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Updated: May 7, 2025
"I do not understand a word of this," said Cesarini, when he returned: "will you explain?" "Certainly; the copy of the note you have despatched to Maltravers I shall show to Lady Florence this evening, as a proof of your sobered and generous feelings; observe, it is so written, that the old letter of your rival may seem an exact reply to it.
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Ev'n now forsake me. HENRY VI. Part iii. LORD VARGRAVE, bold as he was by nature, in vain endeavoured to banish from his mind the gloomy impression which the startling interview with Cesarini had bequeathed. The face, the voice of the maniac, haunted him, as the shape of the warning wraith haunts the mountaineer.
He shouted for assistance; and the lights borne by the servants who rushed into the room revealed to him the face of his brother-in-law. Cesarini, though in strong convulsions, still uttered cries and imprecations of revenge; he denounced De Montaigne as a traitor and a murderer!
Cesarini wondered and hesitated, but there was that about Lumley Ferrers which had already obtained command over the weak and passionate poet.
There, sit down at my desk, and write, as I shall dictate, to Maltravers." "Yes, now do put yourself in my hands write, write. When you have finished, I will explain." Cesarini obeyed, and the letter was as follows: "DEAR MALTRAVERS, "I have learned your approaching marriage with Lady Florence Lascelles. Permit me to congratulate you.
Cesarini, the inmate of a mad-house, Florence in her shroud, such were the visions the sight of Maltravers conjured up. And to the soul which the unwonted and momentary remorse awakened, a boding voice whispered, "And thinkest thou that thy schemes shall prosper, and thy aspirations succeed?"
And as thus he stood, and, wearied with contending against, passively yielded to, the bitter passions that wrung and gnawed his heart, he heard not a sound at the door nor the footsteps on the stairs nor knew he that a visitor was in his room till he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the white and livid countenance of Castruccio Cesarini.
"To your arts I owe the exile of years that should have been better spent; to those arts Cesarini owes the wreck of his reason, and Florence Lascelles her early grave! Ah, you are pale now; your tongue cleaves to your mouth! And think you these crimes will go forever unrequited; think you that there is no justice in the thunderbolts of God?"
"Lady Florence wishes to see you, and incloses me a note for you, which she asks me to address and forward to you. There it is." Cesarini took the note with trembling hands: it was very short, and merely expressed a desire to see him the next day at two o'clock. "What can it be?" he exclaimed; "can she want to apologise, to explain?" "No, no, no!
"Ah, signor," said she, in Italian, "I am so glad to see you; it is a relief, indeed, to find genius in a crowd of nothings." So saying, the heiress seated herself on one of those convenient couches which hold but two, and beckoned the Italian to her side. Oh, how the vain heart of Castruccio Cesarini beat! what visions of love, rank, wealth, already flitted before him!
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