Amidst the general storm of invective¹, Archbishop Landriani alone stood faithful to his young friend’s cause, and ventured, even at the princess’s court, to quote that maxim² of jurisprudence, according to which the justification⁴ of an absent person must always be received with unprejudiced ears.  
On the very morning after Fabrizio’s escape, several persons received a tolerable sonnet⁵, which acclaimed⁶ his flight as one of the finest actions of the century, and likened Fabrizio to an angel descending⁷ upon earth on outspread wings. On the evening of the third day, every tongue in Parma was repeating a really magnificent piece of verse. This purported⁸ to be Fabrizio’s soliloquy as he swung himself down the rope, and reviewed the various incidents of his life. Two magnificent lines insured this second sonnet its proper place in public estimation. Every connoisseur⁹ recognised the hand of Ferrante Palla.
 
But at this point, I myself ought to fall into the epic¹⁰ style. What colours are bright enough to paint the torrents¹¹ of indignation that submerged the hearts of all well-conditioned folk at the incredible news of the insolent¹² illumination at Sacca! One shriek¹³ of horror went up against the duchess; even genuine Liberals thought she had risked the safety of the poor suspects in the various prisons in a most barbarous fashion, and unnecessarily exasperated¹⁴ the sovereign’s feelings. Count Mosca declared that only one course was left to the duchess’s old friends—they must forget her. The concert of execration¹⁵ was quite unanimous. Any stranger passing through the town must have been struck by the strength of public opinion. Still, in this country, where the delights of vengeance¹⁶ are thoroughly¹⁷ appreciated, the illuminations and the splendid fête given to over six thousand peasants in the park at Sacca had a huge success. Everybody in Parma was saying that the duchess had given a thousand sequins to her peasants, and this, it was added, explained the somewhat rough reception given the thirty gendarmes¹⁸ the police had been foolish enough to send into the village, thirty-six hours after the splendid festivities, and the general drunkenness which had followed on them, had come to an end. The gendarmes had been received with volleys of stones, had taken to flight, and two of them had been thrown into the river.
 
As to the bursting of the great reservoir at the Palazzo Sanseverina, that had hardly been noticed. A few streets had been flooded during the night, and in the morning people might have thought it had been raining. Ludovico had carefully broken the glass in one of the palace windows, which accounted for the entrance of the thieves, and a short ladder had actually been found hard by. Count Mosca was the only person who recognised the finger of his friend.
 
Fabrizio was quite resolved to get back to Parma as soon as he could. He sent Ludovico with a long letter to the archbishop, and that faithful servant came back to the first village in Piedmont—Sannazaro, to the west of Pavia—and there posted the Latin epistle addressed by the worthy²¹ prelate to his young friend. We must here add a detail, which, like many others, doubtless, may strike people as wearisome, in a country where caution is no longer necessary. The name “Fabrizio del Dongo” was never written; all letters intended for him were addressed to Ludovico San-Michele, either at Locarno in Switzerland, or at Belgirate in Piedmont. The envelope was made of coarse paper, it was clumsily sealed, the address was hardly legible, and occasionally adorned²² with additions worthy of a cook, and all these letters were antedated²³, by six days, from Naples.
 
From the Piedmontese village of Sannazaro, near Pavia, Ludovico hurried back to Parma. He was charged with a mission which Fabrizio regarded as of the utmost importance. He was ordered to do no less a thing than to send Clelia Conti a silken handkerchief, on which one of Petrarch’s sonnets²⁴ had been printed. One word in the sonnet had, indeed, been altered. Clelia found it on her table, two days after she had received the thanks of the Marchese Crescenzi, who declared himself the happiest of men; and I need not describe the impression this mark of unfailing recollection produced upon her feelings.
 
Ludovico had received orders to collect every possible detail as to what was happening in the citadel²⁵. He it was who brought Fabrizio the sad news that the marriage with the Marchese Crescenzi appeared to be a settled thing. Hardly a day passed that he did not offer Clelia some form of festivity within the citadel walls. One decisive proof that the marriage was settled was that the marchese, who was excessively rich, and consequently, like most wealthy people in northern Italy, exceedingly stingy, was making huge preparations—and that, although he was marrying a dowerless girl. It is true that General Fabio Conti, whose vanity had been sorely stung by this remark—the first which occurred to all his fellow-countrymen—had just bought a landed property costing over three hundred thousand francs, and that, though he had nothing of his own, he had paid for it with ready money, presumably money belonging to the marquis. He had also given out that he bestowed²⁶ the property on his daughter as a wedding gift. But the expenses of drawing up the deeds, and others, which came to more than twelve thousand francs, struck the Marchese Crescenzi, a man of very logical mind, as a very ridiculous outlay²⁷. He, on his part, was having magnificent hangings—admirably devised for delighting the eyes, by the famous Pallazzi, a Bolognese painter—woven at Lyons. These hangings, each of which bore some part of the Crescenzi family arms (the family, as all the world knows, is descended²⁸ from the famous Roman Consul²⁹ Crescentius, who lived in 985), were to furnish the seventeen saloons composing the ground floor of the marchese’s palace. The hangings, clocks, and chandeliers, delivered in Parma, cost over three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The value of the new mirrors, added to those the house already contained, reached two hundred thousand francs. With the exception of two rooms, famous as the work of Parmegiano, the greatest painter of that country next to the divine Correggio, all the apartments on the first and second floor were now occupied by the most famous Florentine and Milanese painters, who were adorning³⁰ them with frescoes³¹. Fokelberg, the great Swedish sculptor³³, Tenerani, from Rome, and Marchesi, from Milan, had been working for a year on ten bas-reliefs representing as many noble acts in the life of that truly great man Crescentius. Most of the ceilings, which were also painted in fresco³², contained some allusion³⁴ to his career. One particular ceiling—on which Hayez, of Milan, had depicted³⁵ Crescentius received in the Elysian Fields by Francesco Sforza, Lorenzo the Magnificent, King Robert, the Tribune Cola di Rienzi, Macchiavelli, Dante, and the other great figures of the Middle Ages—was most generally admired. Expressed admiration³⁶ for these elect beings was considered to hint scorn of the people in power at the moment.
 
All these splendid details absorbed the attention of the nobles and burghers of Parma, and wrung³⁷ our hero’s heart, when he read them, related with artless admiration, in a long letter of over twenty pages which Ludovico had dictated³⁸ to a customs-officer at Casal Maggiore.
 
“And I am so poor!” said Fabrizio to himself. “I have four thousand francs a year in all, and for everything. It is downright insolence³⁹ for me to dare to be in love with Clelia Conti, for whom all these marvels⁴⁰ are being prepared.”
 
One item in Ludovico’s letter, written in his own clumsy hand, informed his master that he had happened, one night, on poor Grillo, his former jailer, who had been thrown into prison and subsequently released, and who now bore all the appearance of a man who was hiding. Grillo had begged him, of his charity, to give him a sequin, and Ludovico had given him four in the duchess’s name. The former jailers, twelve of them, who had just been set at liberty, were making themselves ready to give the new men who had succeeded them a “knifing entertainment” (trattamento di coltellate) if they could contrive⁴¹ to come upon them outside the citadel. Grillo had reported that there was a serenade at the fortress⁴² every night, that the Signorina Clelia Conti looked very pale, was often ill, and other things of that sort. As a consequence of this absurd expression, Ludovico received orders, by return of post, to come back to Locarno. He came, and the details he supplied by word of mouth were still more distressing⁴³ to Fabrizio’s feelings.
 
My readers may imagine how pleasant he made himself to the poor duchess; he would have died a thousand deaths rather than have pronounced the name of Clelia Conti in her presence.
 
The duchess loathed⁴⁴ Parma, and to Fabrizio everything that reminded him of that city was at once sublime⁴⁵ and tender.
 
Less than ever had the duchess forgotten her vengeance. She had been so happy before Giletti’s death, and now, what a fate was hers! She was living in constant expectation of a frightful⁴⁶ event, not a word of which she dared mention to Fabrizio—she who, when she had made her arrangement with Ferrante, had dreamed that one day she would rejoice Fabrizio’s heart by assuring him that his day of vengeance would surely come.
 
My readers may conceive some idea of the agreeability of the conversations between Fabrizio and the duchess. The dreariest⁴⁷ silence generally reigned⁴⁸ between the two. To increase the enjoyment⁴⁹ of their intercourse⁵⁰ the duchess had allowed herself to be tempted⁵¹ into playing a trick upon her too beloved nephew. The count wrote to her almost every day. Apparently⁵² he still sent couriers, as in the first days of their love, for his letters always bore the postmark of some small Swiss town. The poor man taxed his wits so as not to speak too openly of his affection, and to devise amusing letters. All she did was to glance over them carelessly. What, alas⁵³, is the fidelity⁵⁴ of a lover she esteems⁵⁵, to a woman whose heart is wrung by the coldness of the man she prefers!
 
In two months the duchess only sent him back one answer, and that was to request him to sound the princess, and find out whether, in spite of the insolent display of fireworks, a letter from the duchess would be well received. The letter he was to present, if he thought it wise, prayed the princess to appoint the Marchese Crescenzi to the post of lord in waiting to her Serene⁵⁶ Highness, which had lately fallen vacant, and begged the position might be given him in consideration of his marriage. The duchess’s letter was a masterpiece, full of the tenderest respect, most perfectly⁵⁷ expressed. Its courtier-like language did not contain a single word of which the consequences, even the most distant, could have been otherwise than agreeable to the princess, and the answer it elicited⁵⁸ breathed a tender friendship, which separation was putting to the torture.
 
“My son and I,” wrote the princess, “have not had one fairly pleasant evening since your sudden departure. Has my dear duchess forgotten that it is to her I owe the fact that I have regained⁵⁹ a consulting voice in the nomination⁶⁰ of the officers of my household? Does she feel herself obliged to give reasons for appointing the marchese, as though her expressed desire were not the best of reasons to me? The marchese will have the post if I can do anything toward it, and in my heart there will always be a place—and the very first—for my delightful⁶¹ duchess. My son uses absolutely the same expressions—though indeed they are rather strong in the mouth of a great fellow of one-and-twenty—and begs you will send him specimens⁶² of the minerals of the valley of Orta, near Belgirate. You can address your letters to the count, who still detests⁶³ you, and whom I love all the better on account of this sentiment. The archbishop, too, has remained faithful to you. We all hope to see you back some day; remember, that must be! The Marchesa Ghisleri, my mistress of the robes, is about to leave this world for a better one. The poor woman has given me a great deal of trouble, and she displeases⁶⁴ me now by departing at such an unseasonable moment. Her illness makes me think of the name which I should once have found such pleasure in substituting for hers—if, indeed, I could have succeeded in obtaining this sacrifice of her independence from the unique being who, when she left us, carried away with her all the delights of my little court,” and so forth⁶⁵.
 
Thus, day after day, when the duchess met Fabrizio, she felt conscious of having done all that in her lay to hurry on the marriage which was driving him to despair, and they often spent four or five hours sailing together upon the lake, without uttering a single word to each other. Fabrizio’s kind-heartedness was complete and perfect, but he was thinking of other things, and his simple and artless mind supplied him with no subjects of conversation. The duchess saw this, and therein was her torture.
 
I have forgotten to relate, in its proper place, that the duchess had taken a house at Belgirate, a lovely village which fulfils all the promise of its name (the view of a beautiful curve of the lake). Out of the French window of the drawing-room, the duchess could step into her boat. She had chosen a very ordinary one, for which four rowers would have sufficed, but she hired twelve, and was careful to have one man from each of the villages in the neighbourhood of Belgirate. The third or fourth time she found herself in the middle of the lake, with all these well-chosen men about her, she signed to them to cease rowing.
 
“I look upon you all as my friends,” she said, “and I am going to trust you with a secret. My nephew Fabrizio has escaped from prison, and perhaps some treacherous⁶⁶ attempt may be made to lay hands upon him, although he is on your lake, and in a free country. Keep your ears open, and warn me of everything you may hear. I give you leave to come into my room either by day or night.”
 
The men responded in the most enthusiastic manner; she had the talent of making herself loved. But she did not think there would be any question of trying to seize Fabrizio; it was for herself she was taking these precautions, and before she had given the fatal order to open the reservoir at the Palazzo Sanseverina, she would never have dreamed of them.
 
Prudence³ had also led her to hire Fabrizio’s lodging⁶⁷ in the Port of Locarno. Every day he either came to see her, or she herself went to see him in Switzerland. The delights of their perpetual tête-à-tête may be gauged⁶⁸ by the following detail. The marchesa and her daughters came to see them twice, and they were glad of the presence of these strangers—for ties of blood notwithstanding, a person who knows nothing of one’s dearest interests, and whom one does not see more than once a year, may fairly be called a stranger.
 
One night, the duchess, with the marchesa and her two daughters, was at Fabrizio’s rooms in Locarno. The archpriest of the neighbourhood and the village priest had both come to pay their respects to the ladies. The archpriest, who was interested in some commercial house, and kept himself informed of the current news, happened to say:
 
“The Prince of Parma is dead.”
 
The duchess turned very pale. She could hardly find courage to inquire, “Have you heard any details?”
 
“No,” replied the archpriest, “the report only mentions his death; but that is quite certain.”
 
The duchess looked at Fabrizio. “It was for him I did it,” she said to herself, “and I would have done a thousand times worse. And there he sits in front of me, utterly⁶⁹ indifferent, and thinking of another woman!” It was beyond the duchess’s power to endure the dreadful thought; she swooned away. Every one hastened to her assistance, but when she came back to her senses she noticed that Fabrizio was far less perturbed⁷⁰ than the two priests; he was dreaming, as usual. “He is thinking he will go back to Parma,” said the duchess to herself, “and perhaps that he will break off Clelia’s marriage with the marchese. But I shall know how to prevent that.” Then, recollecting⁷¹ the presence of the two ecclesiastics⁷², she hastily added:
 
“He was a great prince, and has been sorely slandered⁷³. He is a sore loss to us all.”
 
The two priests took their leave, and the duchess, who longed to be alone, announced her intention of going to bed.
 
“No doubt,” said she to herself, “prudence forbids my returning to Parma for a month or two. But I feel I shall never have that patience; I suffer too much here. Fabrizio’s perpetual silence and absorption are more than my heart can bear. Who would have told me I ever could have felt weary of sailing alone with him over this beautiful lake! And just at the moment when, to avenge⁷⁴ him, I have done more than I can ever tell him! After such a sight as that, death seems nothing at all. Now, indeed, I am paying for the ecstasies⁷⁵ of happiness and childish delight I felt in my palace at Parma, when Fabrizio joined me there on his return from Naples. If I had said one word then, it would all have been settled; and perhaps, if he had been bound to me, he never would have thought of that little Clelia. But that word filled me with a horrible repugnance⁷⁶. Now she has the better of me, and what can be more natural? She is only twenty, and I, besides being altered by trouble and illness, am twice her age.… I must die, I must make an end of it! A woman of forty is nothing to any man, except those who have loved her in her youth. The only joys left to me now are those of vanity. And do they make life worth living? That’s another reason for going to Parma and amusing myself. If certain things happened, I should be put to death; well, what matter? I will die nobly, and just before the end, but not till then, I will tell Fabrizio, ‘Ungrateful boy, it was for you I did it!’… Yes, Parma is the only place where I can find occupation for what little life remains⁷⁷ to me. I’ll play the great lady there. What a blessing⁷⁸ it would be if I could find enjoyment, now, in the glories which used to make the Raversi sick with envy! In those days I only became aware of my happiness by seeing it mirrored in jealous eyes.… My vanity has one piece of good fortune. Except for the count, perhaps, not a soul can have guessed at what has cut my affections at their root.… I will love Fabrizio, I will devote myself to his fortunes, but he shall not break off Clelia’s marriage and marry her himself.… No, that shall never be!”
 
So far had the duchess proceeded in her melancholy⁷⁹ soliloquy when she heard a great noise in the house.
 
“Hark!” she cried; “they are coming to arrest me! Ferrante has been taken and has confessed. Well, all the better. I shall have something to do; I must fight for my life. But to begin with, I mustn’t let them take me!”
 
Half dressed, the duchess fled to the bottom of her garden. She was just meditating⁸⁰ climbing over a low wall, and escaping into the open country, when she caught sight of some one going into her room, and recognised Bruno, the count’s confidential⁸¹ man. He was alone with her maid. She approached the open window; the man was telling the maid about the wounds he had received. The duchess came back into her room, and Bruno, casting himself at her feet, besought⁸² her not to tell the count the absurd hour at which he had arrived.
 
“The moment the prince was dead,” he added, “the count sent orders to all the posting-houses that no horses were to be given to any Parmese subject; consequently I travelled as far as the Po with our own horses. But when we were getting off the ferry-boat my carriage was overturned, smashed up, and destroyed, and I was so seriously hurt that I could not ride, as it was my duty to have done.”
 
“Very good,” said the duchess, “it is three o’clock in the morning. I’ll say it is midday. But don’t you dare to contradict me!”
 
“That is like the signora’s usual kindness.”
 
In a literary work, politics play the part of a pistol shot in the middle of a concert—something rough and disagreeable, to which, nevertheless, we can not refuse our attention.
 
I am now going to speak of very ugly matters, concerning which, for more than one reason, I would gladly be silent. But I am compelled to refer to certain events which come within our purview⁸³, seeing they are connected with the lives of the persons I describe.
 
“But good God,” said the duchess to Bruno, “how did that great prince come by his death?”
 
“He went out to shoot birds of passage in the marshes⁸⁴ by the river, a few leagues from Sacca. He fell into a hole, hidden by a tuft of grass; he was in a violent perspiration⁸⁵, and the cold struck him. He was conveyed to a lonely house, and there he died, within a few hours. Some declare that Signore Catena and Barone are dead too, and that the whole accident was caused by the saucepans in the peasant’s house, into which they were taken, being full of verdigris—they all breakfasted in that house. Then the hot-headed folk, the Jacobins, who say whatever suits them, talk about poison. I know that my friend Toto, one of the court servants, would have died but for the care lavished⁸⁶ on him by a sort of lunatic who seemed to know a great deal about medicine, and made him use very strange remedies. But nobody talks about the prince’s death any more, and, indeed, he was a cruel man. When I was starting, the populace was collecting to murder Chief-Justice Rassi, and the people wanted to set the gates of the citadel on fire, so as to try and save the prisoners. But some people declared Fabio Conti would fire his cannon⁸⁷ on them, while others vowed⁸⁸ the gunners in the fortress had poured water on their gunpowder⁸⁹, and would not destroy their fellow-citizens. But here is something far more interesting: While the surgeon at Sandolaro was binding⁹⁰ up my poor arm, a man came in from Parma, and told us that when the people saw Barbone, that clerk from the citadel, in the streets, they first of all thrashed him mercilessly, and then hanged him ............