Two hours later, poor unlucky Fabrizio, securely handcuffed, and fastened by a long chain to his own sediola, into which he had been thrust, started for the citadel³ at Parma, under the guard of eight gendarmes⁴. These men had been ordered to collect all the gendarmes stationed in the villages through which the procession might pass as they went along, and the podestà himself attended the important prisoner. Toward seven o’clock in the evening the sediola, escorted by all the little boys in Parma, and guarded by thirty gendarmes, was driven across the beautiful promenade⁵, past the little palace in which the Fausta had lived a few months previously⁶, and stopped before the outer gate of the citadel just as General Fabio Conti and his daughter were about to issue from it. The governor’s carriage stopped before reaching the drawbridge, to allow the sediola to which Fabrizio was bound to pass across it. The general at once shouted orders to close the citadel gate, and hastened down to the doorkeeper’s office to make inquiries⁷. He was more than a little surprised when he recognised the prisoner, whose limbs had grown quite stiff from being bound to the sediola during the long journey. Four gendarmes had picked him up, and were carrying him to the jailer’s office. “It appears, then,” said the self-sufficient governor to himself, “that the celebrated⁸ Fabrizio del Dongo, the man to whom the best society in Parma has seemingly sworn to devote its whole thoughts for the past year, is in my power.”  
The general had met him a score of times—at court, in the duchess’s house, and elsewhere—but he took good care to make no sign of recognition; he would have been afraid of compromising himself.
 
[275]
 
“Draw up a most circumstantial report of the prisoner’s delivery into my hands by the worthy⁹ podestà of Castelnovo,” he called out to the prison clerk.
 
Barbone, the clerk in question, a most alarming-looking person, with his huge beard and generally martial¹⁰ air, began to look even more self-important than usual; he might have been taken for a German jailer. Believing that it was the Duchess Sanseverina’s influence which had prevented his master, the governor, from becoming Minister of War, he was even more insolent¹¹ than usual to this particular prisoner, addressing him in the second person plural¹², which, in Italy, is the tense used in speaking to servants. “I am a prelate of the Holy Roman Church,” said Fabrizio steadily¹³, “and grand vicar of this diocese; my birth alone entitles me to respect.”
 
“I know nothing about that,” replied the clerk impudently¹⁵. “Prove your assertions by producing the patents which give you a right to those highly respectable titles.” Fabrizio had no patents to show, and held his peace. General Fabio Conti, standing¹⁶ beside the clerk, watched him write without raising his own eyes to the prisoner’s face, so that he might not be obliged to say he really was Fabrizio del Dongo.
 
Suddenly Clelia Conti, who was waiting in the carriage, heard a terrible noise in the guard-room. Barbone, after writing an insolent and very lengthy¹⁷ description of the prisoner’s person, had ordered him to open his clothes, so that he might verify and note down the number and condition of the scratches he had received in his affair with Giletti.
 
“I can not,” said Fabrizio with a bitter smile. “I am not in a position to obey this gentleman’s orders; my handcuffs prevent it.”
 
“What!” cried the general; “the prisoner is handcuffed inside the fortress¹⁸! That’s against the rules; there must be a distinct order. Take off the handcuffs!”
 
Fabrizio looked at him. “Here’s a pretty Jesuit,” thought he to himself; “for the last hour he has been looking at me in these handcuffs, which make me horribly[276] uncomfortable, and now he pretends to be astonished.”
 
The gendarmes at once removed the handcuffs. They had just found out that Fabrizio was the Duchess Sanseverina’s nephew, and lost no time in treating him with a honeyed politeness which contrasted strongly with the clerk’s rudeness. This seemed to annoy the clerk, and he said to Fabrizio, who had not moved:
 
“Now then, make haste. Show us those scratches poor Giletti gave you at the time of his murder.”
 
With a bound Fabrizio sprang upon the clerk, and gave him such a cuff¹ that Barbone fell off his chair across the general’s legs. The gendarmes seized Fabrizio’s arms, but he did not move. The general himself, and the gendarmes who were close to him, hastily picked up the clerk, whose face was streaming with blood. Two others, who were standing a little farther off, ran to shut the office door, thinking the prisoner was trying to escape. The non-commissioned officer in command was convinced young Del Dongo could not make any very successful attempt at flight, seeing he was now actually within the citadel, but at any rate, with the instincts of his profession, and to prevent any scuffle, he moved over to the window. Opposite this open window, and about two paces from it, the general’s carriage was drawn²⁰ up. Clelia had shrunk far back within it, so as to avoid witnessing the sad scene that was being enacted²¹ in the office. When she heard all the noise she looked out.
 
“What is happening?” said she to the officer.
 
“Signorina, it is young Fabrizio del Dongo, who has just cuffed² that impudent¹⁴ rascal²² Barbone.”
 
“What! is it Signor del Dongo who is being taken to prison?”
 
“Why, there’s no doubt about that,” said the officer. “It’s on account of the poor fellow’s high birth that there is so much ceremony. I thought the signorina knew all about it.” Clelia continued to look out of the carriage window. Whenever the gendarmes round the table scattered²³ a little she could see the prisoner.
 
“Who would have dreamed,” thought she, “when I met him on the road near the Lake of Como, that the very next time I saw him he would be in this sad position? He gave me his hand then, to help me into his mother’s coach. Even then he was with the duchess. Can their love story have begun at that time?”
 
My readers must be informed that the Liberal party, led by the Marchesa Raversi and General Conti, affected²⁴ an absolute belief in the tender relations supposed to exist between Fabrizio and the duchess; and the gullibility²⁵ of Count Mosca, whom it loathed²⁶, was a subject of never-ending pleasantry on its part.
 
“Well,” thought Clelia, “here he is a prisoner, and the captive of his enemies. For, after all, Count Mosca, even if one takes him to be an angel, must be delighted at seeing him caught.”
 
A peal²⁷ of loud laughter burst forth²⁸ in the guard-room.
 
“Jacopo,” said she to the officer, in a trembling voice, “what can be happening?”
 
“The general asked the prisoner angrily why he struck Barbone, and Monsignore Fabrizio answered very coldly: ‘He called me a murderer; let him show the patents which authorize²⁹ him to give me that title,’ and then everybody laughed.”
 
Barbone’s place was taken by a jailer who knew how to write.
 
Clelia saw the clerk come out of the guard-room, mopping up the blood that streamed from his hideous³⁰ face with his handkerchief; he was swearing like a trooper. “That d—d Fabrizio,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “shall die by no hand but mine! I’ll cheat the executioner of his job,” and so forth. He had stopped short between the guard-room window and the carriage to look at Fabrizio, and his oaths grew louder and deeper.
 
“Be off with you!” said the officer; “you’ve no business to swear in that way before the signorina.” Barbone raised his head to glance into the carriage; his eyes and Clelia’s met, and she could not restrain an exclamation³¹ of horror. She had never had so close a view of so vile³² a countenance³³. “He will kill Fabrizio,” said she to herself. “I must warn Don Cesare.”
 
This was her uncle, one of the most respected priests in the town. His brother, General Conti, had obtained him the appointment of steward³⁴ and chief chaplain of the prison.
 
The general got back into the carriage. “Would you rather go home?” said he to his daughter, “or sit and wait for me, perhaps for a long time, in the courtyard of the palace? I must go and report all this to the sovereign.”
 
Fabrizio, escorted by the gendarmes, was just leaving the guard-room to go to the room allotted³⁵ to him. Clelia was looking out of the carriage; the prisoner was quite near her. Just at that moment she answered her father’s question in these words: “I will go with you.” Fabrizio, hearing them spoken so close to him, raised his eyes, and met the young girl’s glance. The thing that struck him most was the expression of melancholy³⁷ on her face. “How beautiful she has grown since we met at Como!” he thought. “What deep thoughtfulness in her expression! Those who compare her with the duchess are quite right. What an angelic face!”
 
Barbone, the gory³⁸ clerk, who had his own reasons for keeping near the carriage, stopped the three gendarmes in charge of Fabrizio with a gesture, and then, slipping round the back of the carriage so as to get to the window on the general’s side, he said: “As the prisoner has used violence within the citadel, would it not be well to put the handcuffs on him for three days, by virtue³⁹ of Article 157 of the regulations?”
 
“Go to the devil!” shouted the general, who saw difficulties ahead of him in connection with this arrest. He could not afford to drive either the duchess or Count Mosca to extreme measures, and besides, how was the count likely to take this business? After all, the murder of a man like Giletti was a mere⁴⁰ trifle, and would have been nothing at all but for the intrigue⁴¹ that had been built upon it.
 
During this short dialogue, Fabrizio stood, a superb figure, amid the gendarmes. Nothing could exceed the pride and nobility of his mien⁴². His delicate, well-cut features, and the scornful smile which hovered⁴³ on his lips, contrasted delightfully⁴⁴ with the common appearance of the gendarmes who stood round him. But all that, so to speak, was only the external part of his expression. Clelia’s celestial⁴⁷ beauty transported him with delight, and his eyes spoke³⁶ all his surprise. She, lost in thought, had not withdrawn⁴⁸ her head from the window. He greeted her with the most deferential⁴⁹ of half smiles, and then, after an instant—
 
“It strikes me, signorina, that some time ago, and near a lake, I had the honour of meeting you, attended by gendarmes.”
 
Clelia coloured, and was so confused that she could not find a word in reply. “How noble he looked among those rough men!” she had been saying to herself, just when he spoke to her. The deep pity, and we might almost say emotion, that overwhelmed her, deprived her of the presence of mind which should have helped her to discover an answer. She became aware of her own silence, and blushed still more deeply. Just at this moment the bolts of the great gate of the citadel were shot back with much noise. Had not his Excellency’s carriage been kept waiting for a minute at least? So great was the echo under the vaulted⁵⁰ roof that even if Clelia had thought of any reply, Fabrizio would not have been able to hear her words.
 
Whirled away by the horses, which had broken into a gallop⁵¹ as soon as they had crossed the drawbridge, Clelia said to herself, “He must have thought me very absurd”; and then suddenly she added: “Not absurd only. He must have thought me a mean-souled creature. He must have fancied I did not return his salutation because he is a prisoner, and I am the governor’s daughter.”
 
This idea threw the high-minded young girl into despair. “What makes my behaviour altogether degrading,” she added, “is that when we first met, long ago, and also attended by gendarmes, as he said, it was I who was a prisoner, and he rendered me a service—and helped me out of a great difficulty. Yes, I must acknowledge it; my behaviour lacks nothing; it is full of vulgarity and ingratitude⁵². Alas⁵³, for this poor young fellow! Now that misfortune has overtaken him, every one will be ungrateful to him. I remember he said to me then, ‘Will you remember my name at Parma?’ How he must despise me now! I might so easily have said a civil word. Yes, I must acknowledge it, my conduct to him has been abominable⁵⁴. But for his mother’s kindly⁵⁵ offer to take me in her carriage, I should have had to walk after the gendarmes through the dust, or, which would have been far worse, to ride on horseback behind one of the men. Then it was my father who was arrested, and I who was defenceless. Yes, indeed, there is nothing lacking to my behaviour, and how bitterly such a being as he must have felt it! What a contrast between his noble face and my actions! what dignity! what composure! How like a hero he looked, surrounded by his vile enemies! I can understand the duchess’s passion for him now. If this is the effect he produces in the midst of a distressing⁵⁶ event, which must lead to terrible results, what must he be when his heart is full of happiness?”
 
The governor’s carriage waited for more than an hour in the courtyard of the palace, and yet, when the general came down from the prince’s study, Clelia did not think he had stayed too long.
 
“What is his Highness’s will?” inquired Clelia.
 
“His lips said ‘imprisonment,’ but his eyes said ‘death.’”
 
“Death! Great God!” exclaimed Clelia.
 
“Come, come! hold your tongue,” said the general angrily. “What a fool I am to answer a child’s questions!”
 
Meanwhile Fabrizio had climbed the three hundred and eighty steps which led to the Farnese Tower, a new prison built at an immense height on the platform of the great tower. He never gave one thought—one distinct thought, at all events—to the great change which had just taken place in his life. “What eyes!” he kept saying to himself. “How much they express! what depths of pity! She seemed to be saying: ‘Life is such a vale of misery⁵⁸; don’t grieve too much over what happens to you. Are we not sent here on earth to be unhappy?’ How those lovely eyes of hers gazed at me, even when the horses moved forward so noisily under the arch!”
 
Fabrizio was quite forgetting to be miserable⁵⁹.
 
That night Clelia accompanied her father to several great houses. In the earlier part of the evening nobody knew anything about the arrest of the great culprit—this was the name the courtiers bestowed⁶⁰ on the rash and unlucky young man only two hours later. That evening it was noticed that Clelia’s face showed more animation⁶² than usual. Now animation, the air of taking an interest in what was going on about her, was the one thing generally wanting to this beautiful creature. When comparisons were drawn between her beauty and that of the duchess, it was this unmoved appearance, this look of being above everything, which turned the scale in her rival’s favour. In England or France, the homes of vanity, this opinion would probably have been completely reversed. Clelia Conti was a young girl, too slight as yet to permit of her being compared to Guido’s exquisite⁶³ figures; we will not conceal⁶⁴ the fact that, according to the rules of antique beauty, her features were somewhat too strongly marked. Her lips, for instance, exquisitely⁶⁵ graceful⁶⁶ as their outline was, were somewhat too full.
 
The delightful⁴⁵ peculiarity⁶⁷ of her face, that shone with the artless charm and celestial impress of the noblest nature, was that, in spite of its rare and most extraordinary beauty, it bore no resemblance whatever to the heads of the old Greek statues. The beauty of the duchess, on the contrary, was almost too much on the lines of the recognised ideal, and her essentially⁶⁸ Lombard type recalled the voluptuous⁶⁹ smile and tender melancholy of Leonardo da Vinci’s pictures of the fair Herodias. While the duchess was sprightly⁷⁰, bubbling over with wit and merriment, interesting herself personally, if I may so say, in every subject which the current of conversation brought before her mental eye, Clelia, to an equal extent, was calm and slow to betray emotion—either because she scorned her surroundings, or because she regretted some absent dream. For a long time it had been believed she would end by embracing the religious life. She was now twenty. She disliked going to balls, and when she did accompany her father to such gatherings⁷¹, she did it in obedience⁷² to his command, and in order to serve the interests of his ambition.
 
“Will it really never be possible for me,” the vulgar-minded general would often think, “to turn this daughter of mine, the most beautiful and the most virtuous⁷³ creature in our sovereign’s dominions⁷⁴, to some account for my own advancement⁷⁵? My life is too isolated⁷⁶; I have nobody but her in the whole world, and a family which would give me social support is a necessity to me, in order that in a certain number of houses my worth, and, above all, my fitness for ministerial functions, may be accepted as the indispensable basis of every political argument. Well, my daughter—beautiful, good, and pious⁷⁷ as she is—loses her temper whenever any young man in a good posi............