Czytaj książkę: «The Sorceress of Rome», strona 15

A shadow flitted through the background and paused behind Theodora's couch. Neither had seen it, though Theodora shuddered as if she had felt the strange presence of something uncalled, unbidden.

A strange light of mockery, or of annoyance, gleamed in the woman's eyes. Her crimson lips parted, showing two rows of even, small white teeth, then a gleam of amusement shot athwart her face, raising the delicately pencilled corners of the eye-brows, as she broke into a soft peal of careless mocking laughter.

"I am not Ginevra," she said. "Who is Ginevra? I am Theodora – the Queen of Love."

Again, as she saw his puzzled look, she gave way to her silvery, mocking mirth, while her eyes flung him a glittering challenge to approach. Eckhardt had recovered partial control over his feelings and met her taunting gaze steadfastly and with something of sadness. His face had grown very pale and all the warmth and rapture had died out of his voice, when he spoke again.

"I am Eckhardt," he said quietly, with the calm of a madman who argues for a fixed idea, – "and you are Ginevra – or her ghost – I know not which. Why did you return to the world from your cold and narrow bed in the earth and shun the man who worships you as one worships an idol? Is it for some transgression in the flesh that your soul cannot find rest?"

An ominous shuffling behind her caused Theodora to start. She turned her head as if by chance and when again she faced Eckhardt, she was as pale as death. Noting her momentary embarrassment, Eckhardt made a resolute step toward her, catching her hands in his own. He was dazed.

"Is this your welcome back in the world, Ginevra?" he pleaded with a passionate whisper. "Have you no thought what this long misery apart from you has meant? Remember the old days, – the old love, – have pity – speak to me as of old."

His voice in its very whisper thrilled with the strange music that love alone can give. His eyes burnt and his lips quivered. Suddenly he seemed to wake to a realization of the scene. He had been mocked by a fatal resemblance to his dead wife. His heart was heavy with the certainty, but the spell remained.

Without warning he threw himself on his knees, holding her unresisting hands in his.

"Demon or Goddess," he faltered, and his voice, even to his own ears, had a strange sound. "What would you have with me? Speak, for what purpose did you summon me? Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Her low laugh stirred the silence into a faint tuneful echo.

"Foolish dreamer," she murmured half tenderly, half mockingly. "Is it not enough for you to know that you have been found worthy to join the few chosen ones to whom this earthly paradise is not a book with seven seals? Like your sad-eyed, melancholy countrymen, you would analyze the essence of love and try to dissolve it into its own heterogeneous particles. If you were given the choice of the fairest woman you would descend into the mouldering crypts of the past, to unearth the first and last Helen of Troy. Ah! Is it not so? You Northmen prefer a theoretical attachment to the body of living, breathing, loving woman?"

He looked at her surprised, perplexed, and paused an instant before he made reply. Was she mocking him? Did she speak truth?

"Surely so peerless an enchantress, with admirers so numerous, cannot find it worth her while to add a new worshipper to the idolatrous throng?" he answered.

"Ah! Little you know," she murmured indolently, with a touch of cold disdain in her accents. "My worshippers are my puppets, my slaves! There is not a man amongst them," she added, raising her voice, "not a man! They kiss the hand that spurns their touch! As for you," she added, leaning forward, so that the dark shower of her hair brushed his cheek and her drowsy eyes sank into his own, "As for you – you are from the North. – I love a nature of strongly repressed and concentrated passion, of a proud and chilly temper. Like our volcanoes they wear crowns of ice, but fires unquenchable smother in their depths. And – might not at a touch from the destined hand the flame in your heart leap forth uncontrolled?"

Eckhardt met the enchantress' look with one of mingled dread and intoxication. She smiled, and raising a goblet of wine to her lips, kissed the brim and gave it to him with an indescribably graceful swaying gesture of her whole form, which resembled a tall white lily bending to the breeze. He seized the cup eagerly and drank thirstily from it. Again her magic voice, more melodious than the sounds of Æolian harps thrilled his ears and set his pulses to beating madly.

"But you have not yet told me," she whispered, while her head drooped lower and lower, till her dark fragrant tresses touched his brow, "you have not yet told me that you love me?"

Was it the purple wine that was so heavy on his senses? Heavier was the drowsy spell of the enchantress' eyes. Eckhardt started up. His heart ached with the memory of Ginevra, and a dull pang shot through his soul. But the spell that was upon him was too heavy to be broken by human effort. Nothing short of the thunder of Heaven could save him now.

Theodora's words chimed in his ear, while her hands clasped his own with their soft, electrifying touch. With a supreme effort he endeavoured to shake off the spell, into whose ravishment he was being slowly but surely drawn, his efforts at resistance growing more feeble and feeble every moment.

Again the voice of the Siren sent its musical cadence through his brain in the fateful question:

"Do you love me?"

Eckhardt attempted to draw back, but could not.

Entwining her body with his arms, he devoured her beauty with his eyes. From the crowning masses of her dusky hair, over the curve of her white shoulders and bosom, down to the blue-veined feet in the glistening sandals, his gaze wandered hungrily, searchingly, passionately. His heart beat with wild, mad desire, but, though his lips moved, no words were audible.

She too, was silent, apparently watching the effect of her spell upon him, sure of the ultimate fateful result. In reality she listened intently, as if expecting some unwelcome intrusion, and once her dark fear-struck eyes tried to penetrate the deep shadows of the grotto. She had heard something stir, – and a mad fear had seized her heart.

Eckhardt, unconscious of the woman's misgivings, gazed upon her as one dazed. He felt, if he could but speak the one word, he would be saved and yet – something warned him that, if that word escaped his lips, he would be lost. Half recumbent on her couch, Theodora watched her victim narrowly. A smile of delicate derision parted her lips, as she said:

"What ails you? Are you afraid of me? Can you not be happy, Eckhardt," she whispered into his brain, "happy as other men, – and loved?"

She bent toward him with arms outstretched. Closely she watched his every gesture, endeavouring, in her great fear, to read his thoughts.

"I cannot," he replied with a moan, "alas – I cannot!"

"And why not?" the enchantress whispered, bending closer toward him. She must make him her own, she must win the terrible wager; from out of the gloom she felt two eyes burning upon her with devilish glee. She preferred instant death to a life by the side of him she hated with all the strength of a woman's hate for the man who has lied to her, deceived her, and ruined her life. Noting the fateful effect of her blandishments upon him, she threw herself with a sudden movement against Eckhardt's breast, entwining him so tightly with her arms that she seemed to draw the very breath from him. Her splendid dark eyes, ablaze with passion, sank into his, her lips curved in a sweet, deadly smile. Roused to the very height of delirium, Eckhardt wound his arms round Theodora's body. A dizziness had seized him. For a moment Ginevra – past, present and future seemed forgotten. Closer and closer he felt himself drawn towards the fateful abyss – slowly the enchantress was drawing him onward, – until there would be no more resistance, – all flaming delirium, and eternal damnation.

With one white arm she reached for the goblet, but ere her fingers touched it, a shadowy hand, that seemed to come from nowhere and belong to no visible body, changed the position of the drinking vessels. Neither noted it. Theodora kissed the brim of the first goblet and started to sip from its contents when a sudden pressure on her shoulder caused her to look up. Her terror at what she saw was so great that it choked her utterance. Two terrible eyes gazed upon her from a white, passion-distorted face, which silently warned her not to drink. So great was her terror, that she noticed not that Eckhardt had taken the goblet from her outstretched hand, and putting it to his lips on the very place where the sweetness of her mouth still lingered, drained it to the dregs.

Wild-eyed with terror she stared at the man before her. A strange sensation had come over him. His brain seemed to be on fire. His resistance was vanquished. He could not have gone, had he wished to.

The night was still. The silence was rendered even more profound by the rustling of the storm among the leaves.

Suddenly Eckhardt's hand went to his head. He started to rise from his kneeling position, staggered to his feet, then as if struck by lightning he fell heavily against the mosaic of the floor.

With a wild shriek of terror, Theodora had risen to her feet – then she sank back on the couch staring speechlessly at what was passing before her. The gaunt form of a monk, clad in the habit of the hermits of Mount Aventine, had rushed into the grotto, just as Eckhardt fell from the effect of the drug. Lifting him up, as if he were a mere toy, the monk rushed out into the open and disappeared with his burden, while four eyes followed him in speechless dread and dismay.

CHAPTER III
THE ELIXIR OF LOVE

It was late on the following evening, when in the hermitage of Nilus of Gaëta, Eckhardt woke from the death-like stupor which had bound his limbs since the terrible scenes of the previous night. Thanks to the antidotes applied by the friar as soon as he reached the open, the deadly effect of the poison had been stemmed ere it had time to penetrate Eckhardt's system, but even despite this timely precaution, the benumbing effect of the drug was not to be avoided, and during the time when the stupor maintained its sway Nilus had not for a moment abandoned the side of his patient. A burning thirst consumed him, as he awoke. Raising himself on his elbows and vainly endeavouring to reconcile his surroundings, the monk who was seated at the foot of his roughly improvised bed rose and brought him some water. It was Nilus himself, and only after convincing himself that the state of the Margrave's condition was such as to warrant his immediately satisfying the flood of inquiries addressed to him, did the hermit go over the events of the preceding night, starting from the point where Eckhardt had lost consciousness and his own intervention had saved him.

Eckhardt's hand went to his head which still felt heavy and ached. His brain reeled at the account which Nilus gave him, and there was a choking dryness in his throat when the friar accused Theodora of the deed.

"For such as she the world was made. For such as she fools and slaves abase themselves," the monk concluded his account. "Pray that your eyes may never again behold her accursed face."

Eckhardt made no reply. What could he say in extenuation of his presence in the groves? And by degrees, as consciousness and memory returned, as he strained his reasoning faculties in the endeavour to find some cause for the woman's attempt to poison him, after having mocked him with her fatal likeness to Ginevra – his most acute logic could not reconcile her actions. For a moment he tried to persuade himself that he was in a dream, and he strove in vain to wake from it. It was amazing in what brief time and with what vividness all that could render death terrible, and this death of all most terrible, rushed upon his imagination. Despite the languor and inertness which still continued, one terrible certainty rose before him. Far from having solved the mystery, it had intensified itself to a degree that seemed to make any further attempt at solution hopeless. During the twilight consciousness of his senses numerous faces swam around him, – but of all these only one had remained with him, Ginevra's pale and beautiful countenance, her sweet but terrible eyes. But the ever-recurring thought was madness. – Ginevra was dead.

But the hours spent in the seclusion of the friar's hermitage were not entirely lost to Eckhardt. They ripened a preconceived and most fantastic plan in his mind, which he no sooner remembered, than he began to think seriously of its execution.

A second night spent in Nilus's hermitage had sufficiently restored Eckhardt's vitality to enable him to leave it on the following morning. After having taken leave of the monk, confessing himself his debtor for life, the Margrave chose the road toward the Imperial palace, as his absence was likely to give rise to strange rumours, which might retard or prevent the task he had resolved to accomplish. He was in a state bordering on nervous collapse, when he reached the gates of the palace, where the Count Palatine, in attendance, ushered him into an ante-room pending his admission to Otto's presence. Eckhardt's thoughts were gloomy and his countenance forbidding as he entered, and he did not notice the presence of Benilo, the Chamberlain. When the latter glanced up from his occupation, his countenance turned to ashen hues and he stared at the leader of the imperial hosts as one would at an apparition from the beyond. The hands, which held a parchment, strangely illuminated, shook so violently that he was compelled to place the scroll on the table before him. Eckhardt had been so wrapt in his own dark ruminations that he saw and heard nothing, thus giving Benilo an opportunity to collect himself, though the stereotyped smile on the Chamberlain's lips gave the lie to his pretense of continuing interested in the contents of the chart which lay on the table before him.

But Benilo's restlessness, his eagerness to acquaint himself with the purpose of Eckhardt's visit, did not permit him to continue the task in which the general's entrance had found him engaged. The Chamberlain seemed undaunted by Eckhardt's apparent preoccupation of mind.

"We have just achieved a signal victory," he addressed the Margrave after a warm greeting, which was to veil his misgivings, while his unsteady gaze roamed from the parchment on the table to Eckhardt's clouded brow. "The Byzantine ceremonial will be henceforth observed at the Imperial court."

"What shall it all lead to?" replied Eckhardt wearily.

"To the fulfilment of the emperor's dream," Benilo replied with his blandest smile, "his dream of the ten-fold crown of Constantine Porphyrogenitus."

"I thought the Saxon crown weighed heavily enough."

"That is because your crown is material," Benilo deigned to expound, "not the symbolic crown of the East, which embodies all the virtues of the gold and iron. It was a stupendous task which confronted us – but together we have solved the problem. In the Graphia, after much vain research and study, and in the 'Origines' of Isidor, we found that which shall henceforth constitute the emblem of the Holy Roman Empire; not the Iron Crown of Lombardy, nor the Silver Crown of Aix-la-Chapelle, nor the Golden Crown of Rome – but all three combined with the seven of the East."

"Ten crowns?" exclaimed Eckhardt aghast. "On the emperor's frail brow?"

"Nay," spoke Benilo, with the same studied smile upon his lips, while he relinquished not for a moment the basilisk gaze with which he followed every movement of the Margrave. "Nay! They oppress not the brow of the anointed. The Seven Crowns of the East are: The crown of Ivy, the crown of the Olive, the crown of Poplar Branches and Oak, the crown of Laurels, the Mitra of Janus, the crown of the Feathers of the Pea-fowl, and last of all the crown set with diamonds, which Diocletian borrowed from the King of the Persians and whereon appeared the inscription: 'Roma Caput Mundi Regit Orbis Frena Rotundi.'"

Eckhardt listened half dazed to this exhibition of antiquarian learning on the part of the Chamberlain. What were these trifles to avail the King in establishing order in the discordant chaos of the Roman world?

But Benilo was either in excellent spirits over the result of his antiquarian researches which had made him well nigh indispensable to Otto, and into which he condescended to initiate so unlettered an individual as Eckhardt; or he tormented the latter with details which he knew wearied the great leader, to keep his mind from dwelling on dangerous matters. Thus continuing his information on these lines with a suave air of superiority, he cited the treatise of Pigonius concerning the various modes of triumph and other antiquated splendours as enumerated in the Codex, until Eckhardt's head swam with meaningless titles and newly created offices. Even an admiral had been appointed: Gregory of Tusculum. In truth, he had no fleet to command, because there existed no fleet, but the want had been anticipated. Then there were many important offices to be filled, with names long as the ancient triumphal course; and would not the Romans feel flattered by these changes? Would they not willingly console themselves with the loss of their municipal liberties, knowing that Hungary, and Poland, Spain and Germany were to be Roman provinces as of old?

Eckhardt saw through it all.

Knowing Otto's fantastic turn of mind, Benilo was guiding him slowly but surely away from life, into the wilderness of a decayed civilization, whose luring magic was absorbing his vital strength. Else why this effort to rear an edifice which must crumble under its own weight, once the architect was removed from this hectic sphere?

With the reckless enthusiasm of his character the imperial youth had plunged into the deep ocean of learning, to whose shores his studies with Benilo conducted him. The animated pictures which the ponderous tomes presented, into whose dust and must he delved, the dramatic splendour of the narrative in which the glowing fancies of the chroniclers had clothed the stirring events of the times, deeply impressed his susceptible mind, just as the chords of Æolian harps are mute till the chance breeze passes which wakes them into passionate music. Gerbert, now Sylvester II, had no wish to stifle nor even to stem this natural sensibility, but rather to divert its energies into its proper channels, for he was too deeply versed in human science not to know that even the eloquence of religion is cold and powerless, unless kindled by those fixed emotions and sparkling thoughts which only poetical enthusiasm can strike out of the hard flint of logic.

But now the activity of Otto's genius, lacking the proper channels, vented its wild profusion in inert speculation and dreamy reverie. Indistinct longings ventured out on that shimmering restless sea of love and glory, which his imagination painted in the world, a vague yearning for the mysterious which was hinted at in that mediæval lore.

All things were possible in those legends. No scent of autumn haunted the deep verdure of those forests, even the harsh immutable laws of nature seemed to yield to their magic. Death and Despair and Sorrow were but fore-shadowed angels, not the black fiends of Northern imagery. Their heroes and heroines died, but reclining on beds of violets, the songs of nightingales sweetly warbling them to rest.

And the son of the Greek princess resented fiercely any intrusion in to his paradise. It was a thankless task to recall him to the hour and to reality.

The appearance of a page, who summoned Eckhardt into Otto's presence, put an end to Benilo's effusive archæology, and as the Margrave disappeared in the emperor's cabinet, Benilo wondered how much he knew.

What transpired during his protracted audience remained for the present the secret of those two. But when Eckhardt left the palace, his brow was even more clouded than before. While his conference with Otto had not been instrumental in dissipating the dread misgivings which tortured his mind, he had found himself face to face with the revelation that a fraud had been perpetrated upon him. For Otto disclaimed all knowledge of signing any order which relieved Eckhardt of his command, flatly declaring it a forgery. While its purpose was easy to divine, the question remained whose interest justified his venturing so desperate a chance? Eckhardt parted from his sovereign with the latter's full approval of the course his leader intended to pursue, and so far from granting him the dispensation once desired, Otto did not hesitate to pronounce the vision which had interposed at the fatal moment between Eckhardt and the fulfilment of his desire, a divine interposition.

Slowly the day drew to a close. The eve of the great festival approached.

When darkness finally fell over the Capitoline hill, the old palace of the Cæsars seemed to waken to a new life. In the great reception hall a gorgeous spectacle awaited the guests. The richly dressed crowds buzzed like a swarm of bees. Their attires were iridescent, gorgeous in fashions borrowed from many lands. The invasion of foreigners and the enslavement of Italy could be read in the garbs of the Romans. The robes of the women, fashioned after the supreme style of Constantinople, hanging in heavy folds, stiff with gold and jewels, suggested rather ecclesiastical vestments. The hair was confined in nets of gold.

Stephania, the consort of the Senator of Rome, was by common accord the queen of the festival which this night was to usher in. Attracting, as she did on every turn, the eyes of heedless admirers, her triumphant beauty seemed to have chosen a fit device in the garb which adorned her, some filmy gossamer web of India, embroidered with moths burning their wings in flame.

Whether or no she was conscious of the lavish admiration of the Romans, her eyes, lustrous under the dark tresses, were clear and cold; her smile calm, her voice, as she greeted the arriving guests, melodious and thrilling like the tones of a harp. Amid the noise and buzz, she seemed a being apart, alien, solitary, like a water lily on some silent moon-lit pool. At last a loud fanfare of trumpets and horns announced the arrival of the German king. Attended by his suite the son of Theophano, whose spiritualized beauty he seemed to have inherited, received the homage of the Senator of Rome, the Cavalli, Caetani, Massimi and Stephaneschi. Stephania was standing apart in a more remote part of the hall, surrounded by women of the Roman nobility. Her face flushed and paled alternately as she became aware of the commotion at the entrance. The airy draperies of summer, which revealed rather than concealed her divine beauty, gave her the appearance of a Circe, conquering every heart at sight.

As she slowly advanced toward the imperial circle, with the three appropriate reverences in use, the serene composure of her countenance made it seem as if she had herself been born in purple. But as Otto's gaze fell upon the consort of the Senator of Rome, he suddenly paused, a deep pallor chasing the flush of joy from the beardless face. Was she not the woman he had met at the gates of the confessional? A great pain seized his heart as the thought came to him, that she of whom he had dreamed ever since that day, she in whose love he had pictured to himself a heaven, was the consort of another. Before him stood Stephania, the wife of his former foe, the wife of the Senator of Rome. And as he gazed into her large limpid eyes, at the exquisite contour of her head, at the small crimson lips, the clear-cut beauty of the face, of the tint of richest Carrara marble, Otto trembled. Unable to speak a word, fearful lest he might betray his emotions, he seized the white, firm hand which she extended to him with a bewitching smile.

"So we are to behold the King's majesty, at last," she said with a voice whose very accent thrilled him through and through. "I thought you were never going to do us that honour, – master of Rome, and master – of Rome's mistress."

Her speech, as she bent slightly toward him, whispering rather than speaking the last words, filled Otto's soul with intoxication. Stunned by the manner of his reception, her mysterious words still ringing in his ears, Otto muttered a reply, intelligible to none but herself, nerving his whole nature to remain calm, though his heart beat so loudly that he thought all present must hear its wild throbs even through his imperial vestments.

As slowly, reluctantly he retreated from her presence, to greet the rest of the assembled guests, Otto marked not the meaning-fraught exchange of glances between the Senator of Rome and his wife. The smiles of the beautiful women around him were as full of warning as the scowls of a Roman mob. Once or twice Otto gazed as if by chance in the direction of Stephania. Each time their eyes met. Truly, if the hatred of Crescentius was a menace to his life, the favour of Stephania seemed to summon him to dizzy, perilous heights.

At last the banquet was served, the company seated and amidst soft strains of music, the festival took its course. Otto now had an opportunity to study in detail the galaxy of profligate courtiers and beauties, which shed their glare over the sunset of Crescentius's reign. But so absorbed was he in the beauty of Stephania, that, though he attempted to withdraw his eyes, lest their prolonged gaze should attract observation, still they ever returned with increased and devouring eagerness to feast upon her incomparable beauty, while with a strange agony of mingled jealousy and anger he noted the court paid to the beautiful wife of Crescentius by the Roman barons, chief among them Benilo. It seemed, as if the latter wanted to urge the king to some open and indiscreet demonstration by the fire of his own admiration, and, dear as he was to his heart, Otto heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that he had guarded his secret, which if revealed, would place him beyond redemption in the power of his enemy, the Senator.

Stephania herself seemed for the nonce too much absorbed in her own amusements to notice the emotions she had evoked in the young king of the Germans. But when she chanced to turn her smiling eyes from the Senator, her husband, she suddenly met the ardent gaze of Otto riveted upon her with burning intensity. The smile died on her lips and for a moment the colour faded from her cheeks. Otto flushed a deep crimson and played in affected indifference with the tassels of his sword, and for some moments they seemed to take no further heed of each other. What happened at the banquet, what was spoken and the speakers, to Otto it was one whirling chaos. He saw nothing; he heard nothing. The gaze of Stephania, the wife of Crescentius, had cast its spell over him and there was but one thought in his mind, – but one dream in his heart.

At the request of some one, some of the guests changed their seats. Otto noted it not. Peals of laughter reverberated through the high arched Sala; some one recited an ode on the past greatness of Rome, followed by loud applause; to Otto it was a meaningless sound. Suddenly he heard his own name from lips whose tones caused him to start, as if electrified.

Stephania sat by his side. Crescentius seemed conversing eagerly with some of the barons. Raising her arm, white as fallen snow, she poured a fine crimson wine into a goblet, until it swelled to the golden brim. There was a simultaneous bustle of pages and attendants, offering fruits and wine to the guests, and Otto mechanically took some grapes from a salver which was presented to him, but never for a moment averted his gaze from Stephania, until she lifted the goblet to her lips.

"To thee!" she whispered with a swift glance at Otto, which went to his heart's core. She sipped from the goblet, then, bending to him, held it herself to his lips. His trembling hands for a moment covered her own and he drank strangely deep of the crimson wine, which made his senses reel, and in the trance in which their eyes met, neither noticed the sphinx-like expression on the face of Benilo, the Grand Chamberlain.

But if the wine, of which Otto had partaken with Stephania, was not in reality compounded of magic ingredients, the most potent love philtre could scarcely have been more efficacious. For the first time it seemed as if he had yielded up his whole soul and being to the fascination of marvellous beauty, and with such loveliness exhausting upon him all its treasures of infinite charm, wit and tenderness, stirred by every motive of triumph and rivalry, – even if a deceptive apology had not worked in his own mind, it would scarcely have been possible to resist the spell.

The banquet passed off in great splendour, enlivened by the most glittering and unscrupulous wit. Thousands of lamps shed their effulgence on the scene, revealing toward the end a fantastic pageant, descending the grand stair-case to some equally strange and fantastic music. It was a procession of the ancient deities; but so great was the illiterate state of mind among the Romans of that period, that the ideas they represented of the olden time were hopelessly perplexed and an antiquarian, had there been one present, would have thrown up his hands in despair at the incongruous attire of the pagan divinities who had invaded the most Christian city. During this procession Otto's eyes for the third time sought those of Stephania. She seemed to feel it, for she turned and her lips responded with a smile.

The night passed like some fantastic dream, conjured up from fairy land. And Otto carried his dreaming heart back to the lonely palace on the Aventine.