if you will go you must go. i will wait here and pray for your soul."
peppino was as obstinate as a mule in his fear of ghosts, so leaving him to smoke his long italian cigar and watch the brown lizards scuttling over the hot stones in the sunshine, i advanced towards the palace with the determination to find out the secret chamber. as i knew it would be dark therein, owing to its want of windows, i had taken the precaution to provide myself with a candle and a box of matches. feeling that these were safe in my pocket, i went to the iron gate and entered the courtyard in the same way as i had done on that night. this time, however, i examined the ironwork, and found to my surprise that the missing bar had been half filed through and then wrenched away. the marks left were quite fresh, and it had been done so recently that the bar had not had time to grow rusty. this discovery astonished me not a little, as i did not see the reason of such an entrance being made. if it were the contessa who used the palace, she would have the key of the side door, and could thus admit herself and her lover at her pleasure, while this breach could only have been made by some one who could not enter in any other way.
i thought of the person into whose arms i had fallen, the person who had placed a handkerchief wet with some liquid over my face, and although, according to peppino's story, this watcher at the door was the phantom of count mastino morone, yet dismissing such an explanation as due to superstition, i began to think that another person had followed the lady of the sepulchre besides myself. yes, there could be no doubt about it, some third person had tracked her to the palazzo, and, unable to enter in the ordinary way, had filed through and broken the iron bar in the gate. gaining access to the interior of the palazzo in this way, the unknown had penetrated to the secret chamber, and doubtless had witnessed the same strange scene as i had done. my presence had been discovered, and to preserve for some unknown reason, the secret of this terrible chamber, i had been seized, rendered insensible by chloroform, and taken to the piazza vittorio emanuele, so that i would be unable to re-discover the palazzo morone.
all these thoughts flashed through my brain with the rapidity of lightning, and i wondered whom this unknown could be--a friend of pallanza? an accomplice of the contessa! i did not know what to think, so leaving all such conjectures to a more seasonable time, i crossed over the dreary courtyard and entered the great hall.
it was a magnificent entrance, and when thronged with courtiers, men-at-arms, pages, and ladies, must have presented a noble appearance. of enormous size, the high walls and lofty roof were painted with glowing frescoes representing the ancient glories of the republic, and the floor was brilliant with gorgeous mosaics of coats-of-arms and fantastic figures. the painted windows on either side of the huge portal blazed with variegated tints, and the bright sun streaming in through the glass--as many-coloured as joseph's coat--dyed the floor with vivid lights and gaudy hues. ancient tapestries hung here and there between the two lines of black marble columns running down the sides of the hall, and the wind, stealing in through the open door, shook the grey dust from these mouldering splendours of the loom. at the end of this immense vestibule arose a broad staircase of white marble with balustrades of elaborate bronze fretwork, and from the first landing two other flights sloped off to right and left of the main branch. all the air was filled with floating shadows, the soft wind moved the hangings without sound, and i was alone in the deserted hall, over which brooded an intense silence, which made me shiver in the chill atmosphere pervading this abode of desolation.
however, the afternoon was passing quickly, and as i had plenty to do before nightfall, i rapidly ascended the shallow stairs. turning to the right, which was the way the unknown lady had taken the other night, i soon found myself in the long corridor with the windows looking out on to the courtyard. many of these were broken, but others were quite whole, their colours as bright and glowing as when they had first been placed there.
at the end of the corridor i turned to the left, and found the short flight of shallow steps, which, however, led up into darkness, so that before ascending them i had to light my candle. luckily there were no draughts, for the air was absolutely still, and the flame of my candle burned clear and steadily. up these steps i went, entered the short corridor, and paused before the heavy door which gave admission into the ante-chamber of the fatal room. realizing what had taken place inside on that fatal night, i dreaded to enter, lest i should find the corpse of the unfortunate pallanza on the floor; but overcoming my emotions, with a strong effort i thrust open the door and entered.
the tapestried chamber presented exactly the same appearance, with the small table in the centre, the burnt-out torch lying on the floor, and at the end the rich folds of the gold-worked curtains veiling the entrance to the inner apartment. i stood on the threshold, half expecting to hear the shrill notes of the mandolin, and the passionate song ring through the silence, but all was still and mute, as if it were indeed the tomb of the dead i expected to find.
at last, with a thrill of dread, i parted the heavy curtains and found myself in the circular chamber. the faint light of the candle just hollowed out a gulf in the cimmerian darkness, and i saw the dim glitter of the gold and silver on the table, the ghastly glimmer of the white cloth, and the sparks of weak fire flashing from the tarnished gold embroidery of the curtains. all was as i had seen it--the eight white pillars, the dull-red hangings with their arabesque patterns of golden thread, the gilt table, the massive metal goblets and silver candelabra, even the half-eaten fruit, with everything on the table in disorder; but, somewhat to my relief, i found nothing else. the dead body, which i had seen lying at the feet of that terrible woman, had vanished, and although i searched over every inch of the chamber, i could find no trace of the fearful crime which had been committed. the demon who had enticed the unhappy young man to his ruin had completed her evil work by secreting his body, and i began to think that all trace of guiseppe pallanza had disappeared from the earth for evermore.
who was this woman who, in this room, had so wickedly slain her lover? who was the man--i felt sure it was a man--who had seized me at the door, and borne me insensible from the palace? i could answer neither of these questions, and had it not been for the story of bianca, for the disappearance of pallanza, i would have fancied the whole some hideous dream, some nightmare of medieval devilry, which had filled my brain with the phantasmagoria of delirium. everything, however, was too real, too terrible, to admit of such an explanation; so as i could discover nothing more from examining the chamber i prepared to leave. the atmosphere yet had a faint aroma of the sandalwood perfume which emanated from the unknown woman; at my feet still lay the broken mandolin; and the rich wine-cups still glittered in the dim light. i no longer wondered at such wealth being left here undefended, for superstition, more of a safeguard than bolts and bars, protected this cave of aladdin from thievish italian fingers; and even if a thief had known of these riches, i doubt whether he would have had the courage to dare the unseen horrors of the palazzo.
for myself, standing there in the perfumed atmosphere, with the light just showing the intense gloom, the dim glitter of gold and silver, the absolute stillness and the horrible memories of the chamber--i felt as though i were in the presence of the dead. at the table sat the phantoms of donna renata and her lover, smiling at one another with hatred in their ghostly hearts; at the door watched the evil face of the outraged husband awaiting the consummation of the tragedy; and in imagination i could see the wicked smile of the woman, the scowl of the husband, the loathing look on the face of the lover. my breath, coming quick and fast, made the flame of the candle flicker and flare until, overcome by the horror of the room, and by the workings of my imagination, i turned and fled--fled from the evil gloom, from that blood-stained splendour, out into the blessed sunshine and pure air of heaven.
"dio!" cried peppino, as i walked quickly out into the square, "how pale you are, illustrious! eh, signore, have the ghosts----"
"i have seen no ghosts, peppino, but i have felt their presence."
"cospetto! did i not warn the signore against the accursed place? come, illustrious, jump in and we will leave this abode of devils."
"very well, peppino," i replied, entering the fiacre, "but drive slowly, as i want to know the way to this palazzo."
"dio! the signore will not come again?"
"yes! i am coming some night this month."
"saints! the signore is mad and lost!" muttered peppino with a pale face. then, hastily gathering up the reins, he drove rapidly away from the lonely square, leaving this gruesome palace to the night and to the feast of ghosts.
