CHAPTER XXII

THE person most embarrassed respecting the part he had to play after the flight of Consuelo, was Count Zustiniani. After having allowed it to be said, and led all Venice to believe, that the charming singer favored his addresses; how could he explain, in a manner flattering to his self-love, the fact that, at the first declaration, she had abruptly and mysteriously disappeared, and thus thwarted his wishes and his hopes? Many thought that, jealous of his treasure, he had hidden her in one of his country houses. But when they heard Porpora, with that blunt openness which never deceived, say that he had advised his pupil to precede and wait for him in Germany, nothing remained but to search for the motives of so strange a resolution. The count, indeed, to put them off the track, pretended to show neither vexation nor surprise; but his disappointment betrayed itself in spite of him, and they ceased to attribute to him that good fortune on which he had been so much congratulated. The greater portion of the truth became clear to all the world—viz.: the infidelity of Anzoleto, the rivalry of Corilla, and the despair of the poor Spaniard, whom they pitied and sincerely regretted. Anzoleto's first impulse had been to run to Porpora; but the latter repulsed him sternly. "Cease to question me, ambitious young man, without heart and without truth," the indignant master replied; "you never merited the affection of that noble girl, and you shall never know from me what has become of her. I will take every care that you shall not find a trace of her; and if by chance you should one day meet with her, I hope that your image will be effaced from her heart and memory as fully as I desire and labor to accomplish it."

From Porpora, Anzoleto went to the Corte Minelli. He found Consuelo's apartment already surrendered to a new occupant, and encumbered with the materials of his labor. He was a worker in glass, long since installed in the house, and who transferred his workshop to her room with much glee.

"Ah, ha! it is you, my boy?" said he to the young tenor; "you have come to see me in my new shop? I shall do very well here, and my wife is very glad that she can lodge all the children below. What are you looking for? Did little Consuelo forget any thing? Look, my child, search; it will not annoy me."

"Where have they put her furniture?" said Anzoleto, agitated and struck with despair at not finding any vestige of Consuelo in this place which had been consecrated to the purest enjoyments of his life.

"The furniture is below in the court; she made a present of it to mother Agatha, and she did well. The old woman is poor, and will make a little money out of it. Oh! Consuelo always had a good heart. She has not left a farthing of debt in the Corte, and she made a small present to every body when she went away. She merely took her crucifix with her. But it was very odd her going off in the middle of the night without telling any one! Master Porpora came this morning to arrange all her affairs; it was like the execution of a will. It grieved all the neighbors; but they consoled themselves at last with the thought that she is no doubt going to live in a fine palace on the canalazzo, now that she is rich and a great lady. As for me, I always said she would make a fortune with her voice, she worked so hard. And when will the wedding be, Anzoleto? I hope that you will buy something from me to make presents to all the young girls of the quarter."

"Yes, yes," replied Anzoleto wildly. He fled with death in his soul, and saw in the court all the gossips of the place holding an auction of Consuelo's bed and table—that bed on which he had seen her sleep, that table at which he had seen her work! "Oh, Heavens! already nothing left of her!" cried he involuntarily, wringing his hands. He felt almost tempted to go and stab Corilla.

After an interval of three days he reappeared on the stage with Corilla. They were both outrageously hissed, and the curtain had to be lowered before the piece was finished. Anzoleto was furious, Corilla perfectly unconcerned. "This is what your protection procures me," said he, in a threatening tone, as soon as he was alone with her. The prima donna answered him with great coolness: "You are affected by trifles, my poor child; it is easily seen that you know little of the public, and have never borne the brunt of its caprices. I was so well prepared for the reverse of this evening, that I did not even take the pains to look over my part; and if I did not tell you what was to happen, it was because I knew very well you would not have had courage enough to enter upon the stage with the certainty of being hissed. Now, however, you must know what you have to expect. The next time we shall be treated even worse. Three, four, six, eight representations perhaps, will pass thus; but during these storms an opposition will manifest itself in our favor. Were we the most stupid blockheads in the world, the spirit of contradiction and independence would raise up partisans for us, who will become more and more zealous. There are so many people who think to elevate themselves by abusing others, that there are not wanting those who think to do the same by protecting them. After a dozen trials, during which the theater will be a field of battle between the hissers and the applauders, our opponents will be fatigued, the refractory will look sour, and we shall enter upon a new phase. That portion of the public which has sustained us, without well knowing why, will hear us coldly; it will be like a new début for us, and then it will depend upon ourselves, thank Heaven! to subdue the audience and remain masters of them. I predict great success for you from that moment, dear Anzoleto; the spell which has hitherto weighed you down will be removed. You will breathe an atmosphere of encouragement and sweet praises, which will restore your powers. Remember the effect which you produced at Zustiniani's the first time you were heard there. You had not time to complete your conquest—a more brilliant star came too soon to eclipse you; but that star has allowed itself to sink below the horizon, and you must be prepared to ascend with me into the empyrean."

Every thing happened as Corilla had predicted. The two lovers had certainly to pay dearly, during some days, for the loss the public had sustained in the person of Consuelo. But their constancy in braving the tempest wearied out an anger which was too excessive to be lasting. Zustiniani encouraged Corilla's efforts. As for Anzoleto, the count, after having made vain attempts to draw a primo uomo to Venice at so advanced a season, when all the engagements were already made with the principal theaters in Europe, made up his mind, and accepted him for his champion in the struggle which was going on between the public and the administration of his theater. That theater had a reputation too brilliant to be periled by the loss of one performer. Nothing like this could overcome fixed habits. All the boxes were let for the season, and the ladies held their levees there, and met as usual. The real dilettanti kept up their dissatisfaction for a time, but they were too few in number to be cared for. Besides, they were at last tired of their own animosity, and one fine evening, Corilla, having sung with power, was unanimously recalled. She reappeared, leading with her Anzoleto, who had not been called for, and who seemed to yield to a gentle violence with a modest and timid air. He received his share of the applauses, and was reengaged the next day. In short, before a month had passed, Consuelo was as much forgotten as is the lightning which shoots athwart a summer sky. Corilla excited enthusiasm as formerly, and perhaps merited it more; for emulation had given her more earnestness, and love sometimes inspired her with more feeling and expression. As for Anzoleto, though he had not overcome his defects, he had succeeded in displaying his incontestible good qualities. They had become accustomed to the first and admired the last. His charming person fascinated the women, and he was much sought after for the saloons, the more so because Corilla's jealousy increased the piquancy of coquetting with him. Clorinda also developed her powers upon the stage; that is to say, her heavy beauty and the easy nonchalance of unequaled dulness, which was not without its attraction for a portion of the spectators. Zustiniani, partly to relieve his mind after his deep disappointment, covered her with jewels, and pushed her forward in the first parts, hoping to make her succeed Corilla, who was positively engaged at Paris for the coming season.

Corilla saw without vexation this competition, from which she had nothing to fear either present or future: she even took a malicious pleasure in bringing out that cool and impudent incapacity which recoiled before nothing. These two creatures lived therefore in a good understanding and governed the administration imperiously. They put aside every serious piece, and revenged themselves upon Porpora by refusing his operas, to accept and bring forward those of his most unworthy rivals. They agreed together to injure all who displeased them, and to protect all who humbled themselves before their power. During that season, thanks to them, the public applauded the compositions of the decadence, and forgot that true and grand music had formerly flourished in Venice.

In the midst of his success and prosperity (for the count had given him a very advantageous engagement) Anzoleto was overwhelmed with profound disgust, and drooped under the weight of a melancholy happiness. It was pitiful to see him drag himself to the rehearsals hanging on the arm of the triumphant Corilla, pale, languishing, handsome as Apollo, but ridicuously foppish in his appearance, like a man wearied of admiration, crushed and destroyed under the laurels and myrtles he had so easily and so largely gathered. Even at the performances, when upon the stage with Corilla, he yielded to the necessity he felt of protesting against her by his superb attitude and his impertinent languor. While she devoured him with her eyes, he seemed by his looks to say to the audience: "Do not think that I respond to so much love! On the contrary, whoever will deliver me from it will do me a great service."

The fact was that Anzoleto, spoiled and corrupted by Corilla, turned against her the instincts of selfishness and ingratitude which she had excited in his heart against the whole world. There remained to him but one sentiment which was true and pure in its nature; the imperishable love which, in spite of his vices, he cherished for Consuelo. He could divert his attention from it, thanks to his natural frivolity; but he could not cure himself of it, and that love haunted him like remorse, like a torture, in the midst of his most culpable excesses. In the midst of them all, a specter seemed to dog his steps; and deep-drawn sighs escaped from his breast when in the middle of the night he passed in his gondola along the dark buildings of the Corte Minelli. Corilla, for a long time subdued by his bad treatment, and led, as all mean souls are, to love only in proportion to the contempt and outrages she received, began at last to be tired of this fatal passion. She had flattered herself that she could conquer and enchain his savage independence. She had worked for that end with a violent earnestness, and she had sacrificed every thing to it. When she felt and acknowledged the impossibility of ever succeeding, she began to hate him, and to search for distractions and revenge. One night when Anzoleto was wandering in his gondola about Venice with Clorinda, he saw another gondola rapidly glide off, whose extinguished lantern gave notice of some clandestine rendezvous. He paid little attention to it; but Clorinda, who, in her fear of being discovered, was always on the look-out, said to him, "Let us go more slowly. It is the count's gondola; I recognise the gondolier."

"In that case we will go more quickly," replied Anzoleto; "I wish to rejoin him, and to know with whom he is enjoying this fresh and balmy evening."

"No, no; let us return;" cried Clorinda. "His eye is so piercing and his ear so quick. We must be careful not to annoy him."

"Row, I say!" cried Anzoleto, to his gondolier; "I wish to overtake that bark which you see before us."

Notwithstanding Clorinda's prayers and terror, this was the work of but an instant. The two barks grazed each other, and Anzoleto heard a half-stifled burst of laughter proceed from the other gondola. "Ha!" said he, "this is fair play—it is Corilla who is taking the air with the signor count." So saying, Anzoleto leaped to the bow of his gondola, took the oar from the hands of the bacarole, and following the other gondola rapidly, overtook it and grazed it a second time, exclaiming aloud as he passed, "Dear Clorinda, you are without contradiction the most beautiful and the most beloved of all women."

"I was just saying as much to Corilla," immediately replied the count, coming out of his cabin and approaching the other bark with consummate self-possession; "and now that our excursions on both sides are finished, I propose that we make an exchange of partners."

"The signor count only does justice to my loyalty," replied Anzoleto in the same tone. "If he permit me, I will offer him my arm, that he may himself escort the fair Clorinda into his gondola."

The count reached out his arm to rest upon Anzoleto's; but the tenor, inflamed by hatred, and transported with rage, leaped with all his weight upon the count's gondola and upset it, crying with a savage voice: "Signor Count, gondola for gondola!" Then abandoning his victims to their fate, and leaving Clorinda speechless with terror and trembling for the consequences of his frantic conduct, he gained the opposite bank by swimming, took his course through the dark and tortuous streets, entered his lodging, changed his clothes in a twinkling, gathered together all the money he had, left the house, threw himself into the first shallop which was getting under way for Trieste, and snapped his fingers in triumph as he saw, in the dawn of morning, the clock-towers and domes of Venice sink beneath the waves.