Chapter 18 haunted house

At the age of twenty-three I set off for Rome.My father gave me a dozen letters of introduction, only one of which was four pages long and sealed.The address read: "To the Marchioness of Aldobrandi." My father said to me: "If the Marchioness still has the charm, you can write to me and tell me." When I was a child I saw hanging over the fireplace in his study a miniature portrait of a very beautiful woman with powdered hair, wearing a wreath of ivy, and a tiger skin over her shoulder.The background of the painting has the words "Rome, 18XX".I thought her dress very strange, and several times I asked who this lady was.I was answered, "She's a slut."

I wasn't satisfied with the answer, and I guessed there must be some secret, because my mother bit her lip and my father looked serious about this simple question. This time, when my father handed me the sealed letter, he stole a glance at the portrait; I did the same involuntarily, thinking that this powdered slut might be the Marquis de Aldobrandi lady.Since my first acquaintance with the world, I have drawn various conclusions from the look of my mother and the look of my father. When I arrived in Rome, the first letter I submitted was to the Marchioness.She lived in a splendid mansion near St. Mark's Square.

I handed the letter and my card to a servant in yellow livery, who led me into a large, dimly lit, gloomy living room with old furniture.Yet in all the splendid mansions of Rome there are pictures of famous painters.There are quite a few in this drawing room, and a few of them stand out in particular. A portrait of a woman was clearly Leonardo da Vinci's at first glance.The picture, in its rich frame and mahogany stand, was without a doubt the chief treasure of the collection.The Marchioness had not yet appeared, and I had ample time to study the picture carefully.I even took the painting near a window so I could look at it in brighter light.It is evident that this is a portrait rather than an imaginary figure, for the artist could not have created such a facial profile: a handsome woman with rather thick lips, eyebrows almost drawn into a line, and eyes that are both haughty and kind.She has her coat of arms in the background and the Duke's Crown on her head.But what surprised me the most was her outfit, which was exactly the same as my father's whore, except that her hair was unpowdered.

I still had the painting in my hand when the Marchioness came in. As she approached me, she exclaimed: "It's just like his father! Ah! You French! French! He grabbed the portrait of "Lady Lucretia" as soon as he arrived." I hastened to apologize for my indiscretion, and then poured out a thousand words in praise of the da Vinci masterpiece I had boldly removed. "This is indeed a Leonardo da Vinci painting," said the Marchioness, "it is Lucretia Boggia (Lucretia Boggia (1480-1519), the illegitimate daughter of Pope Alexander VI). , married three times, supported literature and art, and Hugo wrote the play "Lucretia Boggia" for her.) This famous woman. Of all the paintings in my collection, this is the one that your father admires the most... Oh, good God! How alike you are! I thought I saw my father at twenty-five. How is he? What is he doing? Will he come to Rome someday to see us? "

Even though the Marchioness had no powder or tiger skin, my wits told me at first sight that she was my father's whore.Twenty-five years have passed, but the traces of a great beauty have not been completely disappeared.She just has a different expression and different makeup.She was now clad in black, with a triple chin, a demure smile, and a serious, beaming expression, all of which spoke of a pious woman she had become. She received me with great kindness, and in a few words told me about her house, her income, and her friends, some of whom were cardinals. She said, "Think of me as your mother..."

She lowered her eyes humbly. "My father asked me to take care of you and give you advice." To prove to me that she did not consider her errands merely nominal, she at once began admonishing me that there were many dangers and pitfalls in Rome for a young man of my age which must be avoided as best I could.I should avoid making bad friends, especially artists, and hang out only with those she appoints for me.Anyway, I had a sermon, and I nodded respectfully, answering her with the proper hypocrisy. When I was about to stand up to say goodbye, she said to me: "Unfortunately my eldest son, the Marquis Marquis, is currently at his estate in Rome, but I can introduce you to my second son, Don Otavio, who will soon be bishop. I hope you like him and share his Be friends..."

She hastily added: "Because you are about the same age, he is a gentle and obedient boy, just like you." She sent for Octavio at once.What I saw coming in was a tall, pale young man with a miserable expression, his eyes always drooping, and he was very melancholy. The Marchioness would not allow him to speak, but promised me all kinds of kindness in his name, and every time his mother said a word, he bowed deeply in agreement.We agreed that starting tomorrow, he would take me shopping in town and then drive me back to the Aldobrandi mansion for dinner with the family. I had not gone twenty paces on the road after I had taken my leave, when someone behind me called to me in a dignified voice:

"Don Octavio, where are you alone at this time?" I turned around and saw a fat priest, his eyes wide open, carefully studying me from head to toe. I said to him, "I am not Don Otavio." The priest bowed deeply to me and kept apologizing, and after a while I saw him enter the Aldobrandi mansion.I continued on my way, a little smug at being mistaken for the future bishop. I disregarded the Marchioness's warning, perhaps because of her warning, which made me anxious to find a painter I knew.I spent an hour with him in his studio, and we talked about what kind of entertainment Rome could offer me, legal or not.Then I talked about Aldobrandi.

The painter said to me: "The Marchioness had a dissolute life, and then she realized that she had passed the age of conquering men, so she became very religious and very devout. Her eldest son was an ignorant fellow, and the whole His day was devoted to hunting and collecting the rents from the tenant farmers on his vast estate. Now they are raising their second son, Don Otavio, to be a fool who they hope will one day be a cardinal. He is currently in Watched by the Jesuits. He was never allowed to go out alone. He was forbidden to look at women, and he was followed at every step by the priest, the last friend of the Marquise's family, who was responsible for training him for the service of God; now the priest presides over the family , with almost the powers of an absolute tyrant."

The next day Don Octavio came to see me in a carriage, accompanied by Father Nagroni, who had mistook me for Octavio yesterday, and they offered to be my guide. The first building we stopped at was a church.Don Otavio, imitating the priest, knelt down, clapped his hands on his chest (hands clapped his chest to express repentance.), and made countless crosses.After standing up, he pointed out those murals and statues to me, and discussed with me, he looked like a normal person and an expert.This surprised and pleased me at the same time.We started chatting, and his talk pleased me.We speak Italian.Suddenly he spoke to me in French:

"My governess does not understand your language. Let us speak French, which will be more free." It can be said that changing the language changed the young man.There was nothing priestly in his words.I thought I was hearing a Liberal from our provinces.I noticed that when he spoke, his tone was flat and his voice was monotonous, in sharp contrast to the intensity with which he used words.It was a habit he used to confuse Nagroni; Nagroni now and then asked us to explain what we were saying.Of course, our translation is very free. We saw passing a young man in purple stockings. Don Octavio said to me: "He is one of our aristocrats today. Nasty uniform! I will be wearing such a uniform in a few months!" After a moment of silence he added: " What a blessing to live in a country like yours! If I were French, maybe one day I would be a senator!" I couldn't help laughing at his noble ambition, and the priest noticed it, and I had to explain to him that we were talking about an archaeologist who made a mistake and turned Benin (Benin (1598-1680), the famous Italian Sculptor, architect, painter, playwright and poet.) statues made are considered antiquities. We went back to the Aldobrandi mansion for dinner.After drinking the coffee, the Marchioness followed me and apologized for her son, who had to go back to his bedroom for some religious ceremonies, and I was alone with her and Nagroni, while the priest fell On a big sofa, he fell asleep like a person who did nothing wrong. The Marchioness asked me in detail about my father, and about Paris, about my past life, and about my future plans.I found her friendly and kind, but a little overly curious, especially about my future.She speaks Italian very well.I learned a lot of pronunciation from her, and I am determined to review it often. I visit her often.Almost every morning, I went to visit the monuments with his son and Nagroni who never left. In the evening, I had dinner with them at the Aldobrandi mansion. Is a member of the church. But once, she introduced me to a German lady, a close friend of the Marchioness, a recently converted Catholic, also very pretty, named Stralenheim, who had lived in Rome for a long time.The two ladies were discussing a famous preacher, and I studied the portrait of Lucretia by the light, and when I thought I should speak, I said aloud: "The eyes are so lifelike! You can almost say that the eyelids are about to move." I said this somewhat exaggerated sentence in order to establish myself as a connoisseur in front of Mrs. Stralenheim, but after hearing this, Mrs. Stralenheim trembled with fear, And covered his face with a handkerchief. "My dear, what's the matter with you?" asked the Marchioness. "Ah! Nothing, just what the gentleman said just now..." People stared at her and asked questions, and when she told us that my remark brought back a terrible memory in her, she was obliged to tell it. The outline of the story is as follows: Frau Stralenheim had a sister-in-law named Wilhelmina, who was engaged to a young man in Westphalia, Julius de Katzenelenberger, who was in Volunteer under General Kleist.I really hate to say this long and awkward list of names, but good stories always follow hard names, so it has to be. Julius is a lovely young man full of patriotism and fantasy.On the eve of joining the army, he gave Wilhelmina a photo of himself, and Wilhelmina also gave him one of himself, which he kept hidden in his chest.This is common in Germany. On September 13th, 1813, Wilhelmina was in Kassel, at five o'clock in the afternoon, knitting with her mother and sister-in-law in a drawing room.While she was knitting, she was looking at the photo of her fiancé on a female red table opposite her.Suddenly, she uttered a startling cry, covered her chest with her hands, and passed out.With great difficulty they brought her back to consciousness, and as soon as she could speak she opened her mouth and cried out: "Julius is dead! Julius has been beaten to death!" She was sure it was true, and the state of terror in her body also proved that she was not lying. She said that she saw the eyes of the people in the photos closed, and at the same time she felt a great pain in her chest, as if a piece of red-hot iron was piercing through it. through her heart. It was no use trying to prove to her that her hallucinations were not real and that she should not take them seriously.The poor girl was beyond consolation.She shed tears all night, and the next day she insisted on wearing filial piety, as if the disaster revealed to her had been confirmed. Two days later, news of the bloody battle at Leipzig was received.Julius wrote a letter to his fiancée, dated at 3:00 p.m. on the thirteenth. He was uninjured, and he had just entered Leipzig. He was going to spend the night in the base camp, so he was away from everything. dangerous.This reassuring letter did not appease the grief of Wilhelmina, who said that she had written it at three o'clock in the afternoon, and that she believed her fiancé died at five o'clock. The unfortunate girl was not mistaken.Soon I got news that Julius was in charge of conveying an order. He left Leipzig at 4:30, walked a few kilometers, passed Elster, and was shot by an enemy straggler who was ambushing in a ditch. Killed.The bullet pierced the heart and shattered Wilhelmina's photograph. I asked Madame de Strallenheim: "What happened to the poor girl?" "Ah! She has been very ill. Now she is married to the magistrate at Vernet, and if you go to Dessau she will show you the photograph of Julius." The priest was half asleep while Frau Stralenheim was telling the story, when he broke in and said: "It was all made by the devil. If someone can make a pagan god appear, he Of course it is also possible to open and close the eyes in the photo when needed. Twenty years ago in Tivoli (Tivoli is an Italian city.) An Englishman was strangled to death by a stone statue." I exclaimed: "By a stone statue? How could it be?" "He was an English gentleman who was digging antiquities in Tivoli. He dug up a stone statue of a queen, it didn't matter whether the queen was Agley or Missalina. He carried the stone home. , looked at her and admired her all day, and fell madly in love with her. Those Protestant gentlemen are almost all crazy. He called the statue my wife, my wife, although the statue was made of marble, he Kissed her. He said the statue came alive to sleep with him every night. And one morning the gentleman was found dead in his bed. Do you believe that? Another Englishman bought the statue. As for me , I'd rather it be a lime statue." Once people talk about ghosts and gods, they can't stop talking.Everyone has a ghostly story to tell.I joined in the chorus of the horror story; by the time we parted we were each quite agitated and filled with reverence for the devil. I walked back to my apartment, and in order to get to Corso Street, I walked through a winding alley, which I had never walked before.There was no one in the alley.All I saw along the way was the long garden wall on both sides and some small houses, none of which were lit.The clock had just struck midnight, and it was pitch black.I was walking in the middle of the road, walking very fast, when suddenly I heard a "tsk" sound above my head, and at the same time a rose fell to my feet.I raised my eyes, and despite the gloom, I could see a woman in white in the upstairs window, with her arms outstretched towards me.We French are very advantageous in foreign countries, our fathers conquered Europe, and for the dignity of the country created us some pleasing traditions.I sincerely believe that a German woman, a Spanish woman, or an Italian woman, will burn with love just by seeing a French man.In short, I was French in those days, and didn't that rose speak for itself? I picked up the roses and whispered: "Ma'am, your flowers have fallen..." But the woman had long since disappeared, and the window was closed without a sound.I just did what anyone would do in my situation.I searched for the nearest gate, and I found it, two steps from the window, and I waited for someone to open it for me.Five minutes passed in deep silence.So I coughed softly and knocked on the door lightly, but the door never opened.I looked carefully, hoping to find a key or a bolt, and to my great surprise I found that the door was locked with a padlock. I thought to myself: "So the jealous husband hasn't come home yet." I picked up a small stone and threw it towards the window.The stone hit a windbreak, bounced back, and landed at my feet. I thought to myself, "Do women in Rome think that men carry ladders in their pockets? This custom has never been mentioned to me." I waited a few more minutes, with no result at all.Only once or twice I seemed to see the shutter quiver slightly, as if someone inside wanted to push it open to see what was going on in the street.After another quarter of an hour, my patience had reached its limit, I lit a cigar, and continued on my way, silently memorizing the direction of the house with the padlock. The next day, pondering over this miracle, I came to the following conclusion: A young Roman woman, presumably beautiful, saw me while I was running around town shopping, and fell in love with my beauty. style.The reason why she gave me a mysterious flower to express her love for me was because she was shy, or she was caught by an old chaperone.I resolved to formally surround the house where a princess lived. With this good plan in mind, I brushed my hair pretentiously and walked out of the apartment.I put on my new dress and yellow gloves.After I was dressed up, I pulled down my hat, pinned the withered rose on the button, and walked towards the alley whose name I still don't know.I had no trouble finding the name of the alley.A sign pinned to a Madonna tells me it's called Lady Lucretia's Alley. The name surprised me.Immediately I thought of the portrait of Leonardo da Vinci, and also of the strange and strange stories that were told at the Marchioness's house last night.And then I thought of a match made in heaven.Why can't my partner be called Lucretia?Why not like Lucretia in the Aldobrandi Gallery? It was broad daylight, and I was only two steps away from that beauty. Although I was emotional, I didn't have any ominous thoughts. I came to the door of the house.The house number is thirteen.It's a bad omen...it's a far cry from what I saw last night.It is not a palace at all, not at all.What I saw was a wall that had grown black with age and was covered with moss, behind which protruded from some fruit trees that had not been properly cleared.In a corner of the wall, there stands a two-story house with two windows facing the street. The outside is closed with a windproof board, and there are countless iron bars outside the board. Coat of arms, and the door was locked with a large padlock with chains just like last night.Written in chalk on the door: The old house is for sale, lease is also available. I am not mistaken, this end of the alley is quite rare, and it is impossible to make a mistake. This is indeed the padlock I have seen, and there are two rose petals near the gate, which proves that this is the flower I received for the beauty. Show me the exact spot of love and proof that no one has cleaned the front of the house yet. I went to ask the poor people in the neighborhood where the gatekeeper who guarded the mysterious dwelling lived. People answered me rudely: "I don't live here." My question seemed to annoy the person being asked, which aroused my curiosity all the more.I inquired from house to house, and at last found a dark cellar in which lived an old woman who might have been suspected of being a witch, for she had a black cat and was cooking something in a large cauldron. She said: "Would you like to see Lady Lucretia's house? I have the key." "Then, take me to see." "Would you like to rent it?" she asked, smiling suspiciously. "Yes, if appropriate." "You wouldn't think it right. Would you tip me for showing you the house?" "I am willing to." With these words as a guarantee, she quickly stood up from her small bench, took off a rusty key from the wall, and led me to the door of No. 13 room. I asked her, "Why do people call this house Lucretia's house?" The old woman smiled and said: "Why do people call you a foreigner? Isn't it because you are a foreigner?" "Even if it is, but who is this Lady Lucretia? Is she a Roman lady?" "What! You've come to Rome, and you haven't heard of Lady Lucretia! I'll tell you about her when we're inside the house. Here's another strange thing that I don't know." What's the matter with the key, it won't turn. Try it yourself." In fact, the padlock and the key have not been seen for a long time.Afterwards, after three curses and gnashing of teeth, I managed to turn the key, but I had torn my yellow gloves and dislocated my palm.We entered a dim passage leading into several low halls. The strangely wainscoted ceiling is covered with cobwebs, and traces of gold paint can be discerned under the webs.All the rooms had a musty smell and it was obvious that no one had lived in them for a long time.There was not a single piece of furniture, and strands of old fur hung down along the tanned walls.From the carvings on several brackets and the shape of the fireplace, I concluded that the house was a fifteenth-century building, and that it had probably been beautifully furnished in the past.The window held small cubes of roses, most of which were broken, and the window faced the garden, where I saw a rose in bloom, several fruit trees, and countless broccoli. After walking through the downstairs rooms, I went up to the second floor, where I saw the beautiful woman.The old woman tried to prevent me from going upstairs, telling me that there was nothing to see upstairs, and that the stairs were broken.I insisted on going upstairs, so she had no choice but to follow me, with an obvious reluctance on her face.The upstairs rooms were like the others, except that they were less damp, and the floors and windows were in better condition.I walked into the last room and found a strange thing. There was a big black leather sofa with no dust at all.I sat down, and found it very comfortable to sit and listen to stories, and begged the old woman to tell me something about Madame Lucretia; and to refresh her memory, I tipped her a little before she spoke.She coughed, blew her nose, and began: "In the days of the heathen, the Emperor was Alexander, and he had a daughter who was as beautiful as a flower, and they called her Lady Lucretia. You see, here she is..." I turned around quickly.The old woman pointed out to me a carved bracket that supported the main beam of the room.There is a rough-carved alluring woman on the pedestal. The old woman continued: "She is a playful woman. She was afraid that her father would scold her, so she asked someone to build our house. "Every evening she comes down the Quirinale to have fun here. She stands by this window, and when she sees a knight as handsome as you, sir, go by in the street, she calls him upstairs, and as for what Receive him, as you can imagine. But men are talkative, at least some of them are, and if they get out, it may affect her reputation. So she made a rule. Whenever she was with her lover After parting, her armed squires waited on the stairs, the one we just came up. They chopped up the lover into a meat paste, and buried them in the cauliflower field. If you don't believe it, the bones of the dead can be dug up in this garden! "This practice continued for quite some time. One evening her brother-in-law, Sisto Tarquino (the old woman compared Lucretia Boggia with another Roman lady, Lucretia (unknown, died in 509 BC). The husband of the latter was Tarquino Coradin. According to legend, Sixto Tarquino, son of the haughty Tarquino, the last king of Rome, fell madly in love with Lucretia, raped her, and she committed suicide. Her husband gathered like-minded friends, overthrew the Roman Kingdom, and established a republic. She and Lucretia Boggia, except for the same name, are completely different Irrelevant.), walked under the window. She didn't know him. She called to him, and he went upstairs. The cats are all gray at night, and it's hard to tell who is who. Her brother-in-law is like everyone else Killed. But he left behind a handkerchief with his name on it. "As soon as she found out what they had done, she despaired. She quickly untied her garter, and hung herself from this beam. A good lesson for young men!" The old woman got the times all wrong in her narration and confused Tarquino with Boja, at this point my eyes were on the floor where I had just spotted a few fresh rose petals and it got me thinking . I asked the old woman, "Who is in charge of this garden?" "My son, sir, is the gardener of our neighbor, Mr. Vanozzi, whose garden is our neighbor. The owner of the garden lives in Marem all the year round and rarely comes to Rome. This is the garden The reason for the mismanagement." She added with a sigh, "My son is with him and I'm afraid they won't be back anytime soon." "Is he busy with Mr. Vanozzi?" "Ah! He's a queer man, and he's got a lot to do with my son... I'm afraid something bad is going to happen... Ah! my poor son!" She took a step towards the door, as if wanting to break the conversation. I stopped her and asked, "Isn't anyone living here?" "Not a single person." "why?" She shrugged. I gave her a dollar and said to her, "Listen to me and tell me the truth. A woman came here." "A woman, Lord Jesus!" "Yes, I saw it last night. I spoke to her." "Holy Mother!" cried the old woman, rushing up the stairs. "Is it Madame Lucretia? Go, go, good sir! I have been told that her ghost appears at night, and I do not want to tell you, lest the landlord be hurt, because I believe you really want to rent the house." house." I can't keep her.She left the house in a hurry, and, according to her, she wanted to hasten to offer a candle in the nearest church. I walked out myself; letting her go, regretting not getting more out of her mouth. Everyone guessed that I would not tell my story at the Aldobrandi mansion: the Marchioness was too serious and Don Octavio was too politically involved to say anything good about my story. suggestion.I then went to my painter, who knew every inch of Rome, and asked him what he thought of the matter. He said: "I think you saw the ghost of Lucretia Borgia. What a risk you have taken! She was a danger in life, and now that she is dead, do you think it will be better? It is simply It makes people shiver." "No kidding, what the hell is going on here?" "That is to say, sir, you are an atheist and a philosopher, and don't believe in ghosts. Very well; then tell me another hypothesis. Suppose the old woman rents her house to women who can call passers-by." Upstairs, there are quite a few pretty immoral old ladies in that business." I said: "Very well, do I look so saintly that old women won't serve me? It would hurt my self-respect. And, my dear, think of the furniture in the house. Demons are not content with just a sofa." "So, there is no doubt that a ghost has appeared. Wait a minute, and one last hypothesis. You may have mistaken the house. Good God! I remember, a garden nearby, a low gate? ...that is the house of my good friend Rosina. For eighteen months she has been the ornament of this alley. Although she lost an eye, it is only a trivial matter ... She is very beautiful from the side .” None of these explanations satisfies me.After nightfall, I walked slowly past Lucretia's house.I don't see anything.I went again, still nothing.After that, for three or four nights in a row, after I came out of the Aldobrandi mansion, I always stood under the window of the house, but to no avail.I slowly forgot about the mysterious woman in house thirteen.But one night, when I was walking through the alley at midnight, I clearly heard the low laughter of a woman from behind the window, where the woman throwing flowers appeared.Twice I heard this low laugh, and I could not help being frightened, when I saw a procession of hooded penitents coming out from the other end of the alley, each holding a candle, and carrying a dead man for burial.After they had passed, I took up my post under the window again, but I heard nothing.I tried to throw stones, I even yelled clearly, but no one came, and suddenly there was a heavy rain, forcing me to retreat. I am ashamed to say how many times I have stood in front of this accursed house without being able to solve the charades that tormented me.Once, I walked through the alley of Madame Lucretia with Don Octavio and his priest who never left. I said, "This is Lucretia's house." I saw Octavio's face change. He replied: "Yes, a very dubious folklore that Lucretia Boja's little house is here. If the walls could talk, what atrocities would they tell us! But, my friend, I take This age is compared with ours, and I regret the passing of this age. Under Alexander VI, there were Romans. Now there are no more. Caesar Boggia was a devil and a great man at the same time He wanted to drive the barbarians out of Italy, and if his father had lived then, he might have accomplished this great project. Ah! if God would give us a tyrant like Boggia, and let him drive us from liberated from the tyrannical bondage of man." Don Octavio couldn't keep his mouth shut when he talked about politics.We have come to People's Square, and his praise of enlightened despots is not finished.We are too far from my Lucretia. One evening, when I called on the Marchioness very late, she told me that her son was unwell, and begged me to come upstairs and see him.I saw him lying on the bed fully clothed, reading a French newspaper which I had brought him this morning, carefully hidden in the church priest's anthology.For some time now the priest's anthology has served as our means of transport, and we have had to hide our deliveries of newspapers and books from the priest and the Marchioness.On the days when the French mail arrives, I am always brought a folio book, and I return one with a newspaper in it, lent to me by the secretary of the embassy.This made the Marchioness and her governess think that I was a devout Christian, and the priest sometimes wanted to ask me to talk about theology. I talked to Don Octavio for a while, and noticing that he was so excited that even subjects like politics could not hold his attention, I advised him to undress and go to bed and say goodbye to him.It was cold and I was not wearing a cape.Don Ottavio insisted on my wearing his; I accepted, and asked him how to wear a cloak like a true Roman, which is a rather difficult art to learn. I came out of the Aldobrandi mansion very warmly wrapped in the cloak that covered me up to my nose.I had just taken a few steps on the sidewalk in St. Mark's Square when I was approached and handed a crumpled piece of paper by a commoner, whom I had seen sitting on a bench in front of the mansion. He said to me: "For the love of God, please read this letter." Then he turned and ran away without a trace. I took the letter and found some light to read it.In front of a statue of the Madonna I found a burning lamp, by which I could see that the letter was written in pencil and seemed to come from trembling hands.It was with great difficulty that I deciphered the following words: I exclaimed: "Lucretia! It's Lucretia again! What mysterious ghost lurks in all this? 'Don't come tonight', but my beauty, what road must I take to get to you ?” While I was pondering the content of this letter, I walked into Lady Lucretia's alley without knowing it. After a while, I was standing in front of the house number 13. The streets were as deserted as ever, and the deep silence was disturbed only by the sound of my footsteps.我停下来，抬头望着那扇熟悉的窗户。这一次，我没有弄错，护窗板分开了。 那扇窗子大大地打开了。 我似乎看见一个人影在房间的黑暗背景上显现出来。 我低声问：“卢克蕾蒂亚，是您吗？” 没有回答，我只听见喀哒一声，起初我还没弄明白是什么声音。 我稍为抬高了声音又问：“是您吗，卢克蕾蒂亚？” 说时迟那时快，我的胸口遭到了可怕的一击，枪声响了，我躺倒在铺路石上。 一个粗野的嗓音冲着我大喊： “这是卢克蕾蒂亚夫人送给你的礼物！” 护窗板毫无声息地又关上了。 我挣扎着站了起来，起初我摸了摸胸口，以为肚子里一定出现了一个大洞。谁知斗篷穿了洞，上衣也是，可是子弹被厚呢的皱褶减轻了力量，我只得到严重的挫伤。 我害怕第二颗子弹不等自来，马上爬到这间不友好的房子的另一边，贴着墙壁走，使人无法瞄准我。 我尽快地离开，还在气喘吁吁，这时一个在我后面我无法看到的人抓住我的臂膀，很关心地问我是不是受伤了。 听声音我认出是唐·奥塔维奥。这不是对他提出问题的时候，不管我多么惊讶会在晚上的这时候看见他单独一个人在街上。我简单地告诉他人家刚从一个窗口打了我一枪，我只受了伤。 他惊叫起来：“完全是误会！可是我听见有人来了。您能行走吗？如果被人发现我们两个在一起，我就完了。不过我绝不抛弃您。” 他挽住我的臂膀拉着我快走。我们走着，不，我们尽我可能奔跑着，不一会儿，我不得不坐在一块界石上休息，喘一口气。 幸运的是，我们到了一所大公馆附近，公馆里正在举行舞会。大门口停了不少马车。唐·奥塔维奥找了一辆出租马车，把我扶上去，一直送我到旅馆。我喝了一大杯水，情绪还不能平静，我详详细细地告诉他我在这所凶宅前面所遇到的一切，从那枝玫瑰花一直到那颗铅弹为止。 他低着头听我叙述，一只手遮住半边脸。我给他看我收到的字条时，他一把抢过去，急急忙忙地读了，又喊起来： “天大的误会！可怕的误会！” 我对他说：“亲爱的，您会同意这场误会对我对您都是不愉快的。人家差点儿杀掉我，对您却在您的漂亮斗篷上打穿了十到十二个洞。该死！您的同胞真是妒忌得可以！” 唐·奥塔维奥愁眉苦脸地紧紧握着我的手，把字条又念了一遍，没有回答我。 我对他说：“请您解释一下这整个事件，我一点也弄不懂。” He shrugged. 我对他说：“起码您得告诉我，我应该怎样做？在你们这座圣城里，我应该向谁申请来处罚这位先生，他不分青红皂白对着路人就打枪。我得向您承认我很高兴看见他被吊死。” 他大声说：“您千万不能这样做！您不理解这个国家。对已经发生的事不要向任何人提起。您会连累您自己的。” “怎么？连累我自己？见鬼！我还要报复呢。如果我得罪了一个粗野的家伙，我就无话可说了；可是我只捡起一朵玫瑰花……凭良心说，他不应赏我一颗子弹。” 唐·奥塔维奥说：“让我来吧，也许我可以弄清这个谜。可是我求求您，作为恩典，作为您对我的友谊的证明，这件事不要告诉任何人。您能答应吗？” 他求我的时候神气十分凄苦，使得我没有勇气拒绝，我答应了他的要求。他向我千恩万谢，他亲自在我胸口上贴上科隆香水敷料以后，同我握手道别。 他打开房门正要走出去的时候，我问他：“顺便问一句，您怎么会在这儿的？您怎么会刚好到来帮助我的？” 他有点窘态地回答道：“我听见了一下枪声，马上走了出来，我害怕您遭到不幸。” 他再一次叮嘱我严守秘密以后，就匆匆忙忙地离去。 第二天早上，一个外科医生来看我，毫无疑问是唐·奥塔维奥请来的。他给我开了一个使用糊剂的方子，却没有问我的脸又青又肿的原因。在罗马人人都能守口如瓶，我也很想入乡随俗。 几天过去了，我还没有机会同唐·奥塔维奥畅谈一次。他很忙，比平时更阴沉，似乎在躲避我的提问。在我同他共处的短短时间里，他从来没有提起过卢克蕾蒂亚夫人胡同的古怪住客。庆祝他的圣职受任礼的日期越来越近了，我认为他的郁郁不乐是因为他不愿意被人强迫他选择这种职业。 至于我，我准备离开罗马到佛罗伦萨去。我向阿尔多布兰迪侯爵夫人宣布我要走时，唐·奥塔维奥用一个借口就把我带到楼上他的房间里去。 在那里，他抓住我的两只手，对我说： “亲爱的朋友，如果您不同意我的请求，我只有自杀了，因为我没有别的方法可以摆脱窘境。我已经下定决心，永远不穿那件他们迫我穿的丑恶神父服。我想离开这个国家。我要向您请求的，就是带着我一起走。您可以把我当做您的仆人。只要在您的护照上加上一句话，我就很容易逃走了。” 我起先还用他会使他母亲伤心为理由，要他放弃这样的计划；后来我发现他的决心完全不可动摇，最后我答应带他一起走，同时更改一下我的护照。 他说：“这还没有完。我的逃走要看我办的一件事成功与否。您准备后天动身。后天，我也许已经成功了，那时候，我就完全听您的了。” 我带点不安地问：“您难道那么傻，会卷进一场叛国阴谋里去吗？” 他回答道：“不会，我这件事涉及的利益，没有祖国的命运那么严重，但也相当严重，因为这件事成功与否，影响到我的生命和幸福。现在我再也不能告诉您什么，再过两天，您就会知道一切。” 我已经习惯于神神秘秘了，我不再追问下去。我们商量好。清晨三时我们动身，一路上不停留，一直到过了托斯卡纳边界才停下来。 我相信这么早就要动身，睡觉是不必要的了，我就利用我在罗马的最后一个晚上去拜访所有接待过我的人家。到侯爵夫人家辞行，我紧紧握住她儿子的手，无论是礼节上或者形式上我都要这样做。我发觉他的手在我的手里哆嗦着，他低声对我说： “现在是决定我生或死的时刻。您回到旅馆里可以收到我的一封信，如果过了三点我还不到您那儿，您就不必再等我了。” 他的脸色变化使我惊异；可是我只当做是很自然的事，他要离开家庭了，也许一去而不复返，感情激动是必然的。 将近一点钟时，我回寓所。我想再走一次那条卢克蕾蒂亚胡同。我看见那扇窗下面悬吊着白色的东西，就是这个窗口，我两次看见两个多么不同的幽灵出现。我小心翼翼地走近来。那白色的东西是一条打了许多结的绳子。这是不是邀请我去同贵妇告别呢？看样子十分像，诱惑非常有力。可是我不上当，我记起了我对唐·奥塔维奥的诺言，而且不得不说明白，几天以前，我的不那么大胆的行动，尚且引起了一场不愉快的接待，我不得不引以为戒。 我继续赶我的路，可是我走得很慢，我为失掉最后一次机会，不能探知十三号房屋的秘密而感到痛心。我一步一回头，希望能看到有人挽着绳子下落。什么也没有出现。最后我到了胡同的尽头，马上就要进入科索了。 我脱下帽子向那所我还看得见的房子挥了挥说：“再见吧，卢克蕾蒂亚夫人。找另外一个人去帮助您报复那个把您关起来的吃醋丈夫吧。” 我走进旅馆时正好敲响两点。马车已经停好在院子里，行李都装好了。旅馆的一个侍者递给我一封信，那是唐·奥塔维奥的信，我觉得信很长，就想留着回到卧房时再看。我叫侍者为我照明。 侍者对我说：“先生，您对我们说过的那个仆人，要同先生一起出门的那个……” "Is he here?" "No, sir..." “他一定是在驿站里，准备同马一起来。” “先生，刚才来了一位夫人，她要同先生的仆人谈话。她一定要上楼到先生的房间里，她还叮嘱我一等先生的仆人到来，马上告诉他说卢克蕾蒂亚夫人在先生的房间里等他。” “在我的房间里？”我喊起来，用力抓住楼梯的栏杆。 “是的，先生。看样子她也动身，因为她给了我一个包裹，我已经放在行李箱里。” 我的心猛烈地跳动。我也说不出我被一种什么样的迷信恐怖和好奇混合起来的心理攫住了。我一级一级地走上楼梯。到了二楼（我住在三楼）在我前面的侍者一失足踏了个空，手里拿着的蜡烛跌落到地上，熄灭了。他对我频频道歉，下楼去重新点燃蜡烛。我却继续上楼。 我的手已经碰到房间的钥匙。I hesitated.什么样的鬼魂要在我的眼前出现呢？在黑暗中不止一次，我想起了血淋淋的修女的故事。难道我也像唐·阿隆索一样被魔鬼附身了吗？我觉得侍者迟迟不上来。 我打开房门。Thank goodness!我的卧房里有灯光。我迅速地越过卧房前面的小客厅。只看一眼就足够证实我的卧房里一个人也没有。可是我马上就听见我背后有轻微的脚步声和女人衣裙的窸窣声。我的头发根根竖起。我猛然间回过头来。 一个穿白衣服的女人，头上盖着黑纱巾，伸出两条臂膀向我走过来。她抓住我的手喊道： “你终于来了，我最亲爱的人！” 她的手冷如冰，面色像个死人，我一直后退到墙边。 “圣母啊，不是他！……啊，先生，您是唐·奥塔维奥的朋友吧？” 听了这句话，一切都明白了。眼前这位年轻的妇女，尽管脸色苍白，一点不像鬼魂。她低垂双眼，鬼魂是不会这样做的，她的双手交叉搁在腰带上，这是谦逊的态度，这使我相信我的朋友唐·奥塔维奥不是我想象中一个伟大的政治家。总之，同卢克蕾蒂亚私奔现在正是大好时光，可惜我在这件事当中只担任了一个心腹亲信的角色。 一分钟以后，化了装的奥塔维奥来了。马儿也来了，我们立即动身。卢克蕾蒂亚没有护照，可是一个女人，尤其是漂亮的女人，是不会引起怀疑的。可是一个边防警察却也为难我们。我称赞他是一个勇士，肯定在伟大的拿破仑麾下服过役。他说我说得对。我送给他一个伟大拿破仑的金像，又说我的习惯是偕同一个女朋友一起旅行，做我的旅伴，考虑到我经常更换旅伴，我认为没有必要将旅伴的名字写在护照上。 我又补充说：“这一位旅伴陪我到最近的城市里去，有人告诉我说，在那里可以找到更漂亮的。” 他对我说：“您要更换旅伴就错了，这一个够好的了。”他恭恭敬敬地关了车门。 夫人，如果您要听整个故事的话，我就告诉您吧！这个该死的唐·奥塔维奥认识了这位可爱的美人，她是一个有钱的农民瓦诺齐的妹妹；瓦诺齐名声不怎么好，有点自由主义思想，经常有走私活动。唐·奥塔维奥明知道，纵使他的家庭不强迫他进修道院，也绝对不会让他娶一个家庭条件远不如他家的姑娘做妻子。 爱情是能创造发明的。纳格罗尼神父的弟子设法建立了同爱人秘密通信的办法。每天晚上，他溜出阿尔多布兰迪公馆，由于害怕翻墙进入瓦诺齐的房子不安全，两个情人想出了在卢克蕾蒂亚夫人的房子里幽会的办法，这所房子的凶宅名声可以保护他们。贴邻的两个花园有一道小门可以相通，一棵矮小的无花果树遮住了这扇门。卢克蕾蒂亚和奥塔维奥年纪轻又在热恋中，都不在乎家具的缺少，我说过，全部家具只有一张旧的皮沙发。 一天晚上，在等待唐·奥塔维奥的时候，卢克蕾蒂亚把我当做是他，送给我那株玫瑰花，我代他捡了回去。的确，从身材和姿态上看，唐·奥塔维奥同我有相似的地方，几个在罗马认识我父亲的爱讲人坏话的人，就说是我了。后来卢克蕾蒂亚的哥哥发现了秘密，可是无论他怎样威吓，卢克蕾蒂亚也不肯说出男方的名字，这才发生了在我身上报复的一幕。至于后来一对恋人怎样私奔，就不用我说了。 结论。——我们三个人到达了佛罗伦萨。唐·奥塔维奥同卢克蕾蒂亚结了婚，马上动身到巴黎去了。我的父亲接待他们，像我在这里受到侯爵夫人的接待一样。父亲还负责帮助他们家庭和解，他费了很大的劲才做到了。阿尔多布兰迪侯爵恰巧在这时染上了热病，死了。奥塔维奥继承了他的爵位和遗产，我当上了他们的第一个孩子的教父。