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Updated: May 7, 2025
Be stilled, rude man! thou scarest away the angels, whose breath even now was rushing through my hair!" "It is too horrible!" cried the grim man of blood, shivering; "my enemies are relentless, and give me a madman for a jailer!" "Ha! a madman!" exclaimed Cesarini, springing to his feet, and glaring at the soldier with eyes that caught and rivalled the blaze of the fire.
Fain would he have attributed, either to some fantasy of patriotism or some purpose of revenge, the anxiety of the Cesarini; and there was much in her stern and haughty character which favoured that belief. But he was forced to acknowledge to himself some jealous apprehension of a sinister and latent motive, which touched his vanity and alarmed his love.
Cesarini had grown a literary lion, whose genius was vehemently lauded by all the reviews on the same principle as that which induces us to praise foreign singers or dead men; we must praise something, and we don't like to praise those who jostle ourselves.
IT was just twelve months after his last interview with Valerie, and Madame de Ventadour had long since quitted England, when one morning, as Maltravers sat alone in his study, Castruccio Cesarini was announced. "Ah, my dear Castruccio, how are you?" cried Maltravers, eagerly, as the opening door presented the form of the Italian. "What tone is this, Castruccio; and what debt do you speak of?"
'Look in thy heart and write, said an old English writer,* who did not, however, practise what he preached. And you, Signor " * Sir Philip Sidney. "Am nothing, and would be something," said the young man, shortly and bitterly. "And how does that wish not realise its object?" "Merely because I am Italian," said Cesarini.
Ferrers, with the happy ease that belonged to his complacent, though plotting character, soon made Cesarini at home with him; and two or three slighting expressions which the former dropped with respect to Maltravers, coupled with some outrageous compliments to the Italian, completely won the heart of the poet.
One day, however, there fell into his hands an English newspaper, which was full of the praises of Lord Vargrave; and the article in lauding the peer referred to his services as the commoner Lumley Ferrers. This incident, slight as it appeared, and perfectly untraceable by his relations, produced a visible effect on Cesarini; and three days afterwards he attempted his own life.
They were now without the grove; a gay throng was before them. "All is safe," thought the Englishman. He turned abruptly and haughtily on Cesarini, and waved his hand; "Begone, madman!" said he, in a loud and stern voice, "begone! vex me no more, or I give you into custody. Begone, I say!"
Why is there fire in my brain and heart; and why do you go free and enjoy liberty and life? Observed! What care you for observation? All men search for me!" "Then why so openly expose yourself to their notice; why " "Hear me!" interrupted Cesarini.
"/Borachio./ Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly, that no dishonesty shall appear in me, my lord." /Much Ado about Nothing/. FERRERS and Cesarini were both sitting over their wine, and both had sunk into silence, for they had only one subject in common, when a note was brought to Lumley from Lady Florence. "This is lucky enough!" said he, as he read it.
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