_VI.--A Marriage in Venice_


One evening I strayed into a wretched little theatre, where one of
Mercadante's operas was being performed. How can I describe my feelings
when in one of the singers--a slight, ordinary figure, with a thin,
sharp countenance and deeply sunken eyes, in a poor dress, and with a
poorer voice, but still with surprising grace of manner--I recognised
Annunciata? With aching heart I left the theatre, and ascertained
Annunciata's address. She lived in a miserable garret. She turned
deathly pale when she recognised me, and implored me to leave her. "I
come as a friend, as a brother," I said. "You have been ill,
Annunciata!" Then she told me of her illness, four years back, which
robbed her of her youth, her voice, her money, her friends. She implored
me, with a pitiful voice, to leave her. I could not speak. I pressed her
hand to my lips, stammered, "I come--I come again!" and left her.

Next day I called again, and found Annunciata had left, no one knew
whither.

It was a month later that Maria handed me a letter, which had been given
to her for me by a dying person who had sent for her. The letter was
from Annunciata, who was no more. It told me of her happiness at having
seen me once more--told me that she had always loved me; that her pain
at having to part from me had made her conceal her face on what she then
believed to be Bernardo's dead body; told me that it was she who had
sent me those two letters in Naples, who had believed my love was dead,
since I left for Rome without sending her a reply. It told me of her
illness, her years of poverty, and her undying love. And then she wished
me happiness with, as she had been told, the most beautiful and the