Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 445 | Page 7

going; and the
good people of the town made many strange surmises on the subject. In
a week or so, however, a vessel being wrecked in the Straits, furnished
fresh matter of conversation; and all these circumstances became
utterly forgotten, except by a few. 'But this drama was as yet crowned
by no catastrophe,' said the officer, 'and all laws of harmony would be
violated if it ended here.' 'Are you, then, inventing?' inquired I. 'Not at
all,' he replied; 'but destiny is a greater tragedian than Shakspeare, and
prepares dénouements with superior skill.' I listened with increased
interest.
The day after the departure of the married couple, a small boat with a

shoulder-of-mutton sail left the little harbour of Santa Maddalena a
couple of hours before sunset, and with a smart breeze on its quarter,
went bravely out across the Straits. Some folks who were accustomed
to see this manoeuvre had, it is true, shouted out to the only man on
board, warning him that rough weather was promised; but he paid no
heed, and continued on his way. If I were writing a romance, if, indeed,
I had any reasonable space, I would keep up the excitement of curiosity
for some time, describe a variety of terrific adventures unknown to
seamen, and wonderful escapes comprehensible only by landsmen, and
thus make a subordinate hero of the bold navigator. But I must be
content to inform the reader, that he was Paolo, a servant of
Giustiniani's mother, who had lived in perfect retirement since her son's
disappearance, professing to have no news of him. In reality, however,
she knew perfectly well that he had retired to Sardinia, and after
remaining in the interior some time, had established himself in the little
cottage, the ruins of which had attracted my attention. The reason for
his retirement, which he afterwards gave, was that he might be enabled
to resist the temptation to avenge himself on Bartuccio, and, if possible,
conquer his love for Marie. He no longer entertained any hope of
possessing her himself; but he thought that at least she would grow
weary of waiting for the passage of five years, and would marry a
stranger--a consummation sufficiently satisfactory, he thought, to
restore to him his peace of mind. Once a month at least he received,
through the medium of the faithful Paolo, assistance and news from his
mother; and to his infinite discomfiture learned, as time proceeded, that
his enemy, whilom his friend, was to be made happy at last. His rage
knew no bounds at this; and several times he was on the point of
returning to Santa Maddalena, to do the deed of vengeance from which
he had hitherto refrained. However, he resolved to await the expiration
of the five years.
Paolo arrived in safety at the cottage some time after dark, and
communicated the intelligence both of the marriage and the departure
of the family. To a certain extent, both he and the mother of Giustiniani
approved the projects of vengeance entertained by the latter, but
thought that the honour of the family was sufficiently cleared by what
was evidently a flight. Paolo was disappointed and puzzled by the

manner of the unfortunate recluse. Instead of bursting out into furious
denunciations, he became as pale as ashes, and then hiding his face in
his hands, wept aloud. His agony continued for more than an hour; after
which he raised his head, and exhibited a serene brow to the astonished
servitor. 'Let us return to Santa Maddalena,' he said; and they
accordingly departed, leaving the cottage a prey to the storms, which
soon reduced it to ruins, and will probably erelong sweep away every
trace.
Giustiniani reached his mother's house unperceived, and spent many
hours in close conversation with his delighted parent. He did not,
however, shew himself in the town, but departed on the track of the
fugitives the very next day. He traced them to Ajaccio, thence to
Marseille, to Nice, back to Marseille, to Paris, but there he lost the clue.
Several months passed in this way; his money was all spent, and he was
compelled to accept a situation in the counting-house of a merchant of
the Marais, and to give up the chase and the working out of the
catastrophe he had planned for his Vendetta.
A couple of years afterwards, Giustiniani had occasion to go to one of
the towns of the north of France--Lille, I believe. In its neighbourhood,
as my narrator told me--and on him I throw the whole responsibility, if
there seem anything improbable in what is to come--the young man
was once more overtaken by a storm, and compelled to seek refuge in a
cottage, which the gleams of the lightning revealed to him. This time he
was on