“And the bakers, who conceal the grain. Hang them!”
“That is right; hang them, without mercy.”
“Upon fair trial,” cried the magistrate.
“What trial?” cried Attilio, more loudly; “summary justice, I say. Take a few of them who are known to be the richest and most avaricious, and hang them.”
“Yes, hang them! hang them! and there will be grain scattered in abundance.”
Thus the party continued absorbing the wine, whose praises, mixed with sentences of economical jurisprudence, formed the burthen of the conversation; so that the loudest and most frequent words were,Nectar, and hang ’em.
Don Roderick had, from time to time, during this confusion, looked at the father: perceiving him calmly, but firmly, awaiting his leisure for the interview which had been promised him, he relinquished the hope of wearying him by its postponement. To send away a capuchin, without giving him an audience, was not according to his policy; and since it could not be avoided, he resolved to meet it at once: he rose from the table, excused himself to his guests, and saying proudly, “At your service, father,” led the way to another room.
“In what can I serve you?” said Don Roderick, as soon as they entered into the room. Such were his words, but his manner said plainly, “Remember before whom thou standest, weigh well thy words, and be expeditious.”
There were no means more certain to impart courage to Father Christopher than arrogance or pride. He had stood for a moment in some embarrassment, passing through his fingers the beads of the rosary that hung suspended from his girdle; but he soon “resumed new courage, and revived,” at the haughty air of Don Roderick. He had, however, sufficient command over himself to reply with caution and humility. “I come to supplicate you to perform an act of justice: some wicked persons have, in the name of your lordship, frightened a poor curate, and have endeavoured to prevent his fulfilling his duty towards an innocent and unoffending couple. You can by a word confound their machinations, and impart consolation to the afflicted. You can—and having it in your power—conscience, honour——”
“Speak to me of conscience, when I ask your advice on the subject; and as to my honour, know that I only am the guardian of it, and that whoever dares to meddle with it is a rash man.”
Friar Christopher, warned by these words that the intention of Don Roderick was to turn the conversation into a dispute, so as to win him from his original purpose, determined to bear whatever insult might be offered him, and meekly replied, “It was certainly not my intention to say any thing to displease you: correct me, reprove me; but deign to listen to me. By the love of Heaven, by that God before whom we must all appear, I charge thee, do not obstinately refuse to do justice to the innocent and oppressed! Think that God watches over them, that their imprecations are heard above, and——”
“Stop,” interrupted Don Roderick, rudely. “The respect I bear to your habit is great; but if any thing could make me forget it, it would be to see it worn by one coming as a spy into my house.”
These words spread an indignant glow over the face of the father; but swallowing them as a bitter medicine, he resumed: “You do not believe that I am such; you feel in your heart that I am here on no vile or contemptible errand. Listen to me, Signor Don Roderick; and Heaven grant that the day may never arrive, when you shall repent of not having listened to me! Listen to me, and perform this deed of justice and benevolence. Men will esteem you! God will esteem you! you have much in your power, but——”
“Do you know,” again interrupted Don Roderick with warmth, but with something like remorse, “that when the whim takes me to hear a sermon, I can go to church? But, perhaps,” continued he, with a forced smile of mockery, “you are putting regal dignity on me, and giving me a preacher in my own palace.”
“And to God princes are responsible for the reception of his messages; to God you are responsible; he now sends into your palace a message by one of his ministers, the most unworthy——”
“In short, father,” said Don Roderick, preparing to go, “I do not comprehend you: I suppose you have some affair of your own on hand; make a confidant of whom you please; but use not the freedom of troubling a gentleman any farther.”
“Don Roderick, do not sayNoto me; do not keep in anguish the heart of an innocent child! a word from you would be sufficient.”
“Well,” said Don Roderick, “since you think I have so much in my power, and since you are so much interested——”
“Yes!” said Father Christopher, anxiously regarding him.
“Well, advise her to come, and place herself under my protection; she will want for nothing, and no one shall disturb her, as I am a gentleman.”
At such a proposal, the indignation of the friar, which had hitherto been restrained with difficulty, loudly burst forth. All his prudence and patience forsook him: “Your protection!” exclaimed he, stepping back, and stretching forth both his hands towards Don Roderick, while he sternly fixed his eyes upon him, “your protection! You have filled the measure of your guilt by this wicked proposal, and I fear you no longer.”
“Dare you speak thus to me?”
“I dare; I fear you no longer; God has abandoned you, and you are no longer an object of fear! Your protection! this innocent child is under the protection of God; you have, by your infamous offer, increased my assurance of her safety. Lucy, I say; see with what boldness I pronounce her name before you; Lucy——”
“How! in this house——”
“I compassionate this house; the wrath of God is upon it! You have acted in open defiance of the great God of heaven and earth; you have set at naught his counsel; you have oppressed the innocent; you have trampled on the rights of those whom you should have been the first to protect and defend. The wrath of God is upon you! A day will come!”
“Villain!” said Don Roderick, who at first was confounded between rage and astonishment; but when he heard the father thundering forth this prediction, a mysterious and unaccountable dread took possession of his soul. Hastily seizing his outstretched arm, and raising his voice in order to drown the maledictions of the monk, he cried aloud, “Depart from me, rash villain, cowled spy!”
These words instantly cooled the glowing enthusiasm of Father Christopher. The ideas of insult and injury in his mind had long been habitually associated with those of suffering and silence. His usual habits resumed their sway, and he became calm; he awaited what farther might be said, as, after the strength of the whirlwind has passed, an aged tree naturally recomposes its branches, and receives the hail as Heaven sends it.
“Villain! scoundrel! talk to your equals,” said Don Roderick; “but thank the habit you bear for saving you from the chastisement which is your due. Begone this instant, and with unscathed limbs, or we shall see.” So saying, he pointed imperiously to an opposite door. The friar bowed his head, and departed, leaving Don Roderick to measure with hasty and agitated steps the field of battle.
When he had closed the door behind him, the father perceived a man stealing softly away through another, and he recognised him as the aged domestic who had been his guide to the presence of Don Roderick. Before the birth of that nobleman, he had been in the service of his father, who was a man of a very different character. At his death, the new master expelled all the domestics, with the exception of this one, whom he retained on account of two valuable qualifications; a high conception of the dignity of the house, and a minute knowledge of the ceremonial required to support that dignity. The poor old man had never dared even to hint disapprobation of the daily proceedings at the castle before the signor, but he would sometimes venture to allow an exclamation of grief and disapproval to escape him before his fellow servants, who were infinitely diverted by his simple honesty, and his warm love of the good old times. His censures did not reach his master’s ears unaccompanied by a relation of the raillery bestowed upon them, so that he became an object of general ridicule. On the days of formal entertainment, therefore, the old man was a person of great importance.
Father Christopher bowed to him as he passed by him, and pursued his way; but the old man approached him with a mysterious air, and made a sign that he should follow him into a dark passage, where, speaking in an under tone, he said, “Father! I have heard all, and I want to speak to you.”
“Speak at once, then, good man.”
“Here! oh no! Woe be to us if the master suspect it! But I shall be able to discover much, and I will endeavour to come to-morrow to the convent.”
“Is there any base plot?”
“There is something hatching, certainly; I have long suspected it; but now I shall be on the look out, and I will come at the truth. These are strange doings—I live in a house where——But I wish to save my soul.”
“God bless you!” said the friar, placing his hands on his head, as he bent reverently towards him; “God reward you! Do not forget then to come to-morrow.”
“I will not,” replied the domestic; “but go, now, for the love of Heaven, and do not betray me.”
So saying, he looked cautiously on all sides, and led the way through the passage into a large hall, which fronted the court-yard, and pointing to the door, silently bade him “Farewell.”
When once in the street, and freed from this den of depravity, the father breathed more freely; he hastened down the hill, pale in countenance, and agitated and distressed by the scene he had witnessed, and in which he had taken so leading a part. But the unlooked-for proffer of the servant came like a cordial. It seemed as if Heaven had sent a visible sign of its protection—a clue to guide him in his intricate undertaking—and in the very house where it was least likely to be found. Occupied with these thoughts, he raised his eyes towards the west, and beheld the sun declining behind the mountain, and felt that he had but a few minutes in which to reach the monastery, without violating the absolute law of the capuchins, that none of the brotherhood should remain beyond the walls after sunset.
Meanwhile, in the cottage of Lucy there had been plans agitated of which it is necessary to inform the reader. After the departure of the father, they had continued some time in silence; Lucy, with a heavy heart, prepared the dinner; Renzo, wavering and anxious, knew not how to depart; Agnes was apparently absorbed with her reel, but she was really maturing a thought, which she in a few moments thus declared:—
“Listen, my children. If you will have the necessary courage and dexterity; if you will confide in your mother; I pledge myself to free you from perplexity, sooner than Father Christopher could do, although he is the best man in the world.” Lucy looked at her mother with an expression of astonishment rather than confidence, in a promise so magnificent. “Courage! dexterity!” cried Renzo, “say, say, what can I do?”
“Is it not true,” said Agnes, “that if you were married, your chief difficulty would be removed, and that for the rest we would easily find a remedy!”
“Undoubtedly,” said Renzo, “if we were married—The world is before us; and at a short distance from this, in Bergamo, a silk weaver is received with open arms. You know how often my cousin Bartolo has solicited me to go there, and enter into business with him; how many times he has told me that I should make a fortune, as he has done; and if I never listened to his request, it was—because my heart was here. Once married, we would all go together, and live happily far from the clutches of this villain, far from the temptation to do a rash deed. Is it not so, Lucy?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “but how——”
“As I said,” resumed Agnes, “courage and dexterity, and the thing is easy.”
“Easy!” exclaimed they, in wonder.
“Easy,” replied Agnes, “if you are prudent. Hear me patiently, and I will endeavour to make you comprehend my project. I have heard it said by persons who knew, and moreover I have seen one instance of it myself, that a curate’sconsentis not necessary to render a marriage ceremony lawful, provided you have his presence.”
“How so?” asked Renzo.
“You shall hear. There must be two witnesses, nimble and cunning. You go to the curate; the point is to catch him unexpectedly, that he may have no time to escape. You say, ‘Signor Curate, this is my wife;’ Lucy says, ‘Signor Curate, this is my husband;’ you must speak so distinctly that the curate and the witnesses hear you, and the marriage is as inviolable as if the pope himself had celebrated it. When the words are once uttered, the curate may fret, and fume, and scold; it will be of no use, you are man and wife.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Lucy.
“Do you think,” said Agnes, “that the thirty years I was in the world before you, I learned nothing? The thing is as I tell you.”
The fact was truly such as Agnes represented it; marriages contracted in this manner were at that time held valid. Such an expedient was, however, not recurred to, but in cases of great necessity, and the priests made use of every precaution to avoid this compulsive co-operation.
“If it be true, Lucy!” said Renzo, regarding her attentively, with a supplicating expression.
“Ifit be true!” exclaimed Agnes. “Do you think I would say that which isnottrue? Well, well, get out of the difficulty as you can, I wash my hands from it.”
“Ah, no! do not abandon us!” said Renzo; “I mean not to suggest a doubt of it. I place myself in your hands; I look to you as to a mother.”
The momentary anger of Agnes vanished.
“But why, mamma,” said Lucy, in her usual modest tone, “why did not Father Christopher think of this?”
“Think you that it did not come into his mind?” replied Agnes; “but he would not speak of it.”
“Why?” exclaimed they, both at once.
“Why?—because, if you must know it, the friars do not approve of it.”
“If it is not right,” said Lucy, “we must not do it.”
“What!” said Agnes, “do you think I would advise you to do that which is not right? If, against the advice of your parents, you were going to marry a rogue—but, on the contrary, I am rejoiced at your choice, and he whocausesthe disturbance is the only villain; and the curate——”
“It is as clear as the sun,” said Renzo.
“It is not necessary to speak of it to Father Christopher,” continued Agnes. “Once over, what do you think he will say to you? ‘Ah! daughter, it was a great error; but it is done.’ The friars must talk thus; but, believe me, in his heart he will be well content.”
Lucy made no reply to an argument which did not appear to her very powerful; but Renzo, quite encouraged, said, “If it be thus, the thing is done.”
“Softly,” said Agnes; “there is need of caution. We must procure the witnesses; and find means to present ourselves to the curate unexpectedly. He has been two days concealed in his house; we must make him remain there. If he suspects your intention, he will be as cunning as a cat, and flee as Satan from holy water.”
Lucy here gained courage to offer her doubts of the propriety of such a course. “Until now we have lived with candour and sincerity,” said she; “let us continue to do so; let us have faith in God, and God will aid us. Father Christopher said so: let us listen to his advice.”
“Be guided by those who know better than you do,” said Agnes gravely. “What need of advice? God tells us, ‘Help thyself, and I will help thee.’ We will tell the father all about it, when it is over.”
“Lucy,” said Renzo, “will you fail me now? Have we not done all that we could do, like good Christians? Had not the curate himself fixed the day and the hour? And whose is the blame if we are now obliged to use a little management? No, you will not fail me. I go at once to seek the witnesses, and will return to tell you my success.” So saying, he hastily departed.
Disappointment sharpens the wit; and Renzo, who, in the straightforward path he had hitherto travelled, had not been required to subtilise much, now conceived a plan which would have done honour to a lawyer. He went directly to the house of one Anthony, and found him in his kitchen, employed in stirring apolentaof wheat, which was on the fire, whilst his mother, brother, and his wife, with three or four small children, were seated at the table, eagerly intent on the earthen pan, and awaiting the moment when it should be ready for their attack. But, on this occasion, the pleasure was wanting which the sight of dinner usually produces in the aspect of the labourer who has earned it by his industry. The size of thepolentawas proportioned to the scantiness of the times, and not to the number and appetite of the assailants: and in casting a dissatisfied look on the common meal, each seemed to be considering the extent of appetite likely to survive it. Whilst Renzo was exchanging salutations with the family, Tony poured out the pudding on the pewter trencher prepared for its reception, and it appeared like a little moon within a large circumference of vapour. Nevertheless, the wife of Tony said courteously to Renzo, “Will you be helped to something?” This was a compliment that the peasants of Lombardy, however poor, paid to those who were, from any accident, present at their meals.
“I thank you,” replied Renzo; “I only came to say a few words to Tony; and, Tony, not to disturb your family, we can go and dine at the inn, and we shall then have an opportunity to converse.” The proposal was as agreeable as it was unexpected. Tony readily assented to it, and departed with Renzo, leaving to his family his portion of thepolenta. They arrived at the inn, seated themselves at their ease in a perfect solitude, since the penury of the times had driven away the daily frequenters of the place. After having eaten, and emptied a bottle of wine, Renzo, with an air of mystery, said to Tony, “If you will do me a small service, I will do you agreatone.”
“Speak, speak, command me,” said Tony, filling his glass; “I will go through fire to serve you.”
“You are twenty-five livres in debt to the curate, for the rent of his field, that you worked last year.”
“Ah! Renzo, Renzo! why do you mention it to me now? You’ve spoiled your kindness, and put to flight my good wishes.”
“If I speak to you of your debt,” said Renzo, “it is because I intend to give you the means of paying it.”
“Do you really?”
“Really; would this content you?”
“Content me! that it would, indeed; if it were only to be freed from those infernal shakings of the head the curate makes me every time I meet him. And then always, ‘Tony, remember; Tony, when shall we see each other for this business?’ When he preaches, he fixes his eyes on me in such a manner, I am almost afraid he will speak to me from the pulpit. I have wished the twenty-five livres to the devil a thousand times: and I was obliged to pawn my wife’s gold necklace, which might be turned into so muchpolenta. But——”
“But, if you will do me a small favour, the twenty-five livres are ready.”
“Agreed.”
“But,” said Renzo, “you must be silent and talk to no one about it.”
“Need you tell me that?” said Tony; “you know me.”
“The curate has some foolish reason for putting off my marriage, and I wish to hasten it. I am told that the parties going before him with two witnesses, and the one saying,This is my wife, and the other,This is my husband, that the marriage is lawful. Do you understand me?”
“You wish me to go as a witness?”
“Yes.”
“And you will pay the twenty-five livres?”
“Yes.”
“Done; I agree to it.”
“But we must find another witness.”
“I have found him already,” said Tony. “My simpleton of a brother, Jervase, will do whatever I tell him; but you will pay him with something to drink?”
“And to eat,” replied Renzo. “But will he be able?”
“I’ll teach him; you know I was born with brains for both.”
“To-morrow.”
“Well.”
“Towards evening.”
“Very well.”
“But be silent,” said Renzo.
“Poh!” said Tony.
“But if thy wife should ask thee, as without doubt she will?”
“I am in debt to my wife for lies already; and for so much, that I don’t know if we shall ever balance the account. I will tell her some idle story or other to set her heart at rest.” With this good resolution he departed, leaving Renzo to pursue his way back to the cottage. In the meanwhile Agnes had in vain solicited Lucy’s consent to the measure; she could not resolve to act without the approbation of Father Christopher. Renzo arrived, and triumphantly related his success. Lucy shook her head, but the two enthusiasts minded her not. They were now determined to pursue their plan, and by authority and entreaties induce her finally to accede to it.
“It is well,” said Agnes, “it is well, but you have not thought of every thing.”
“What have I not thought of?” replied Renzo.
“Perpetua! You have not thought of Perpetua. Do you believe that she would suffer Tony and his brother to enter? How then is it probable she would admit you and Lucy?”
“What shall we do?” said Renzo, pausing.
“I will tell you. I will go with you; I have a secret to tell her, which will engage her so that she will not see you. I will take her aside, and will touch such a chord—you shall see.”
“Bless you!” exclaimed Renzo, “I have always said you were our best support.”
“But all this will do no good,” said Agnes, “if we cannot persuade Lucy, who obstinately persists that it is sinful.”
Renzo made use of all his eloquence, but Lucy was not to be moved. “I know not what to say to your arguments,” replied she. “I perceive that to do this, we shall degrade ourselves so far as to lie and deceive. Ah! Renzo, let us not so abase ourselves! I would be your wife” (and a blush diffused itself over her lovely countenance), “I would be your wife, but in the fear of God—at the altar. Let us trust in Him who is able to provide. Do you not think He will find a way to help us, far better than all this deception? And why make a mystery of it to Father Christopher?”
The contest still continued, when a trampling of sandals announced Father Christopher. Agnes had barely time to whisper in the ear of Lucy, “Be careful to tell him nothing,” when the friar entered.
“Peace be with you!” said the friar as he entered. “There is nothing more to hope from man: so much the greater must be our confidence in God; and I’ve already had a pledge of his protection.” None of the three entertained much hope from the visit of Father Christopher: for it would have been not only an unusual, but an absolutely unheard-of fact, for a nobleman to desist from his criminal designs at the mere prayer of his defenceless victim. Still, the sad certainty was a painful stroke.
The women bent down their heads; but in the mind of Renzo anger prevailed over disappointment. “I would know,” cried he, gnashing his teeth, and raising his voice as he had never done before in the presence of Father Christopher, “I would know what reasons this dog has given, that my wife should notbemy wife?”
“Poor Renzo!” said the father, with an accent of pity, and with a look which greatly enforced moderation; “poor Renzo! if those who commit injustice were always obliged to give a reason for it, things would not be as they are!”
“He has said, then, the dog! that he will not, because he will not?”
“He has not even saidso, poor Renzo! There would be something gained, if he would make an open confession of his iniquity.”
“But he has said something;whathas this firebrand of hell said?”
“I could not repeat his words. He flew into a passion at me for my suspicions, and at the same time confirmed me in them: he insulted me, and then called himself offended; threatened, and complained. Ask no farther. He did not utter the name of Lucy, nor even pretend to know you: he affected to intend nothing. In short, I heard enough to feel that he is inexorable. But confidence in God! Poor children! be patient, be submissive! And thou, Renzo! believe that I sympathise with all that passes in thy heart.—Butpatience! It is a poor word, a bitter word to those who want faith; but, Renzo, will you not let God work? Will you not trust Him? Let Him work, Renzo; and, for your consolation, know that I hold in my hand a clue, by which I hope to extricate you from your distress. I cannot say more now. To-morrow I shall not be here; I shall be all day at the convent employed for you. Renzo, if thou canst, come there to me; but, if prevented by any accident, send some trusty messenger, by whom I can make known to you the success of my endeavours. Night approaches; I must return to the convent. Farewell! Faith and courage!” So saying, he departed, and hastened by the most abrupt but shortest road, to reach the convent in time, and escape the usual reprimand; or, what was worse, the imposition of some penance, which might disenable him, for the following day, from continuing his efforts in favour of his protégés.
“Did you hear him speak of a clue which he holds to aid us?” said Lucy; “it is best to trust in him; he is a man who does not make rash promises.”
“He ought to have spoken more clearly,” said Agnes; “or at least have taken me aside, and told me what it was.”
“I’ll put an end to the business; I’ll put an end to it,” said Renzo, pacing furiously up and down the room.
“Oh! Renzo!” exclaimed Lucy.
“What do you mean?” said Agnes.
“What do I mean? I mean to say that he may have a hundred thousand devils in his soul, but he is flesh and blood notwithstanding.”
“No, no, for the love of Heaven!” said Lucy, but tears choked her voice.
“It is not a theme for jesting,” said Agnes.
“For jesting?” cried Renzo, stopping before her, with his countenance inflamed by anger; “for jesting! you will see if I am in jest.”
“Oh! Renzo!” said Lucy, sobbing, “I have never seen you thus before!”
“Hush, hush!” said Agnes, “speak not in this manner. Do you not fear the law, which is always to be had against the poor? And, besides, how many arms would be raised at a word!”
“I fear nothing,” said Renzo; “the villain is well protected, dog that he is! but no matter. Patience and resolution! and the time will come. Yes! justice shall be done! I will free the country! People will bless me! Yes, yes.”
The horror which Lucy felt at this explicit declaration of his purpose inspired her with new resolution. With a tearful countenance, but determined voice, she said to Renzo, “It can no longer be of any consequence to you, that I should become yours; I promised myself to a youth who had the fear of God in his heart; but a man who had once——were you safe from the law, were you secure from vengeance, were you the son of a king——”
“Well!” cried Renzo, in a voice of uncontrollable passion, “well! I shall not have you, then; but neither shall he; ofthatyou may——”
“For pity’s sake, do not talk thus; do not talk so fiercely!” said Lucy imploringly.
“You to implore me!” said he, somewhat appeased. “You! who will do nothing forme! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have I not supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain——”
“Yes, yes,” replied Lucy, hastily, “I will go to the curate’s to-morrow; now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go.”
“Do you promise me?” said Renzo, softening immediately.
“I promise.”
“Well, I am satisfied.”
“God be praised!” said Agnes, much relieved.
“I have promised you,” said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, “but you have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher.”
“Ha! will you now draw back?” said Renzo.
“No, no,” said Lucy, again alarmed, “no, no, I have promised, and will perform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. God forbid that——”
“Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person.”
“Well, well,” said Lucy, “I will hope for the best.”
Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allot to each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, and he reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart.
The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation and trouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue is uncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busied themselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a mere spectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, she still promised to do the best she could.
“Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as he desired you last night?” said Agnes to Renzo.
“Oh! no,” replied he, “the father would soon read in my countenance that there was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should be obliged to tell him. You had better send some one.”
“I will send Menico.”
“Yes, that will do,” replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make farther arrangements.
Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad of twelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, was a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of his parents to keep him all day “for a particular service.” She took him home, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go to Pescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send him back with a message.
“Father Christopher, you understand; that nice old man, with a white beard; him they call the Saint.”
“I know him, I know him!” said Menico: “he speaks so kindly to the children, and often gives them pictures.”
“Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near the convent until he has an answer ready, don’t stray away; don’t go to the lake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish, nor——”
“Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby.”
“Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give you these newparpagliole.”[3]
During the remainder of this long morning, several strange things occurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled minds of Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of his kind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing every object around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presented to him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with a mixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to which Agnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, he pretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to the stairs. They called to him, “Stay, stay! where are you going, good man? this way.” He returned, excusing himself with an affectation of humility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and stern features. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strange people. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road; another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, as if to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house during the remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some one approach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations, however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression of impending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogether to suppress.
To explain to the reader the true character of these suspicious wanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in the hall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more he reflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged and ashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke of Nathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through the apartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors, senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt his indignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. A base-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans of vengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledge it to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears, and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, he rang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, and to say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again. The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed. “And the Count Attilio?” asked Don Roderick.
“He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord.”
“Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat. Be quick.”
The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a rich sword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around his shoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air of proud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armed ruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunk from his approach; their profound and timid salutations received no notice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination of the head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, was incontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whose salutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was the Spanish governor. In order to get rid of hisennui, and banish the idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of a gentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with that apparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towards the powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace, he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought, took a chair, but said little.
Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when the count, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, “Cousin, when will you pay me my wager?”
“San Martin’s day has not yet passed.”
“Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar may pass, before you——”
“We will see about that!” said Don Roderick.
“Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I am so certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another.”
“Why!”
“Why? because the father—the father—in short, this friar has converted you.”
“One of your fine imaginations, truly!”
“Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be a fine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And how flattering to the father! he don’t catch such fish every day. Be assured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actions will be trumpeted from the pulpit!”
“Enough, enough!” interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and half disposed to laugh. “I will double the wager with you, if you please.”
“The devil! perhapsyouhave converted the father!”
“Do not speak of him; but as to the wager, San Martin will decide.” The curiosity of the count was aroused; he made many enquiries, which Don Roderick evaded, referring him to the day of decision.
The following morning, when he awoke, Don Roderick was “himself again.” The various emotions that had agitated him after his interview with the father, had now resolved themselves into the simple desire of revenge. Hardly risen, he sent for Griso.—“Something serious,” muttered the servant to whom the order was given; as thisGrisowas nothing less than the leader of thebravoesto whom was intrusted the most dangerous and daring enterprises, who was the most trusted by the master, and the most devoted to him, from gratitude and interest. This man had been guilty of murder; he had fled from the pursuit of justice to the palace of Don Roderick, who took him under his protection, and thus sheltered him from the pursuit of the law. He, therefore, stood pledged to the performance of any deed of villany that should be imposed on him.
“Griso,” said Don Roderick, “you must show your skill in this emergency. Before to-morrow, this Lucy must be in this palace.”
“It shall never be said that Griso failed to execute a command from his illustrious protector.”
“Take as many men as are necessary, and dispose of them as appears to you best; only let the thing succeed. But be careful that no harm be done to her.”
“Signor, a little fright—we cannot do less.”
“Fright—may be unavoidable. But touch not a hair of her head; and, above all, treat her with the greatest respect. Do you hear?”
“Signor, I could not take a flower from the bush, and carry it to your Highness, without touching it; but I will do only what is absolutely necessary.”
“Well; I trust thee. And—how wilt thou do it?”
“I was thinking, signor. It is fortunate that her cottage is at the extremity of the village; we have need of some place of concealment; and not far from her house there is that old uninhabited building in the middle of the fields, that one—but, your Highness knows nothing of these matters—which was burnt a few years ago, and, not having been repaired, is now deserted, except by the witches, who keep all cowardly rascals away from it; so that we may take safe possession.”
“Well; what then?”
Here Griso went on to propose, and Don Roderick to approve, until they had agreed upon the manner of conducting the enterprise to the desired conclusion, without leaving a trace of the authors of it: and also upon the manner of imposing silence, not only upon poor Agnes, but also upon the more impatient and fiery Renzo.
“If this rash fellow fall in your way by chance,” added Don Roderick, “you had best give him, on his shoulders, something he will remember; so that he will be more likely to obey the order to remain quiet, which he will receive to-morrow. Do you hear?”
“Yes, yes, leave it to me,” said Griso, as, with an air of importance, he took his leave.
The morning was spent in reconnoitring,—the mendicant of whom we have spoken was Griso; the others were the villains whom he employed, to gain a more perfect knowledge of the scene of action. They returned to the palace to arrange and mature the enterprise;—all these mysterious movements were not effected without rousing the suspicions of the old domestic, who, partly by listening, and partly by conjecture, came to the knowledge of the concerted attempt of the evening. This knowledge came a little too late, for already a body of ruffians were laying in wait in the old house. However, the poor old man, although well aware of the dangerous game he played, did not fail to perform his promise; he left the palace on some slight pretence, and hurried to the convent. Griso and his band left shortly after, and met at the old building,—the former had previously left orders at the palace, that, at the approach of night, there should be a litter brought thither,—he then despatched three of the bravoes to the village inn; one to remain at its entrance to observe the movements on the road, and to give notice when the inhabitants should have retired to rest; the other two to occupy themselves within as idlers, gaming and drinking. Griso, with the rest of the troop, continued in ambush, on the watch.
All this was going forward, and the sun was about to set, when Renzo entered the cottage, and said to Lucy and her mother, “Tony and Jervase are ready; I am going with them to sup at the inn; at the sound of the ‘Ave Maria,’ we will come for you; take courage, Lucy, all depends on a moment.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “courage;” with a voice that contradicted her words.
When Renzo and his companions arrived at the inn, they found the door blockaded by a sentinel, who, leaning on one side of it, with his arms folded on his breast, occupied half its width; at the same time rolling his eagle eyes first to the right and then to the left, displaying alternately their blacks and their whites. A flat cap of crimson velvet, placed sideways, covered the half of thelong lock, which, parted on a dark forehead, was fastened behind with a comb. He held in his hand a club; his arms, properly speaking, were concealed beneath his garments. When Renzo evinced a desire to enter, he looked at him fixedly without moving; of this, the young man, wishing to decline all conversation, took no notice, but, beckoning to his companions to follow his example, slid between the figure and the door-post. Having gained an entrance, he beheld the other two bravoes with a large mug between them, seated at play; they stared at him with a look of enquiry, making signs to each other, and then to their comrade at the door. This was not unobserved by Renzo, and his mind was filled with a vague sentiment of suspicion and alarm. The innkeeper came for his orders; which were, “a private room, and supper for three.”
“Who are those strangers?” asked he of the landlord, when he came in to set the table.
“I do not know them,” replied he.
“How! neither of them?”
“The first rule of our trade,” said he, spreading the cloth, “is, not to meddle with the affairs of others; and, what is wonderful, even our women are not curious. It is enough for us that customers pay well; who they are, or who they are not, matters nothing. And now, I will bring you a dish of polpette, the like of which you have never eaten.”
When he returned to the kitchen, and was employed in taking the polpette from the fire, one of the bravoes approached, and said, in an under tone, “Who are those men?”
“Good people of this village,” replied the host, pouring the mince-meat into a dish.
“Well; but what are their names? Who are they?” insisted he, in a rough voice.
“One is called Renzo,” replied the host; “esteemed a good youth, and an excellent weaver of silk. The other is a peasant, whose name is Tony; a jovial fellow,—it is a pity he has no more money, for he would spend it all here. The other is a simpleton, who eats when they feed him. By your leave——” So saying, he slipped past him, with the dish in his hand, and carried it to the place of its destination.
“How do you know?” said Renzo, continuing the conversation from the point at which it had been dropped, “how do you know that they are honest men, when you are not acquainted with them?”
“From their actions, my good fellow; men are known by their actions. He who drinks wine without criticising it; he who shows the face of the king on the counter without prattling; he who does not quarrel with other customers, and, if he has a blow or two to give, goes away from the inn, so that the poor host need not suffer from it;heis an honest man. But what the devil makes you so inquisitive, when you are engaged to be married, and should have other things in your head? And with this mince-meat before you, which would make the dead revive?” So saying, he returned to the kitchen.
The supper was not very agreeable; the two guests would have lingered over the unusual luxury; but Renzo, preoccupied, and troubled and uneasy at the singular appearance of the strangers, longed for the hour of departure. He conversed in brief sentences, and in an under tone, so that he might not be overheard by them.
“What an odd thing it is,” blundered Jervase, “that Renzo wishes to be married, and has needed——” Renzo looked sternly at him. “Keep silence, you beast!” said Tony to him, accompanying the epithet with a cuff. Jervase obeyed, and the remainder of the repast was consumed in silence. Renzo observed a strict sobriety, in order to keep his companions under some restraint. Supper being over, he paid the reckoning, and prepared to depart: they were obliged to pass the three men again, and encounter a repetition of their eager gaze. When a few steps distant from the inn, Renzo, looking back, perceived that he was followed by the two whom he had left seated in the kitchen. He stopped; observing this, they stopped also, and retraced their steps.
If he had been near enough, he would have heard a few words of strange import; “It would be a glorious thing,” said one of the scoundrels, “without reckoning the cash, if we could tell at the palace how we had flattened their ribs,—without the direction, too, of Signor Griso.”
“And spoil the whole work,” added the other; “but see! he stops to look at us! Oh! if it were only later! But let us turn back, not to create suspicion. People are coming on all sides; let us wait till they go to their rests.”
Then was heard in the village the busy hum of the evening, which precedes the solemn stillness of the night; then were seen women returning from their daily labour, with their infants on their backs, and leading by the hand the older children, to whom they were repeating the evening prayers; men with their spades, and other instruments of culture, thrown over their shoulders. At the opening of the cottage doors, was discerned the bright light of the fires, kindled in order to prepare their meagre suppers; in the street there were salutations given and returned, brief and mournful observations on the poverty of the harvest, and the scarcity of the year; and at intervals was heard the measured strokes of the bell which announced the departure of the day.
When Renzo saw that the two men no longer followed him, he continued his way, giving instructions, in a low voice, from time to time, to his two companions. It was dark night when they arrived at the cottage of Lucy.