The Viccolo of Madam Lucrezia

At twenty-three, I set out for Rome. My father handed me a dozen letters of introduction, one of which, four pages long, was sealed and addressed to the Marquise Aldobrandi.

"You must write and tell me if the Marquise is still beautiful," he said. From my earliest childhood, I had seen above the mantelpiece in his study a miniature of a very lovely woman, with powdered hair crowned with ivy and a tiger skin draped over her shoulder. Beneath it was the inscription, "Roma, 18--." The oddness of her attire had often prompted me to ask who she was, but the only answer I ever received was, "She is a bacchante." That reply hardly satisfied my curiosity; I even suspected a hidden secret, for my mother would press her lips together and my father's brow would furrow at my question. When he gave me the sealed letter, he glanced furtively at the portrait, and I did the same, a sudden idea striking me that the powdered bacchante might well be the Marquise Aldobrandi. My understanding of the world had grown, and I drew my own conclusions from my parents' looks.

Upon reaching Rome, I delivered the Marquise's letter first. She lived in a beautiful palace near the square of Saint-Mark. A servant in yellow livery led me into a vast, gloomy room, sparsely furnished, though it was adorned with numerous old masters, several of which were remarkable. The first I examined was a woman's portrait that I took for a Leonardo da Vinci; its magnificent frame and rosewood easel marked it as the collection's pride. As the Marquise delayed, I had ample time to study it, even lifting it to a window for better light. The face was striking—beautiful, with full lips, nearly joined eyebrows, and an expression both haughty and endearing. Beneath was a coat of arms topped by a ducal coronet. What struck me most was the dress, which, down to the powder, matched that of my father's bacchante. I was still holding the portrait when the Marquise entered, exclaiming, "Exactly like his father! Ah, you French!

Hardly arrived and already seizing upon Madam Lucrezia!" I apologized for my impertinence and praised the masterpiece, but she assured me it was indeed a Leonardo, a portrait of the infamous Lucrezia Borgia, and that my father had admired it above all her pictures. She marvelled at my resemblance to him, asking after his health. Though she now wore no tiger skin nor powdered hair, I immediately recognized her as my father's bacchante. Twenty-five years had not entirely erased her great beauty; only her expression and dress had changed, for she was clad entirely in black, with a treble chin and a grave yet radiant smile that revealed her newfound piety. She welcomed me warmly, offering her home, purse, and friends, among them several cardinals.

"Look upon me as your mother," she said, lowering her eyes modestly, and immediately began to caution me against the dangers of Rome for young men, urging me to avoid bad company, especially artists, and to associate only with those she chose. I listened respectfully, feigning humility. She told me her eldest son was away, but introduced me to her second son, Don Ottavio, a tall, pale young man with melancholy, downcast eyes. She extolled his virtue, and it was arranged that he would show me the city and bring me to dinner. As I left, a priest mistook me for Don Ottavio, and I quickly corrected him. That evening I sought out an artist friend to learn more about the Aldobrandi family.

He told me the Marquise had been frivolous in her youth but had turned devout, that her eldest son was a simpleton, and that Don Ottavio, destined for the Church, was kept under the thumb of the Abbé Negroni, a former lover of the Marquise who now ruled her household. The next day, Don Ottavio and the Abbé came for me. We visited a church, where Ottavio performed his devotions, but afterward he surprised me with his sensible talk and even switched to French when the Abbé wasn't listening, revealing a liberal mind hidden beneath his pious exterior. I noticed he spoke in a monotone to deceive Negroni, and we conversed freely, though our translations for the priest were pure invention. That evening we dined at the palace, and after coffee, the Marquise pressed me with questions about my father, my life, and my intentions. I found her kind but overly inquisitive, yet I enjoyed her perfect Italian.

Over the following weeks, I frequently visited, joining Don Ottavio and the Abbé on excursions, and often dining with them. One evening, the Marquise introduced me to a German lady, Madam de Strahlenheim, a recent convert. As we discussed the portrait of Lucrezia, I made a remark about her eyelids seeming to move, and Madam de Strahlenheim grew terrified, eventually revealing a story. Her sister-in-law, Wilhelmina, had been betrothed to a young German officer, Julius. While knitting one afternoon, Wilhelmina suddenly cried out that Julius was dead, insisting she had seen his portrait close its eyes and felt a burning pain in her heart. Everyone dismissed her vision, but two days later, news arrived of the battle of Leipzig; Julius had written at three o'clock on that very day, unharmed. Yet Wilhelmina remained inconsolable, certain he had died at five.

Indeed, he had been killed by a stray bullet while carrying a despatch, the bullet piercing his heart and breaking her portrait. Madam de Strahlenheim finished, and the Abbé, now awake, blamed the devil, citing a tale of an Englishman strangled by a statue at Tivoli. The conversation turned to supernatural stories, and by the time we parted, we were all thoroughly spooked. Walking home, I took an unfamiliar lane, deserted and dark. At midnight, a rose fell at my feet from a window above. I looked up to see a woman in white, but she vanished. I searched for a door, finding one padlocked, and after waiting in vain, I left, marking the spot. The next day, I returned to find the street called the Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia, and the house was No. 13, with a sign saying it was to let.

The old woman who kept the key led me inside, spinning a wild tale of Lucrezia Borgia, who once entertained lovers and had them killed, and who eventually hanged herself. I noticed rose petals on the floor and asked about the garden, but the old woman grew uneasy and fled. I sought my artist friend's advice, but he offered only fanciful theories. For several evenings I lingered near the house, but nothing happened until one night I heard a laugh and saw penitents carrying a corpse. I threw pebbles, but no one appeared. Another night, while visiting Don Ottavio, who was unwell, I noticed he seemed agitated. As I left, he lent me his cloak. A peasant pressed a note into my hand; it warned, "Do not come to-night, or we are lost! All is known except your name. Nothing can sever us.—Your LUCREZIA." Despite the warning, I found myself at the house, where the window opened and a shot rang out, striking me in the chest.

Fortunately, the cloak absorbed the bullet, and I escaped with a bruise. Don Ottavio appeared and rushed me away, begging me to say nothing of the incident. I promised, though I demanded an explanation. He would only say it was a mistake. As I recovered, he seemed increasingly troubled, and he eventually confided that he could not bear the thought of entering the priesthood and wished to escape to France with me. He had a secret plan, he said, and would explain in two days. The night before our departure, I saw a rope hanging from the window of the mysterious house, but I resisted the temptation to climb it. At my hotel, a servant informed me that a lady had arrived and was waiting in my room. I climbed the stairs with trepidation, and when I entered, a woman in white rushed to embrace me, crying, "Here you are at last, my beloved!" But she stopped short, exclaiming, "It is not he!"

I realized she was Lucrezia, the woman I had seen, and that she had mistaken me for Don Ottavio. Moments later, Don Ottavio arrived, disguised, and we hastily departed, with Lucrezia joining us. At the border, a gendarme questioned her lack of passport, but I joked and bribed him with a gold coin, and we passed. The truth emerged: Don Ottavio and Lucrezia were in love, but her brother, Vanozzi, opposed their union. They had been meeting secretly in the abandoned house, using a hidden door between their gardens. Lucrezia had mistaken me for Ottavio that night and dropped the rose; her brother had discovered their meetings and fired the shot, intending to kill Ottavio, but I had been wearing his cloak. Don Ottavio, unwilling to be separated from Lucrezia, had planned to elope with her. We reached Florence together, where they married and moved to Paris.

My father helped reconcile the families, and when Ottavio's brother died of fever, he inherited the title and fortune. I became godfather to his firstborn. April 27, 1846.