“I could dare everything and all things for
the attainment of superhuman wisdom,” said Glyndon;
and his countenance was lighted up with wild and intense
enthusiasm.
Zicci observed him in thoughtful silence.
“He may be worthy,” he muttered; “he
may, yet—” He broke off abruptly;
then, speaking aloud, “Go, Glyndon,” said
he; “in three days we shall meet again.”
“Where?”
“Perhaps where you can least anticipate.
In any case, we shall meet.”
Glyndon thought seriously and deeply over all that
the mysterious Zicci had said to him relative to Isabel.
His imagination was inflamed by the vague and splendid
promises that were connected with his marriage with
the poor actress. His fears, too, were naturally
aroused by the threat that by marriage alone could
he save himself from the rivalry of Zicci, —Zicci,
born to dazzle and command; Zicci, who united to the
apparent wealth of a monarch the beauty of a god;
Zicci, whose eye seemed to foresee, whose hand to
frustrate, every danger. What a rival, and what
a foe!
But Glyndon’s pride, as well as jealousy, was
aroused. He was brave comme son epee.
Should he shrink from the power or the enmity of a
man mortal as himself? And why should Zicci
desire him to give his name and station to one of
a calling so equivocal? Might there not be motives
he could not fathom? Might not the actress and
the Corsican be in league with each other? Might
not all this jargon of prophecy—and menace
be but artifices to dupe him,—the tool,
perhaps, of a mountebank and his mistress! Mistress,—ah,
no! If ever maidenhood wrote its modest characters
externally, that pure eye, that noble forehead, that
mien and manner so ingenuous even in their coquetry,
their pride, assured him that Isabel was not the base
and guilty thing he had dared for a moment to suspect
her. Lost in a labyrinth of doubts and surmises,
Glyndon turned on the practical sense of the sober
Merton to assist and enlighten him.
As may be well supposed, his friend listened to his
account of his interview with Zicci with a half-suppressed
and ironical smile.
“Excellent, my dear friend! This Zicci
is another Apollonius of Tyana, —nothing
less will satisfy you. What! is it possible that
you are the Clarence Glyndon of whose career such
glowing hopes are entertained,— you the
man whose genius has been extolled by all the graybeards?
Not a boy turned out from a village school but would
laugh you to scorn. And so because Signor Zicci
tells you that you will be a marvellously great man
if you revolt all your friends and blight all your
prospects by marrying a Neapolitan actress, you begin
already to think of— By Jupiter!
I cannot talk patiently on the subject. Let the
girl alone,—that would be the proper plan;
or else—”
“You talk very sensibly,” interrupted
Glyndon, “but you distract me. I will
go to Isabel’s house; I will see her; I will
judge for myself.”
