“He was awaiting me impatiently, when, having been delayed by your retarded arrival, I at length went in search of him, drawn by that mysterious power which often compels me, against my inclination, even against my will, to do one thing or to leave another undone. So it was in this case. My passing interest in the young man had already vanished; my head was full of quite different things, so that I listened to the history of his life, with which he thought it necessary to preface his confession, with only half an ear. His name is Antonio Michele, and he is the son of miserably poor vinedressers, in, or in the immediate neighbourhood of, Tivoli. A monk—his parents’ confessor—has always behaved with particular kindness towards him. I suspect that the holy man is his father. Scarcely less poor than the parents, he could do little more for his favourite than teach him to read and write, and was forced in other matters to leave him to his fate. It was that of other poor and handsome boys in the immediate neighbourhood of Rome. He tended his goats on the hills of the Campagna. Some wandering artists found him, and enticed him to the city to act as model for their sketches. He idled about in the studios of painters and sculptors, on the Scala di Spagna, and the Piazza Barberini, till the day came when the fame of being the handsomest model in Rome—to which he could justly lay claim—no longer satisfied his ambition, and he wanted to become an artist himself. This was not so easy as he appears to have hoped; still in the course of time he might have become a good stone-carver, at least I conclude so, from the fact that a German artist, who had known him in Rome, invited him two years ago to come and work in his studio here. Antonio, who had no longer anything to bind him to Rome and his native place—his parents had fallen victims to the cholera in —obeyed the call, provided only with the good brother’s blessing and money for his journey, obeyed it as a man must obey his destiny.
“The artist in question was that very Justus Anders whom I mentioned before as one of the most distinguished of your countrymen. Antonio, however, does not consider him so, as he denies him originality, inspiration, and in a word, all the higher qualities of an artist, and describes him, on the other hand, as filled with envy and ill-will towards all real geniuses, amongst which he doubtless considers himself to hold the first place. I am of course unable to decide how far the latter is true, but I suspect that an artist of such undoubted powers as Anders judges the young man quite rightly, and that if he does not allow him any great gifts, but continues to employ him as a mere workman, he has good reason for so doing. At any rate, this supposed neglect has not prevented our young countryman from remaining two years with the envious master, probably, as I gather, in order to be near a lady with whom he fell violently in love from the first moment in which he saw her, and who, if his rapturous description may be trusted, must be a marvel of beauty and grace.
“This lady is the daughter of a Herr Schmidt, who it appears carries on a very flourishing trade in marble and marble goods. She is herself an artist, and no insignificant one. The Shepherd Boy came out of her studio, which is only separated by a door from Signor Anders’s studio. I willingly spare you the details of the romance which was carried on from one studio to the other. It appears that Antonio, in spite of his assurances to the contrary, never had any cause to believe in the fulfilment of his extravagant hopes; it appears however, also, that the beautiful lady permitted the love of the handsome youth, perhaps only because she could not prevent it, without giving importance to a matter which was of no importance in her eyes; perhaps, also, because she dreaded his passionate jealousy. Her fears were not unfounded. She loved another, and was beloved by him. The immediate neighbourhood of their houses was favourable to the secret of their relations, which was only penetrated by Antonio’s eyes, sharpened by jealousy. He followed with the cunning and craftiness of a native of the Campagna their secret traces, till, only a few days ago, he obtained undoubted proofs. With the assistance of a man who, for some reason, was willing to make common cause with him, he gave up these proofs into the hands of the fathers, who, besides being in very different ranks of life and also political opponents, as the accomplice knew, were divided by an old personal enmity. The well-aimed blow took effect unexpectedly deeply, on both sides. The fathers came to an explanation, at which were probably some high words. An hour later the lady was found lying insensible on the floor of her studio; another hour, and she was raging in a violent fever. In the neighbouring house nothing can have been known of this that day or the next, or a more suitable time would have been chosen to send out the announcement of a betrothal which had been long expected in the higher circles of society. The news of this betrothal reached us at Munich, and was that of Fräulein Carla von Wallbach with Lieutenant Ottomar von Werben.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Valerie.
“It must have been God’s will,” answered Giraldi, with a dark smile; “otherwise the affair, which has been so long delayed, would doubtless have remained a little while longer in suspense. I should have made the young man’s acquaintance before the catastrophe, which is as much as to say that the catastrophe would never have occurred. Instead of interfering blindly with the flame of jealousy
