Poggio afterwards told me that she was the queen of beauty in Venice, the podesta’s niece, adored by everybody, but known by few, since the podesta’s house was most exclusive, and received but few guests.  He accounted me the luckiest of mortals when he heard that I had received an invitation from the podesta, and would have a chance of improving my acquaintance with Maria, his beautiful niece.  I was received as if I had been a beloved relative.  Something in Maria’s expression recalled to me the blind beggar-girl Lara; but Maria had eyes with a singularly dark glance of fire.  I became a daily visitor at the podesta’s house, and spent many happy hours in Maria’s company.  Her intellect and charm of character captivated me as much as her beauty.

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 noblest maid in Venice for my bride! ...

In travel I sought forgetfulness and consolation.  I went to Padua, Verona, Milan; but heaviness did not leave my heart.  Then came an irrepressible longing to be back in Venice, to see Maria—­a foreboding of some new misfortune.  I hastened back to Venice.  The podesta received me kindly; but when I inquired after Maria, he seemed to me to become grave, as he told me she had gone to Padua on a short visit.  During supper I fell into a swoon, followed by a violent fever in which I had visions of Maria dead, laid out before an altar.  Then it was Lara I saw on the bier, and I loudly called her by name.  Then everything became bright; a hand passed softly over my head.  I awoke, and found Maria and her aunt by my bedside.