Zicci | Page 3

Edward Bulwer Lytton
the body. I went up to him; he could
scarcely speak. 'Have you any request to make,--any affairs to settle?'
He shook his head. 'Where would you wish to be interred?' He pointed
towards the Sicilian coast. 'What!' said I, in surprise, 'not by the side of
your father?' As I spoke, his face altered terribly, he uttered a piercing
shriek; the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell dead. The most
strange part of the story is to come. We buried him in the church of St.
Januario. In doing so, we took up his father's coffin; the lid came off in
moving it, and the skeleton was visible. In the hollow of the skull we
found a very slender wire of sharp steel; this caused great surprise and
inquiry. The father, who was rich and a miser, had died suddenly and
been buried in haste, owing, it was said, to the heat of the weather.
Suspicion once awakened, the examination became minute. The old
man's servant was questioned, and at last confessed that the son had
murdered the sire. The contrivance was ingenious; the wire was so
slender that it pierced to the brain and drew but one drop of blood,
which the gray hairs concealed. The accomplice was executed."
"And this stranger, did he give evidence? Did he account for--"
"No," interrupted the count, "he declared that he had by accident visited

the church that morning; that he had observed the tombstone of the
Count Salvolio; that his guide had told him the count's son was in
Naples,--a spendthrift and a gambler. While we were at play, he had
heard the count mentioned by name at the table; and when the
challenge was given and accepted, it had occured to him to name the
place of burial, by an instinct he could not account for."
"A very lame story," said Merton.
"Yes, but we Italians are superstitious. The alleged instinct was
regarded as the whisper of Providence; the stranger became an object of
universal interest and curiosity. His wealth, his manner of living, his
extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also to make him the
rage."
"What is his name?" asked Glyndon.
"Zicci. Signor Zicci."
"Is it not an Italian name? He speaks English like a native."
"So he does French and German, as well as Italian, to my knowledge.
But he declares himself a Corsican by birth, though I cannot hear of
any eminent Corsican family of that name. However, what matters his
birth or parentage? He is rich, generous, and the best swordsman I ever
saw in my life. Who would affront him?"
"Not I, certainly," said Merton, rising. "Come, Glyndon, shall we seek
our hotel? It is almost daylight. Adieu, signor."
"What think you of this story?" said Glyndon as the young men walked
homeward.
"Why, it is very clear that this Zicci is some impostor, some clever
rogue; and the Neapolitan shares booty, and puffs him off with all the
hackneyed charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown adventurer
gets into society by being made an object of awe and curiosity; he is
devilish handsome; and the women are quite content to receive him

without any other recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa's
fables."
"I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gambler and a rake, is a
nobleman of birth and high repute for courage and honor. Besides, this
stranger, with his grand features and lofty air,--so calm, so
unobtrusive,--has nothing in common with the forward garrulity of an
impostor."
"My dear Glyndon, pardon me, but you have not yet acquired any
knowledge of the world; the stranger makes the best of a fine person,
and his grand air is but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject:
how gets on the love affair?"
"Oh! Isabel could not see me to-night. The old woman gave me a note
of excuse."
"You must not marry her; what would they all say at home?"
"Let us enjoy the present," said Glyndon, with vivacity; "we are young,
rich, good-looking: let us not think of to-morrow."
"Bravo, Glyndon! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep sound, and don't
dream of Signor Zicci."

CHAPTER II.
Clarence Glyndon was a young man of small but independent fortune.
He had, early in life, evinced considerable promise in the art of painting,
and rather from enthusiasm than the want of a profession, he had
resolved to devote himself to a career which in England has been
seldom entered upon by persons who can live on their own means.
Without being a poet, Glyndon had also manifested a graceful faculty
for verse, which had contributed to win his entry into society above his
birth. Spoiled and flattered from his youth upward, his natural talents
were in some measure relaxed
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