Chapter 36 The Carnival at Rome
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WHEN
FRANZ recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of water, of
which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need; and the count,
who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced mechanically towards
the square--the scene was wholly changed; scaffold, executioners, victims,
all had disappeared; only the people remained, full of noise and
excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only sounds on the pope's
decease and the opening of the Carnival, was ringing a joyous peal.
"Well," asked he of the count, "what has, then,
happened?" "Nothing,"
replied the count; "only, as you see, the Carnival his commenced.
Make haste and dress yourself." "In
fact," said Franz, "this horrible scene has passed away like a
dream." "It
is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you." "Yes,
that I have suffered; but the culprit?" "That
is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have awakened; and
who knows which of you is the most fortunate?" "But
Peppino--what has become of him?" "Peppino
is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in proportion as
they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general attention was
directed towards his companion. He profited by this distraction to slip
away among the crowd, without even thanking the worthy priests who
accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and egotistical animal.
But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the example." Albert
was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black trousers and varnished
boots. "Well, Albert," said Franz, "do you feel much
inclined to join the revels? Come, answer frankly." "Ma
foi! no," returned Albert. "But I am really glad to have seen
such a sight; and I understand what the count said--that when you have
once habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one that
causes you any emotion." "Without
reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study
character," said the count; "on the steps of the scaffold death
tears off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is
disclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the
hideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress
yourselves." Franz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two
companions' example. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that
scarcely equalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they
descended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with sweetmeats
and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages. It is difficult to
form an idea of the perfect change that had taken place. Instead of the
spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza del Popolo presented a
spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A crowd of masks flowed in
from all sides, emerging from the doors, descending from the windows. From
every street and every corner drove carriages filled with clowns,
harlequins, dominoes, mummers, pantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and
peasants, screaming, fighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with
flour, confetti, nosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their
missiles, friends and foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately,
and no one took offence, or did anything but laugh. Franz and Albert were
like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow, have recourse to wine, and
who, as they drink and become intoxicated, feel a thick veil drawn between
the past and the present. They saw, or rather continued to see, the image
of what they had witnessed; but little by little the general vertigo
seized them, and they felt themselves obliged to take part in the noise
and confusion. A handful of confetti that came from a neighboring
carriage, and which, while it covered Morcerf and his two companions with
dust, pricked his neck and that portion of his face uncovered by his mask
like a hundred pins, incited him to join in the general combat, in which
all the masks around him were engaged. He rose in his turn, and seizing
handfuls of confetti and sweetmeats, with which the carriage was filled,
cast them with all the force and skill he was master of. The
strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen half
an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men's minds, so much
were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they now beheld.
As for the Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for an instant shown any
appearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and splendid Corso,
bordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces, with their
balconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At these
balconies are three hundred thousand spectators--Romans, Italians,
strangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth,
wealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the scene,
bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and shower down
confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems darkened with the
falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets the lively crowd is
dressed in the most fantastic costumes--gigantic cabbages walk gravely
about, buffaloes' heads below from men's shoulders, dogs walk on their
hind legs; in the midst of all this a mask is lifted, and, as in Callot's
Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely face is exhibited, which we would fain
follow, but from which we are separated by troops of fiends. This will
give a faint idea of the Carnival at Rome. At the second turn the Count
stopped the carriage, and requested permission to withdraw, leaving the
vehicle at their disposal. Franz looked up--they were opposite the Rospoli
Palace. At the centre window, the one hung with white damask with a red
cross, was a blue domino, beneath which Franz's imagination easily
pictured the beautiful Greek of the Argentina. "Gentlemen," said
the count, springing out, "when you are tired of being actors, and
wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you have places at my
windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my carriage, and my
servants." We have forgotten to mention, that the count's coachman
was attired in a bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry's in The Bear and the
Pasha; and the two footmen behind were dressed up as green monkeys, with
spring masks, with which they made grimaces at every one who passed. Franz
thanked the count for his attention. As for Albert, he was busily occupied
throwing bouquets at a carriage full of Roman peasants that was passing
near him. Unfortunately for him, the line of carriages moved on again, and
while he descended the Piazza del Popolo, the other ascended towards the
Palazzo di Venezia. "Ah,
my dear fellow," said he to Franz; "you did not see?" "What?"
"There,--that
calash filled with Roman peasants." "No."
"Well,
I am convinced they are all charming women." "How
unfortunate that you were masked, Albert," said Franz; "here was
an opportunity of making up for past disappointments." "Oh,"
replied he, half laughing, half serious; "I hope the Carnival will
not pass without some amends in one shape or the other." But,
in spite of Albert's hope, the day passed unmarked by any incident,
excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of Roman
peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely, Albert's
mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the bouquets
into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females Albert had
detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by his gallantry;
for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she threw a bunch of
violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason to suppose it was
meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it. Albert placed it in his
button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly on. "Well,"
said Franz to him; "there is the beginning of an adventure." "Laugh
if you please--I really think so. So I will not abandon this
bouquet." "Pardieu!"
returned Franz, laughing, "in token of your ingratitude." The
jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and Franz
again encountered the carriage with the contadini, the one who had thrown
the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld them in his
button-hole. "Bravo, bravo," said Franz; "things go
wonderfully. Shall I leave you? Perhaps you would prefer being
alone?" "No,"
replied he; "I will not be caught like a fool at a first disclosure
by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the opera-balls. If the
fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further, we shall find her, or
rather, she will find us to-morrow; then she will give me some sign or
other, and I shall know what I have to do." "On
my word," said Franz, "you are wise as Nestor and prudent as
Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if she
succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind." Albert was right;
the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry the intrigue no
farther; for although the young men made several more turns, they did not
again see the calash, which had turned up one of the neighboring streets.
Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but the count and the blue
domino had also disappeared; the two windows, hung with yellow damask,
were still occupied by the persons whom the count had invited. At this
moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the mascherata
sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line, and in a second
all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert were opposite the Via
delle Maratte; the coachman, without saying a word, drove up it, passed
along the Piazza di Spagni and the Rospoli Palace and stopped at the door
of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to the door to receive his guests.
Franz hastened to inquire after the count, and to express regret that he
had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini reassured him by saying
that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a second carriage for himself,
and that it had gone at four o'clock to fetch him from the Rospoli Palace.
The count had, moreover, charged him to offer the two friends the key of
his box at the Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to his intentions;
but Albert had great projects to put into execution before going to the
theatre; and instead of making any answer, he inquired if Signor Pastrini
could procure him a tailor. "A tailor," said the host; "and
for what?" "To
make us between now and to-morrow two Roman peasant costumes,"
returned Albert. The host shook his head. "To make you two costumes
between now and to-morrow? I ask your excellencies' pardon, but this is
quite a French demand; for the next week you will not find a single tailor
who would consent to sew six buttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a
crown a piece for each button." "Then
I must give up the idea?" "No;
we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and to-morrow, when you awake,
you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be
satisfied." "My
dear Albert," said Franz, "leave all to our host; he has already
proved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards go
and see The Algerian Captive." "Agreed,"
returned Albert; "but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my friend
and myself attach the greatest importance to having to-morrow the costumes
we have asked for." The host again assured them they might rely on
him, and that their wishes should be attended to; upon which Franz and
Albert mounted to their apartments, and proceeded to disencumber
themselves of their costumes. Albert, as he took off his dress, carefully
preserved the bunch of violets; it was his token reserved for the morrow.
The two friends sat down to table; but they could not refrain from
remarking the difference between the Count of Monte Cristo's table and
that of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in spite of the dislike he
seemed to have taken to the count, to confess that the advantage was not
on Pastrini's side. During dessert, the servant inquired at what time they
wished for the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at each other, fearing
really to abuse the count's kindness. The servant understood them.
"His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo had," he said,
"given positive orders that the carriage was to remain at their
lordships' orders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without
fear of indiscretion." They
resolved to profit by the count's courtesy, and ordered the horses to be
harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which they had
on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats they had
sustained. This precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed
themselves in the count's box. During the first act, the Countess
G----entered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count
the previous evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place
of the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an opinion
to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them, that Franz
saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and, availing himself
of one of the privileges of the spectators of the Italian theatres, who
use their boxes to hold receptions, the two friends went to pay their
respects to the countess. Scarcely had they entered, when she motioned to
Franz to assume the seat of honor. Albert, in his turn, sat behind. "Well,"
said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, "it seems you have
nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new Lord
Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world." "Without
being so far advanced as that, my dear countess," returned Franz,
"I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day." "All
day?" "Yes;
this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all day, and
now we have taken possession of his box." "You
know him, then?" "Yes,
and no." "How
so?" "It
is a long story." 'Tell
it to me." "It
would frighten you too much." "So
much the more reason." "At
least wait until the story has a conclusion." "Very
well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his
acquaintance? Did any one introduce you to him?" "No;
it was he who introduced himself to us." "When?"
"Last
night, after we left you." "Through
what medium?" "The
very prosaic one of our landlord." "He
is staying, then, at the H?tel de Londres with you?" "Not
only in the same hotel, but on the same floor." "What
is his name--for, of course, you know?" "The
Count of Monte Cristo." "That
is not a family name?" "No,
it is the name of the island he has purchased." "And
he is a count?" "A
Tuscan count." "Well,
we must put up with that," said the countess, who was herself from
one of the oldest Venetian families. "What sort of a man is he?"
"Ask
the Vicomte de Morcerf." "You
hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you," said the countess. "We
should be very hard to please, madam," returned Albert, "did we
not think him delightful. A friend of ten years' standing could not have
done more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy." "Come,"
observed the countess, smiling, "I see my vampire is only some
millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid being
confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her?" "Her?"
"The
beautiful Greek of yesterday." "No;
we heard, I think, the sound of her guzla, but she remained perfectly
invisible." "When
you say invisible," interrupted Albert, "it is only to keep up
the mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with the
white curtains?" "Where
was this window with white hangings?" asked the countess. "At
the Rospoli Palace." "The
count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace?" "Yes.
Did you pass through the Corso?" "Yes."
"Well,
did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with white
damask with a red cross? Those were the count's windows?" "Why,
he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were worth?"
"Two
or three hundred Roman crowns?" "Two
or three thousand." "The
deuce." "Does
his island produce him such a revenue?" "It
does not bring him a baiocco." "Then
why did he purchase it?" "For
a whim." "He
is an original, then?" "In
reality," observed Albert, "he seemed to me somewhat eccentric;
were he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was a
poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits worthy
of Didier or Anthony." At this moment a fresh visitor entered, and,
according to custom, Franz gave up his seat to him. This circumstance had,
moreover, the effect of changing the conversation; an hour afterwards the
two friends returned to their hotel. Signor Pastrini had already set about
procuring their disguises for the morrow; and he assured them that they
would be perfectly satisfied. The next morning, at nine o'clock, he
entered Franz's room, followed by a tailor, who had eight or ten Roman
peasant costumes on his arm; they selected two exactly alike, and charged
the tailor to sew on each of their hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and
to procure them two of the long silk sashes of different colors with which
the lower orders decorate themselves on f¨ºte-days. Albert was impatient to
see how he looked in his new dress--a jacket and breeches of blue velvet,
silk stockings with clocks, shoes with buckles, and a silk waistcoat. This
picturesque attire set him off to great advantage; and when he had bound
the scarf around his waist, and when his hat, placed coquettishly on one
side, let fall on his shoulder a stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to
confess that costume has much to do with the physical superiority we
accord to certain nations. The Turks used to be so picturesque with their
long and flowing robes, but are they not now hideous with their blue
frocks buttoned up to the chin, and their red caps, which make them look
like a bottle of wine with a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who
looked at himself in the glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction.
They were thus engaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered. "Gentlemen,"
said he, "although a companion is agreeable, perfect freedom is
sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that to-day, and for the
remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at your disposal.
The host will tell you I have three or four more, so that you will not
inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray you, for your pleasure
or your business." The
young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for
refusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte
Cristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all subjects
with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said, perfectly well
acquainted with the literature of all countries. A glance at the walls of
his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was a connoisseur of
pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he was no stranger to
the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with chemistry. The two friends
did not venture to return the count the breakfast he had given them; it
would have been too absurd to offer him in exchange for his excellent
table the very inferior one of Signor Pastrini. They told him so frankly,
and he received their excuses with the air of a man who appreciated their
delicacy. Albert was charmed with the count's manners, and he was only
prevented from recognizing him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his
varied knowledge. The permission to do what he liked with the carriage
pleased him above all, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most
elegant carriage the preceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be
upon an equal footing with them. At half-past one they descended, the
coachman and footman had put on their livery over their disguises, which
gave them a more ridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them
the applause of Franz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of
violets to his button-hole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened
into the Corso by the Via Vittoria. At
the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage filled
with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his friend,
the peasants had changed their costume, also; and whether it was the
result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them both,
while he had changed his costume they had assumed his. Albert
placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the faded one in
his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it to his lips, an
action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair lady who had thrown
it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as gay as the preceding
one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the count appeared for an
instant at his window. but when they again passed he had disappeared. It
is almost needless to say that the flirtation between Albert and the fair
peasant continued all day. In the evening, on his return, Franz found a
letter from the embassy, informing him that he would have the honor of
being received by his holiness the next day. At each previous visit he had
made to Rome, he had solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as
much by a religious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the
capital of the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the
feet of one of St. Peter's successors who has set the rare example of all
the virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his
condescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one's self without
awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI. On his
return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he brought
away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad gayety of the
maskers would have been profanation. At
ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had
reassumed her peasant's costume, and as she passed she raised her mask.
She was charming. Franz
congratulated Albert, who received his congratulations with the air of a
man conscious that they are merited. He had recognized by certain
unmistakable signs, that his fair incognita belonged to the aristocracy.
He had made up his mind to write to her the next day. Franz remarked,
while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have something to ask
of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He insisted upon it,
declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any sacrifice the other
wished. Albert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required,
and then avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing
him to occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to
Franz's absence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her
mask. Franz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle
of an adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and
so flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect indiscretion
of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened; and as, during
three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a similar piece of good
fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was by no means sorry to
learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore promised Albert that he
would content himself the morrow with witnessing the Carnival from the
windows of the Rospoli Palace. The
next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous bouquet,
which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous epistle. This
belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the bouquet (conspicuous
by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a charming harlequin
dressed in rose-colored satin. The evening was no longer joy, but
delirium. Albert nothing doubted but that the fair unknown would reply in
the same manner. Franz anticipated his wishes by saying that the noise
fatigued him, and that he should pass the next day in writing and looking
over his journal. Albert was not deceived, for the next evening Franz saw
him enter triumphantly shaking a folded paper which he held by one corner.
"Well," said he, "was I mistaken?" "She
has answered you!" cried Franz. "Read."
This word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took
the letter, and read: Tuesday
evening, at seven o'clock, descend from your carriage opposite the Via dei
Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your torch from you.
When you arrive at the first step of the church of San Giacomo, be sure to
fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the shoulder of your harlequin
costume, in order that you may be recognized. Until then you will not see
me. CONSTANCY
AND DISCRETION. "Well,"
asked he, when Franz had finished, "what do you think of that?" "I
think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance." "I
think so, also," replied Albert; "and I very much fear you will
go alone to the Duke of Bracciano's ball." Franz and Albert had
received that morning an invitation from the celebrated Roman banker. "Take
care, Albert," said Franz. "All the nobility of Rome will be
present, and if your fair incognita belong to the higher class of society,
she must go there." "Whether
she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same," returned
Albert. "You have read the letter?" "Yes."
"You
know how imperfectly the women of the mezzo cito [1] are educated in
Italy?" "Yes."
"Well,
read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can, any
blemish in the language or orthography." (The writing was, in
reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.) "You are born
to good fortune," said Franz, as he returned the letter. "Laugh
as much as you will," replied Albert, "I am in love." "You
alarm me," cried Franz. "I see that I shall not only go alone to
the Duke of Bracciano's, but also return to Florence alone." "If
my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful," said Albert, "I
shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I have
always had a great taste for archaeology." "Come,
two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of seeing you a
member of the Academy." Doubtless
Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the academic chair when
they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert's love had not taken away
his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat himself, free to recommence
the discussion after dinner. After dinner, the Count of Monte Cristo was
announced. They had not seen him for two days. Signor Pastrini informed
them that business had called him to Civita Vecchia. He had started the
previous evening, and had only returned an hour since. He was charming.
Whether he kept a watch over himself, or whether by accident he did not
sound the acrimonious chords that in other circumstances had been touched,
he was to-night like everybody else. The man was an enigma to Franz. The
count must feel sure that Franz recognized him; and yet he had not let
fall a single word indicating any previous acquaintance between them. On
his side, however great Franz's desire was to allude to their former
interview, the fear of being disagreeable to the man who had loaded him
and his friend with kindness prevented him from mentioning it. The count
had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at the Argentina
Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence, he brought them
the key of his own--at least such was the apparent motive of his visit.
Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging their fear of depriving
him of it; but the count replied that, as he was going to the Palli
Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would he lost if they did not
profit by it. This assurance determined the two friends to accept it. Franz
had by degrees become accustomed to the count's pallor, which had so
forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain from
admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or rather the
principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic hero! Franz
could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him without
imagining his stern head upon Manfred's shoulders, or beneath Lara's
helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the constant
presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem to penetrate
to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip that gives to
the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses them on the minds
of those to whom they are addressed. The count was no longer young. He was
at least forty; and yet it was easy to understand that he was formed to
rule the young men with whom he associated at present. And, to complete
his resemblance with the fantastic heroes of the English poet, the count
seemed to have the power of fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating
on their good fortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic;
but the count exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always
acquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of the
project the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that,
with his eccentric character, his characteristic face, and his colossal
fortune, he would produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish to
be at Paris when the count was there. The
evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that is, not
in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing. The
Countess G----wished to revive the subject of the count, but Franz
announced he had something far newer to tell her, and, in spite of
Albert's demonstrations of false modesty, he informed the countess of the
great event which had preoccupied them for the last three days. As similar
intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may credit travellers, the
countess did not manifest the least incredulity, but congratulated Albert
on his success. They promised, upon separating, to meet at the Duke of
Bracciano's ball, to which all Rome was invited. The heroine of the
bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of her existence the morrow
or the day after. At
length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the Carnival. On
Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o'clock in the morning, as Lent begins
after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through want of money,
time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival before, mingle in
the gayety, and contribute to the noise and excitement. From two o'clock
till five Franz and Albert followed in the f¨ºte,
exchanging handfuls of confetti with the other carriages and the
pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses' feet and the carriage wheels
without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight. The fetes
are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of this history,
who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not recollect to have
ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those events so common in other
countries. Albert was triumphant in his harlequin costume. A knot of
rose-colored ribbons fell from his shoulder almost to the ground. In order
that there might be no confusion, Franz wore his peasant's costume. As
the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the
pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was
silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up of a
thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs, oranges, and
nosegays. At three o'clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the Piazza
del Popolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din
and confusion) announced that the races were about to begin. The races,
like the moccoli, are one of the episodes peculiar to the last days of the
Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages instantly broke
ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these evolutions are
executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous rapidity, without
the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians ranged themselves
against the walls; then the trampling of horses and the clashing of steel
were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen abreast, galloped up the
Corso in order to clear it for the barberi. When the detachment arrived at
the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley of fireworks was discharged, to
announce that the street was clear. Almost instantly, in the midst of a
tremendous and general outcry, seven or eight horses, excited by the
shouts of three hundred thousand spectators, passed by like lightning.
Then the Castle of Saint Angelo fired three cannon to indicate that number
three had won. Immediately, without any other signal, the carriages moved
on, flowing on towards the Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent
up for a while, which again flow into the parent river; and the immense
stream again continued its course between its two granite banks. A
new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers of
moccoletti entered on the scene. The moccoli, or moccoletti, are candles
which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight, and which give
to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival two very serious
problems to grapple with,--first, how to keep his own moccoletto alight;
and secondly, how to extinguish the moccoletti of others. The moccoletto
is like life: man has found but one means of transmitting it, and that one
comes from God. But he has discovered a thousand means of taking it away,
and the devil has somewhat aided him. The moccoletto is kindled by
approaching it to a light. But who can describe the thousand means of
extinguishing the moccoletto?--the gigantic bellows, the monstrous
extinguishers, the superhuman fans. Every one hastened to purchase
moccoletti--Franz and Albert among the rest. The
night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of "Moccoletti!"
repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors, two or three stars
began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At the end of ten minutes
fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from the Palazzo di Venezia to
the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the Piazzo del Popolo to the
Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the f¨ºte of jack-o'-lanterns. It is impossible to form any
idea of it without having seen it. Suppose that all the stars had
descended from the sky and mingled in a wild dance on the face of the
earth; the whole accompanied by cries that were never heard in any other
part of the world. The facchino follows the prince, the Transteverin the
citizen, every one blowing, extinguishing, relighting. Had old ?olus
appeared at this moment, he would have been proclaimed king of the moccoli,
and Aquilo the heir-presumptive to the throne. This battle of folly and
flame continued for two hours; the Corso was light as day; the features of
the spectators on the third and fourth stories were visible. Every five
minutes Albert took out his watch; at length it pointed to seven. The two
friends were in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang out, bearing his
moccoletto in his hand. Two or three masks strove to knock his moccoletto
out of his hand; but Albert, a first-rate pugilist, sent them rolling in
the street, one after the other, and continued his course towards the
church of San Giacomo. The steps were crowded with masks, who strove to
snatch each other's torches. Franz followed Albert with his eyes, and saw
him mount the first step. Instantly a mask, wearing the well-known costume
of a peasant woman, snatched his moccoletto from him without his offering
any resistance. Franz was too far off to hear what they said; but, without
doubt, nothing hostile passed, for he saw Albert disappear arm-in-arm with
the peasant girl. He watched them pass through the crowd for some time,
but at length he lost sight of them in the Via Macello. Suddenly the bell
that gives the signal for the end of the carnival sounded, and at the same
instant all the moccoletti were extinguished as if by enchantment. It
seemed as though one immense blast of the wind had extinguished every one.
Franz found himself in utter darkness. No sound was audible save that of
the carriages that were carrying the maskers home; nothing was visible
save a few lights that burnt behind the windows. The Carnival was over. |
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