“This is an honour highly prized,” said the prince. “I have long desired to clasp the hand of one so distinguished.”
“And I give it in the spirit with which you seek it,” replied Zanoni.
The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still. Zanoni bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air.
“Thus it is signed and sealed; I mean our friendship, noble prince. And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate out pretensions!”
“Ah!” said the prince, carelessly, “you, then, were the cavalier who robbed me of the reward of my chase. All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Reconcile our pretensions! Well, here is the dice-box; let us throw for her. He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim.”
“Is this a decision by which you will promise to be bound?”
“Yes, on my faith.”
“And for him who breaks his word so plighted, what shall be the forfeit?”
“The sword lies next to the dice-box, Signor Zanoni. Let him who stands not by his honour fall by the sword.”
“And you invoke that sentence if either of us fail his word? Be it so; let Signor Mascari cast for us.”
“Well said!—Mascari, the dice!”
The prince threw himself back in his chair; and, world-hardened as he was, could not suppress the glow of triumph and satisfaction that spread itself over his features. Mascari took up the three dice, and rattled them noisily in the box. Zanoni, leaning his cheek on his hand, and bending over the table, fixed his eyes steadfastly on the parasite; Mascari in vain struggled to extricate from that searching gaze; he grew pale, and trembled, he put down the box.
“I give the first throw to your Excellency. Signor Mascari, be pleased to terminate our suspense.”
Again Mascari took up the box; again his hand shook so that the dice rattled within. He threw; the numbers were sixteen.
“It is a high throw,” said Zanoni, calmly; “nevertheless, Signor Mascari, I do not despond.”
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more on the table: the number was the highest that can be thrown—eighteen.
The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth, staring at the dice, and trembling from head to foot.
“I have won, you see,” said Zanoni; “may we be friends still?”
“Signor,” said the prince, obviously struggling with anger and confusion, “the victory is yours. But pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl—will anything tempt you to yield your claim?”
“Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry; and,” resumed Zanoni, with a stern meaning in his voice, “forget not the forfeit your own lips have named.”
The prince knit his brow, but constrained the haughty answer that was his first impulse.
“Enough!” he said, forcing a smile; “I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously; will you favour me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give in honour,” he added, with a sardonic mockery, “of the elevation of my kinsman, the late Cardinal, of pious memory, to the true seat of St. Peter?”
“It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one command of yours I can obey.”
Zanoni then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly, and soon afterwards departed.
“Villain!” then exclaimed the prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, “you betrayed me!”
“I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged; he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that’s the end of it.”
“There is no time to be lost,” said the prince, quitting his hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat.
“My blood is up—I will win this girl, if I die for it! What noise is that?”
“It is but the sword of your illustrious ancestor that has fallen from the table.”
CHAPTER 3.VII.
Il ne faut appeler aucun ordre si ce n’est en tems clair et
serein.
“Les Clavicules du Rabbi Salomon.”
(No order of spirits must be invoked unless the weather be clear
and serene.)
Letter from Zanoni to Mejnour.
My art is already dim and troubled. I have lost the tranquillity which is power. I cannot influence the decisions of those whom I would most guide to the shore; I see them wander farther and deeper into the infinite ocean where our barks sail evermore to the horizon that flies before us! Amazed and awed to find that I can only warn where I would control, I have looked into my own soul. It is true that the desires of earth chain me to the present, and shut me from the solemn secrets which Intellect, purified from all the dross of the clay, alone can examine and survey. The stern condition on which we hold our nobler and diviner gifts darkens our vision towards the future of those for whom we know the human infirmities of jealousy or hate or love. Mejnour, all around me is mist and haze; I have gone back in our sublime existence; and from the bosom of the imperishable youth that blooms only in the spirit, springs up the dark poison-flower of human love.
This man is not worthy of her—I know that truth; yet in his nature are the seeds of good and greatness, if the tares and weeds of worldly vanities and fears would suffer them to grow. If she were his, and I had thus transplanted to another soil the passion that obscures my gaze and disarms my power, unseen, unheard, unrecognised, I could watch over his fate, and secretly prompt his deeds, and minister to her welfare through his own. But time rushes on! Through the shadows that encircle me, I see, gathering round her, the darkest dangers. No choice but flight—no escape save with him or me. With me!—the rapturous thought—the terrible conviction! With me! Mejnour, canst thou wonder that I would save her from myself? A moment in the life of ages—a bubble on the shoreless sea. What else to me can be human love? And in this exquisite nature of hers—more pure, more spiritual, even in its young affections than ever heretofore the countless volumes of the heart, race after race, have given to my gaze: there is yet a deep-buried feeling that warns me of inevitable woe. Thou austere and remorseless Hierophant—thou who hast sought to convert to our brotherhood every spirit that seemed to thee most high and bold—even thou knowest, by horrible experience, how vain the hope to banish fear from the heart of woman.
My life would be to her one marvel. Even if, on the other hand, I sought to guide her path through the realms of terror to the light, think of the Haunter of the Threshold, and shudder with me at the awful hazard! I have endeavoured to fill the Englishman’s ambition with the true glory
