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"What is this?" asked the abbe. "M. l'Abbe," said the notary, with impatience, "I begged you to come here to communicate to you projects of high importance, and not to hear me ridiculously praised by my friend." "You know, Jacques, that from me you must be resigned to here everything," said Polidori, looking fixedly at the notary, who cast down his eyes, and remained silent.
Frances Mary Polidori was born at Forty-two Broad Street, Golden Square, the same street in which William Blake was born. I found the street and Golden Square, but could not locate the house. The policeman on the beat declared that no one by the name of Rossetti or Blake was in business thereabouts; and further he never heard of Polly Dory.
"I do not know why, but the features of the servants who received me appeared sinister; I did not see among them any of the old servitors of our house; no one knew me; I was obliged to announce myself. I learned that, some days before, my father was quite ill, and my stepmother had just returned from Paris with a physician. No more doubt it was Dr. Polidori!
In Christ's Church, Woburn Square, you can see memorial tablets to these fine souls, and if you get acquainted with the gentle old rector he will show you a pendant star and crescent, set with diamonds, given by the Sultan during the Crimean war, "To Miss Charlotte Lydia Polidori for distinguished services as Nurse."
William was married and had taken a house of his own I don't know where. The rest of the household consisted of the widow, Mrs. Rossetti, Miss Charlotte Lydia Polidori, Maria and Christina and seven cats. And so we find this family of five women living in peace and comfort, with their books and pictures and cats, at Thirty Torrington Square, in a drowsy, faded, ebb-tide mansion.
"And where is Polidori now?" "In the house of the Allee des Veuves, under good, sure guard." "Did he make no resistance to following you?" "None. I left him the choice of being arrested on the spot by the French authorities, or being my prisoner in the Allee des Veuves. He did not hesitate." "You were right; it is better to have him thus in our own hands.
Extended on a bed in his sleeping apartment, feebly lighted by a lamp, Jacques Ferrand was dressed in black trousers and vest; one of the sleeves of his shirt was turned back, and a ligature around his attenuated arm announced that he had just been bled. Polidori was standing near the bed, with one hand on the bolster, and appeared to regard the features of his accomplice with inquietude.
"Certainly, M. l'Abbe, Jacques has not forgotten this; it is a kind of appendage to his Bank for the Poor." "Can it be true?" cried the priest, clasping his hands with admiration. "Continue, Jacques," said Polidori. The notary proceeded to read with a rapid voice, for the whole scene was odious and hateful to him.
It is as if my eyes were pierced with red-hot needles! Help! help!" cried he, struggling in his bed, a prey to horrible convulsions. Polidori, alarmed at the violence of this attack, extinguished the light. And both were left in utter darkness. At this moment was heard the noise of a carriage, which stopped at the street door.
Yet it was an Italian lyre, and therefore of small avail for amusing Britons. Very naturally, Rossetti made the acquaintance of other refugees, and exile makes fast friends. It is only in prosperity that we throw our friends overboard. He came to know the Polidori family Tuscan refugees proud, intellectual and rich. He loved one of the daughters of Seignior Polidori, and she loved him.
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