“Fly, fly, honest man! Here is a convent, there is a church; this way! this way!” was shouted to Renzo from every side. The advice was not necessary; from the moment that he conceived the hope of extricating himself from the talons of the police, he had determined, if he succeeded, to depart immediately, not only from the city, but the dukedom. “Because,” thought he, “however they may have procured it, they have my name on their books; and with name and surname, they will take me again if they choose to do so.” As to an asylum, he was determined not to have recourse to it, but in the last extremity. “Because,” thought he, “if I can be a bird of the woods, I will not be a bird of the cage.” He then determined to seek his cousin Bartolo in the territory of Bergamo, who had often urged him to establish himself there; but to find the road was the difficulty! In a part of the city entirely unknown to him, he did not know which gate led to Bergamo; nor if he had known it, would he have been able to find it. He thought a moment of asking directions from his liberators, but he had for some time had strange suspicions with regard to the obliging sword-cutler, father of four children; so that he did not dare openly declare his design, lest, amidst the crowd, there might be another of the same stamp. He determined therefore to hasten from this spot, and ask the way when he should arrive at a place where there would be nothing to fear from the curiosity or the character of others. He said to his liberators, “Thanks, a thousand thanks! friends! may Heaven reward you!” and quitting the crowd through a passage made for him, he ran down lanes and narrow streets, without knowing whither.
When he thought himself sufficiently removed from the scene of peril, he slackened his steps, and began to look around for some countenance which might inspire him with confidence enough to make his enquiries. But the enquiry would of itself be suspicious; time pressed; the police, recovering from their fright, would, without doubt, pursue their fugitive; the noise of his escape might have reached even there; and in so great a multitude Renzo might pass many judgments in physiognomy before he should find one which seemed favourable. After suffering many to pass whose appearance was unpropitious, he at last summoned courage to address a man, who seemed in such haste, that Renzo deemed he would not hesitate to answer his questions, in order to get rid of him. “Will you be so good, sir, as to tell me through which gate to go to Bergamo?”
“To Bergamo? through the eastern gate. Take this street to the left; you will come to the square of the cathedral; then——”
“That is enough, sir; I know the way after that; God reward you!” And he went on hastily by the way pointed out to him, and arrived at the square of the cathedral. He crossed it, passed by the remains of the extinguished bonfire, at which he had assisted the day before; the bake-house of the Crutches half demolished, and still guarded by soldiers; and finally, reaching the convent of the capuchins, and looking at the door of the church, he said to himself, sighing, “The friar gave me good advice yesterday, when he told me it would be best for me to wait patiently in the church.” He stopped a moment, and seeing that many persons guarded the gate through which he had to pass, he felt a repugnance to confront them; and hesitated whether it would not be his wisest plan to seek this asylum and deliver his letter. But he soon resumed courage, saying, “A bird of the woods as long as I can be. Who knows me? Certainly the police cannot be waiting for me at all the gates.” He looked around, therefore, and perceiving that no one appeared to notice him, and, whistling as he went, as if from carelessness, he approached the gate. A company of custom-house officers, with a reinforcement of Spanish soldiers, were stationed precisely at its entrance, to keep out persons from abroad, who might be attracted, by the noise of the tumult, to rush into the city; their attention was therefore directed beyond the gate, and Renzo, taking advantage of this, contrived, with a quiet and demure look, to pass through, as if he were some peaceful traveller; but his heart beat violently. He pursued a path on the right, to avoid the high road, and for some distance did not dare to look behind him.
On! on! he passed hamlets and villages, without asking the name of them; hoping that, whilst he was removing from Milan, he was approaching Bergamo. He looked behind him from time to time, while pressing onwards, and rubbing first one wrist, then the other, which bore the red marks from the painful pressure of the manacles. His thoughts were a confused medley of repentance, anxiety, and resentment; and he wearily retraced the circumstances of the preceding night, to ascertain what had plunged him into these difficulties, and above all, how they came to know his name. His suspicions rested on the cutler, whose curiosity he well remembered, and he had also a confused recollection that after his departure he had continued to talk, but with whom, his memory did not serve to inform him. The poor fellow was lost in these speculations; the past was a chaos.
He then endeavoured to form some plan for the future; but all other considerations were soon swallowed up in the necessity which he was under of ascertaining the road; and to do this, he was obliged to address himself to some one. He was reluctant to name Bergamo, lest it might excite suspicion: why it should, he knew not; but his mind was a prey to vague apprehensions of evil. However, he could not do otherwise; and, as at Milan, he accosted the first passenger whose appearance promised favourably.
“You are out of the road,” replied the traveller; and directed him to a path by which he might regain the high road. Renzo thanked him, and followed the direction, with the intention, however, of keeping the high road in sight, without exposing himself to hazard by travelling on it. The project was more easily conceived than executed; in pursuing a zigzag course, from right to left, and left to right, and endeavouring still to keep the general direction of the way, he had probably traversed twelve miles, when he was only six miles from Milan; and as to Bergamo, it was a chance if he was not farther from it, than when he began his journey. He reflected that this would never do, and he must seek some other expedient; that which occurred to him, was to inform himself of the name of some village near the frontier, which he would reach by crossroads, and asking the way to that, be enabled to avoid the mention of this dreaded Bergamo, which seemed to him so likely to cause distrust and suspicion.
Whilst he was reflecting on the best method of pursuing this plan without awakening conjectures, he saw a green branch hanging from the door of a lonely cottage, some distance beyond a village; and as he had for some time felt the need of refreshment, he thought he could now kill two birds with one stone, and therefore entered the humble dwelling. There was no one within, but an old woman, with her distaff by her side, and spindle in her hand. He asked for a mouthful to eat; she offered him somestracchino[27], and some wine. He accepted the food, but refused the wine; of which he felt an intuitive horror since the events of the preceding night. The old woman then began to assail her guest with enquiries of his trade, his journey, and of the news from Milan, of the disturbances of which she had heard some rumours. To her question, “Where are you going?” he replied, “I am obliged to go to many places, but if I find a moment of time, I should like to stop awhile at the village on the road to Bergamo, near the frontier, but in the territory of Milan—what do they call it?—There must be some village there,” thought he.
“Gorgonzola, you mean,” replied the old woman.
“Gorgonzola,” repeated Renzo, as if to fix it in his memory, “is it far from here?”
“I don’t know for certain; perhaps ten or twelve miles. If one of my children were here, they could tell you.”
“And do you think I could reach there by keeping on these pleasant paths, without taking the high road, where there is so much dust? such a quantity of dust! It is so long since we have had any rain!”
“I think you can. You can ask at the first village to the right,”—naming it.
“Thank you,” said Renzo, carrying off the remains of his bread, which was much coarser than what he had lately eaten from the foot of the Cross of St. Dionysius; and paying the bill, departed. He took the road to the right, and with the name of Gorgonzola in his mouth, from village to village, he succeeded in reaching it an hour before sunset.
He had on his way intended to halt here for some more substantial refreshment; he felt also the need of sleep; but rather than indulge himself in this, he would have dropped dead on the road. His design was to inform himself, at the inn, of the distance from the Adda, to contrive to obtain some direction to the cross paths which led to it, and after having eaten, to go on his way. Born at the second source of this river, he had often heard that at a certain point, and for some distance, its waters marked the confines of the Milanese and Venetian states. He had no precise idea of the spot where this boundary commenced, but, at this time, the principal matter was to reach the river. Provided he could not accomplish it by daylight, he decided to travel as long as the darkness and his strength would permit, and then to wait the approach of day in a field, among brambles, or any where, where it should please God, an inn excepted. After advancing a few steps in Gorgonzola, he saw a sign, and entering the house, asked the host for a mouthful to eat, and a half-pint of wine, his horror of which had been subdued by his excessive fatigue. “I pray you to be in haste,” added he, “for I must continue my journey immediately.” And he said this, not only because it was the truth, but from fear that the host, imagining he was going to lodge there, might ask him hisname,surname, andwhence he came, andwhat was his business!
The host replied that he should have what he requested, and Renzo seated himself at the end of a bench near the door.
There were in the room some idle people of the neighbourhood, who, after having discussed the great news from Milan of the preceding day, wondered how affairs were going on; as the circumstances of the rebellion had left their curiosity unsatisfied as to its termination; a sedition neither suppressed nor successful; suspended rather than terminated; an unfinished work; the end of an act rather than of a drama. One of them detached himself from the company, and, approaching the new-comer, asked him, “If he came from Milan?”
“I?” said Renzo, endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a reply.
“You; if the enquiry be lawful.”
Renzo, contracting his mouth, made a sort of inarticulate sound, “Milan, from what I hear—from what they say—is not a place where one would go now, unless necessity required it.”
“The tumult continues, then?” asked he, with eagerness.
“One must have been on the spot, to know if it were so,” said Renzo.
“But do you not come from Milan?”
“I come from Liscate,” replied the youth, who, in the mean while had prepared his answer. He had, indeed, come from that place, as he had passed through it. He had learned its name from a traveller who had mentioned it, as the first village on his road to Gorgonzola.
“Oh!” said his interrogator, “I wish you had come from Milan. But patience—and did you hear nothing from Milan at Liscate?”
“It is very possible that others knew something,” replied our mountaineer; “but I have heard nothing.”
The inquisitive person rejoined his companions.
“How far is it from this to the Adda?” said Renzo to the host, in a low careless tone, as he set before him something to eat.
“To the Adda? to cross the river?”
“That is—yes—to the Adda.”
“Would you cross the bridge of Cassano, or the ferry of Canonica?”
“Where are they?—I ask simply from curiosity.”
“Ah! I name them because they are the places chosen by honest people, who are willing to give an account of themselves.”
“That is right. And how far are they?”
“It must be about six miles.”
“Six miles! I did not know that,” said he. “But,” resuming an air of indifference, “if one wished to shorten the distance, are there not other places, where one might cross?”
“Certainly,” replied the host, looking at him with an expression of malignant curiosity, which restrained Renzo from any further enquiry. He drew the dish towards him, and looking at the decanter the host had put on the table, said, “Is this wine pure?”
“As gold. Ask all the inhabitants of the village, and hereabouts. But you can judge yourself.” So saying, he joined the other customers.
“Curse the hosts!” said Renzo, in his heart. “The more I know of them, the worse I find them.”
He began to eat, listening at the same time to the conversation, to learn what was thought, in this place, of the events in which he had acted so principal a part; and also to discover if there were not some honest man among the company, of whom a poor youth might ask his way without fear of being compelled in return to tell his business.
“But,” said one, “to-morrow, at the latest, we shall know something from Milan.”
“I am sorry I did not go to Milan this morning,” said another.
“If you will go to-morrow, I will go with you,” said two or three.
“That which I wish to know,” replied the first speaker, “is, if these gentlemen of Milan will think of poor people abroad, or if they will only think of obtaining advantages for themselves. You know how they are. The citizens are proud—they think only of themselves; the villagers are treated as if they were not Christians.”
“We have mouths also, to eat, and to give our reasons,” said another in a voice as timid as the remark was daring, “and since the thing has begun——” But he did not think to finish his sentence.
“It is not only in Milan, that they conceal grain,” said another, with a mysterious air—when suddenly they heard approaching the trampling of a horse. They ran to the door, and recognising the person who arrived, they went out to receive him. It was a merchant of Milan, who, going frequently to Bergamo on business, was accustomed to pass the night at this inn, and as he had almost always found there the same company, he had formed an acquaintance with all of them. They crowded around him—one held the bridle, another the stirrup. “You are welcome.”
“And I am glad to find you all here.”
“Have you made a good journey?”
“Very good. And you all, how do you do?”
“Well, well. What news from Milan?”
“Ah! there is great news truly,” said the merchant, dismounting, and leaving his horse in the care of a boy. “But,” continued he, entering the house with the company, “perhaps you know by this time better than I do.”
“Truly, we know nothing.”
“Is it possible?—Well, you will hear fine news, or rather bad news. Eh! host! is my bed unoccupied? It is well. A glass of wine, and my usual dish. Quick, quick! because I must go to bed early, in order to rise early, as I must be at Bergamo to dinner. And you,” pursued he, seating himself at the table opposite to Renzo, who continued silent and attentive, “you know nothing of the mischief of yesterday!”
“We heard about yesterday.”
“I knew that you must have heard it, being here always on guard to watch travellers.”
“But to-day? What has been done to-day?”
“Ah! to-day! Then you know nothing of to-day?”
“Nothing at all. No one has passed.”
“Then let me wet my lips, and I will tell you what has happened to-day.” He filled the glass, swallowed its contents, and continued: “To-day, my dear friends, little was wanting to make the tumult worse than yesterday. And I can hardly believe that I am here to tell you, for I had nearly given up all thoughts of coming, that I might stay to guard my shop.”
“What was the matter, then?” said one of his auditors.
“What was the matter? I will tell you.” And beginning to eat, he at the same time pursued his relation; the company standing on his right and left, listened with open mouths and ears. Renzo, without appearing to hear him, was, in fact, the most attentive of all; and ate his last mouthful very, very slowly. “This morning, then, those vagabonds who made such a hurly-burly yesterday, met at the points agreed on, and began to run from street to street, sending forth cries in order to collect a crowd. You know it is with such people, as when one sweeps a house; the more you sweep, the more dirt you have. When they thought there were people enough, they approached the house of the superintendant of provision, as if the atrocities they committed yesterday were not enough, to a gentleman of his character. Oh! the rascals! And the abuse they bestowed on him! All invention and falsehood: he is a worthy punctual man; I can say it, for I know; and I furnish him cloth for his liveries. They hurried then towards his house—such a mob! such faces! They passed before my shop. Such faces—the Jews of theVia Crucisare nothing to them. And the blasphemies they uttered! enough to make one stop one’s ears, had it not been for fear of observation. Their intention was to plunder, but——”
“But?” said they all.
“But they found the street barricadoed, and a company of musketeers on guard. When they saw this ceremony—what would you have done?”
“Turn back.”
“Certainly; and that is precisely what they did. But see if the devil did not carry them there. When they came on the Cordusio, they saw the baker that they had wanted to plunder the day before; and what do you think they were doing at this baker’s? They were distributing bread to purchasers; the first gentlemen of the land were there, watching over its distribution. The mob, instigated by the devil, rushed upon them furiously, and, in the twinkling of an eye, gentlemen, bakers, purchasers, bread, counters, benches, loaves, bags, flour, all topsy-turvy.”
“And the musketeers?”
“The musketeers had the vicar’s house to guard. One can’t sing and carry the cross too. It was done in the twinkling of an eye, I say. Plunder, plunder; every thing was carried off. And then they proposed the amusement of yesterday, to burn what remained, in the square, and make a bonfire. And immediately they began, the rascals! to drag every thing out of the house, when one among them——Guess what fine proposal he made!”
“What?”
“What! to gather every thing in the shop in a heap, and set fire to it and the shop at the same time. No sooner said than done——”
“Did they set fire to it?”
“Wait a bit. An honest man in the neighbourhood had an inspiration from Heaven. He ran into the house, ascended the stairs, took a crucifix, and hung it in front of a window; took from the head of the bed two wax candles which had been blessed, lit them, and placed them right and left of the crucifix. The crowd looked up; there is a little fear of God yet, in Milan, it must be confessed; the crowd retired—a few would have been sacrilegious enough to set fire to paradise itself; but seeing the rest not of their opinion, they were obliged to be quiet. Guess what happened then! All the lords of the cathedral in procession, with the cross elevated, and in pontifical robes; and my lord the arch-priest began to preach on one side, and my lord thepenitenziereon the other, and then others here and there: ‘But, honest people, what would you do? Is this the example you set to your children? Return to your homes; you shall have bread at a fair price; you can see, yourselves, the rate is affixed at every corner!’”
“Was it true?”
“Can you doubt it? Do you think the lords of the cathedral would come in their robes and declare falsehoods?”
“And what did the people do?”
“By little and little they dispersed; they ran to the corners of the streets; the rate was there for those who knew how to read. Eight ounces of bread for a penny!”
“What good fortune.”
“The vine is fine, if its fruitfulness continues. Do you know how much flour has been consumed since yesterday? As much as would supply the dukedom two months.”
“And have they made no good law for us country people?”
“What they have done at Milan is for the city alone. I know not what to tell you; for you, it must be as God shall direct. The tumult has entirely ceased for the present; I have not told you all yet. Here is the best——”
“What! is there any thing more?”
“Yesterday evening, or this morning, they have arrested some of the leaders, and they have been told that four will be hung. Hardly was this known, when every one betook himself home by the shortest road, so as not to be the fifth. Milan, when I left it, resembled a convent of monks.”
“But will they really hang them?”
“Undoubtedly, and very soon,” replied the merchant.
“And what will the people do?”
“The people will go to see them,” said the merchant. “They desired so much to see a man hung, that the rascals were about to satisfy their curiosity on the superintendent of provision. They will see instead, four rogues, accompanied by capuchins and friars of thebuona morte[28]; well, they have richly deserved it. It is a providence, you see; it was a necessary thing. They had begun to enter the shops, and take what they wanted, without putting their hand to their purse. If they had been suffered to go on their own way, after bread, it would have been wine, and then something else—and I assure you, as an honest man, keeping a shop, it was not a very agreeable idea.”
“Assuredly not,” said one of his auditors.
“Assuredly not,” repeated the others in chorus.
“And,” continued the merchant, “it had been in preparation a long while. There was a league, you know?”
“A league!”
“A league. Cabals instigated by the Navarrese, by that cardinal of France, you know, who has a half-barbarous name, and who every day offers some new affront to the crown of Spain. But he aims chiefly at Milan, because he knows, the knave, that the strength of the king lies there.”
“Indeed!”
“Would you have a proof of it? Those who made the most noise were strangers; people who were never seen before in Milan. I have forgotten, after all, to tell you something I heard; one of these had been caught in an inn——”
When this chord was touched, poor Renzo felt a cold shiver, and could with difficulty conceal his agitation. No one however perceived it, and the orator proceeded:—
“They do not yet know whence he came, by whom he was sent, nor what kind of man he was; but he was certainly one of the leaders. Yesterday, in the height of the tumult, he played the devil; then, not content with that, he began to exhort, and propose a fine thing truly! to murder all the lords! Rascal! how would poor people live, if the lords were killed? He was taken, however, and they found on him an enormous packet of letters, after which they were taking him to prison. But what do you think? his companions, who were keeping watch round the inn, came in great force, and delivered him. The rogue!”
“And what has become of him?”
“It is not known. He has escaped, or is concealed in Milan. These people find lodging and concealment any where, although they have neither house nor home of their own. The devil helps them; but they are sometimes taken in the snare, when they least expect it. When the pear is ripe, it must fall. It is well known that these letters are in the hands of government, that they contain an account of the whole plot, that many people are implicated, that they have turned the city upside down, and would have done much worse. Some say the bakers are rogues, and so say I: but they ought to be hanged at least in a legal manner. There certainly is corn concealed; and the government ought to have spies and find it out, and hang up all that keep it back in company with the bakers; and if they don’t, all the city ought to remonstrate again and again, but never allow the villainous practice of entering shops and warehouses for plunder.”
The little that Renzo had eaten had become poison. It appeared like an age before he dared rise to quit. He felt nailed to the spot. To have moved from the inn and the village, in the midst of the conversation, would have incurred suspicion. He determined to wait till the babbler should cease to speak of him and apply to some other subject.
“And I,” said one of the company, “who have some experience, know that a tumult like this is no place for an honest man; therefore I have not suffered my curiosity to conquer me, and have remained quietly at home.”
“And did I move?” said another.
“And I,” added a third, “if by any chance I had been at Milan, I would have left my business unfinished, and returned home.”
At this moment the host approached the corner of the table, to see how the stranger came on. Renzo gathered courage to speak, asked for his bill, settled it, and rapidly crossed the threshold, trusting himself to the guardian care of a kind Providence.
The discourse of the merchant had plunged our poor Renzo into inexpressible agitation and alarm; there was no doubt that his adventure was noised abroad—that people were in search of him? Who could tell how many bailiffs were in pursuit of him? Who could tell what orders had been given to watch at the villages, inns, and along the roads? True it was, that two only of the officers were acquainted with his person, and he didn’t bear his name stamped on his forehead. Yet he had heard strange stories of fugitives being discovered by their suspicious air, or some unexpected mark; in short, he was alarmed at every shadow.
Although at the moment he quitted Gorgonzola, the bells struck theAve Maria, and the increasing darkness diminished his danger, he unwillingly took the high road, with the intention, however, of entering the first path which should appear to him to lead in the right direction. He met some travellers, but, his imagination filled with apprehensions, he dared not interrogate them. “The host called it six miles,” said he; “if, in travelling through by-paths, I make it eight or ten, these good limbs will not fail me, I know. I am certainly not going towards Milan, and must therefore be approaching the Adda. If I keep on, sooner or later I must arrive there; the Adda has a voice sufficiently loud to be heard at some distance, and when I hear it, there will be no longer any need of direction. If there is a boat there, I shall cross immediately; if not, I will wait until morning in a field, upon the ground, like the sparrows, which will be far better than a prison.”
He saw a cross-road open to the left, and he pursued it: “Iplay the devil!” continued he, “Iassassinate the lords! A packet of letters! My companions keeping watch! I would give something to meet this merchant face to face, on the other side of the Adda; (Oh! when shall I reach the beautiful stream?) I would ask him politely where he picked up that fine story. Know, my good sir, that, devil as I am, it was I who aided Ferrer, and like a good Christian saved your superintendent of provisions from a rough joke that those ruffians, my friends, were about to play on him. Ay, while you were keeping watch over your shop——and that enormous packet of letters—in the hands of the government. See, sir, here it is; a single letter, written by a worthy man, a monk; a hair of whose beard is worth——but in future learn to speak with more charity of your neighbours.” However, after a while, these thoughts of the poor traveller gave way to more urgent considerations of his present difficulties; he no longer feared pursuit or discovery; but darkness, solitude, and fatigue combined to distress him and retard his progress. A chill north wind penetrated his light clothing, his wedding suit; and, uncomfortable and disheartened, he wandered on, in hopes of finding some place where he might obtain concealment and repose for the night.
He passed through villages, but did not dare ask shelter; the dogs howled at his approach, and induced him to quicken his steps. At single houses near the road-side his fatigue tempted him to knock for shelter; but the apprehension of being saluted with the cry of “Help, thieves! robbers!” banished the idea from his mind. Leaving the cultivated country, he found himself in a plain, covered with fern and broom; and thinking this a favourable symptom of the near vicinity of the river, he followed the path across it. When he had advanced a few steps, he listened, but in vain. The desolation of the place increased the depression of his spirits. Strange forms and apparitions, the birth of former tales and legends, began to haunt his imagination; and to drive them away he began to chant the prayers for the dead. He passed through a thicket of plum-trees and oaks, and found himself on the borders of a wood; he conquered his repugnance to enter it, but as he proceeded into its depths, every object excited his apprehensions. Strange forms appeared beneath the bushes; and the shade of the trees, trembling on his moon-lit path, with the crackling of the dead leaves between his footsteps, inspired him with dread. He would have hastened through the perilous passage, but his limbs refused their office; the wind blew cold and sharp, and penetrating his weakened frame, almost subdued its small remains of vigour. His senses, affected by undefined horrors, appeared to be leaving him; aroused to his danger, he made a violent effort to regain some degree of resolution, in order to return through the wood, and seek shelter in the last village he had passed through, even if it should be in an inn! As he stopped for a moment, before putting his design in execution, the wind brought a new sound to his ear—the murmur of running water. Intently listening, to ascertain if his senses did not deceive him, he cried out, “It is the Adda!” His fatigue vanished, his pulse returned, his blood flowed freely through his veins, his fears disappeared; and guided by the friendly sound, he went forward. He soon reached the extremity of the plain, and found himself on the edge of a steep precipice, whence looking downward, he discovered, through the bushes, the long-desired river, and, on the other side of it, villages scattered here and there, with hills in the distance; and on the summit of one of these a whitish spot, which in the dimness he took to be a city; Bergamo certainly! He descended the declivity, and throwing aside the bushes with his hands, looked beyond them, to spy if some friendly bark were moving on the flood, or if he could not, by listening, hear the sound of oars cleaving the water; but he saw, he heard nothing. If it had been any stream less than the Adda, he would have attempted to ford it, but this he well knew to be impracticable.
He was uncertain what plan to pursue: to lie down on the grass for the next six hours, and wait until morning, exposed to the north wind and the damps of the night; or to continue walking to and fro, to protect himself from the cold, until the day should dawn: neither of these held out much prospect of comfort. He suddenly recollected to have seen, in a neighbouring part of the uncultivated heath, acascinotto;—this was the name given by the peasants of the Milanese to cabins covered with straw, constructed with the trunks and branches of trees, and the crevices filled with mud, where they were in the habit of placing the crop, gathered during the day, until a more convenient opportunity for removing it; they were therefore abandoned except at such seasons. Renzo found his way thither, pushed open the door, and perceiving a bundle of straw on the ground, thought that sleep, even in such a place, would be very welcome. Before, however, throwing himself on the bed Providence had provided for him, he kneeled, and returned thanks for the blessing, and for all the assistance which had been this day afforded him, and then implored forgiveness for the errors of the previous day; then gathering the straw around him as some defence against the cold, he closed his eyes to sleep; but sleep was not so soon to visit our poor traveller. Confused images began to throng his fancy; the merchant, the notary, the bailiffs, the cutler, the host, Ferrer, the superintendent, the company at the inn, the crowds in the streets, assailed his imagination by turns; then came the thought of Don Abbondio, Roderick, Lucy, Agnes, and the good friar. He remembered the paternal counsels of the latter, and reflected with shame and remorse on his neglect of them; and what bitter retrospection did the image of Lucy produce! and Agnes! poor Agnes! how ill had she been repaid for her motherly solicitude on his behalf! an outcast from her home, solitary, uncertain of the future, reaping misery from what seemed to promise the happiness of her declining years! Poor Renzo! what a night didst thou pass! what an apartment! what a bed for a matrimonial couch! tormented, too, with apprehensions of the future! “I submit to the will of God,” said he, speaking aloud, “to the will of God! He does only that which is right; I accept it all as a just chastisement for my sins. Lucy, however, is so good! the Lord will not long afflict her with suffering.”
In the mean time he despaired of obtaining any repose; the cold was insupportable; his teeth chattered; he ardently wished for day, and measured with impatience the slow progress of the hours; this he was enabled to do, as he heard, every half hour, in the deep silence, the heavy sound of some distant clock, probably that of Trezzo. When the time arrived which he had fixed on for his departure, half benumbed with exposure to the night air, he stretched his stiffened limbs, and opening the door of thecascinotto, looked out, to ascertain if any one were near, and finding all silent around, he resumed his journey along the path he had quitted.
The sky announced a beautiful day; the setting moon shone pale in an immense field of azure, which, towards the east, mingled itself lightly with the rosy dawn. Near the horizon were scattered clouds of various hues and forms; it was, in fact, the sky of Lombardy, beautiful, brilliant, and calm. If Renzo had had a mind at ease, he would no doubt have stopped to contemplate this splendid ushering in of day, so different from that which he had been accustomed to witness amidst his mountains; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He reached the brow of the precipice where he had stood the preceding night, and looking below, perceived, through the bushes, a fisherman’s bark, which was slowly stemming the current, near the shore. He descended the precipice, and standing on the bank, made a sign to the fisherman to approach. He intended to do this with a careless air, as if it were of little importance, but in spite of himself, his manner was half supplicatory. The fisherman, after having for a moment surveyed the course of the water, as if to ascertain the practicability of reaching the shore, directed the boat towards it; before it touched the bank, Renzo, who was standing on the water’s edge, awaiting its approach, seized the prow, and jumped into it.
“Do me a service, and I will pay you for it,” said he; “I wish to cross to the other shore.”
The fisherman having divined his object, had already turned his boat in that direction. Renzo, perceiving another oar in the bottom of the bark, stooped to take it.
“Softly, softly,” said the fisherman. But seeing with what skill the young man managed the oar, “Ah! ah!” added he, “you know the trade.”
“A very little,” replied Renzo, and he continued to row with a vigour and skill beyond that of a mere amateur in the art. With all his efforts, however, the bark moved slowly; the current, setting strong against it, drove it continually from the line of its direction, and impeded the rapidity of its course. New perplexities presented themselves to the mind of Renzo; now that the Adda was almost passed, he began to fear that it might not, at this place, serve for the boundary between the states, and that, this obstacle surmounted, there would yet be others remaining. He spoke to the fisherman, and pointing to the white spot he had noticed the night before, and which was now much more distinct, “Is that Bergamo?” said he.
“The city of Bergamo,” replied the fisherman.
“And the other shore, does it belong to Bergamo?”
“It is the territory of St. Mark.”
“Long live St. Mark!” cried Renzo. The fisherman made no reply.
The boat reached the shore, at last; Renzo thanked God in his heart, as he stepped upon it; and turning to the fisherman took from his pocket aberlingaand gave it to him. The man took it in silence, and with a significant look, placed his forefinger on his lip; and saying, “A good journey to you,” returned to his employment.
In order to account for the prompt and discreet civility of this man towards a perfect stranger, we must inform the reader, that he was accustomed to render similar favours to smugglers and outlaws, not so much for the sake of the little gain which accrued to him thereby, as not to create enemies among these classes of people. He rendered these services, therefore, when he was sure of not being seen by the custom-house officers, bailiffs, or spies. Thus he endeavoured to act with an impartiality, which should give offence to neither party.
Renzo stopped a moment to contemplate the shore he had quitted, and where he had suffered so much; “I am at last safely beyond it,” was his first thought; then the remembrance of those he had left behind rushed over his mind, overwhelming it with regret and shame; for, with the calm and virtuous image of Lucy, came the recollection of his extravagances in Milan.
He shook off, however, these oppressive thoughts, and went on, taking the direction of the whitish mass on the declivity of the mountain, until he should meet some one who could direct him on his way. And now with what a different and careless air he accosted travellers! he hesitated no more, he pronounced boldly the name of the place where his cousin lived, to ask the way to it; from the information given him by the first traveller he met, he found that he had still nine miles to travel.
His journey was not agreeable. Without referring to his own causes of trouble, Renzo was affected every moment by the sight of painful and distressing objects; so that he foresaw, that he should find in this country the poverty he had left in his own. All along the way he was assailed by mendicants,—mendicants of necessity, not of choice,—peasants, mountaineers, tradesmen, whole families reduced to poverty, and to the necessity of begging their bread. This sight, besides the compassion it excited, made him naturally recur to his own prospects.
“Who knows,” thought he, mournfully, “if I shall find work to do? perhaps things are not as they were in preceding years. Bartolo wishes me well, I know; he is a good fellow; he has made money; he has invited me many times to come to him; I am sure he will not abandon me. And then Providence has aided me until now; and will continue to do so.”
Meanwhile, the walk had sharpened his appetite; he could indeed have well waited to the end of his journey, which was only two miles farther, but he did not like to make his first appearance before his cousin as a hungry beggar; he therefore drew all his wealth from his pocket, and counting it on the palm of his hand, found that he had more than sufficient to procure a slight repast; after paying for which, he would still have a few pence remaining.
As he came out of the inn at which he had rested, to proceed on his journey, he saw, lying near the door, two women: the one was elderly, and the other more youthful, with an infant in her arms, which was in vain seeking sustenance from its exhausted mother; both were of the complexion of death: by them stood a man, whose countenance and limbs gave signs of former vigour; now lost from long inanition. All three stretched forth their hands, but spoke not—what prayer could be so moving as their appearance. Renzo sighed; “There is a Providence,” said he, as he placed in the nearest hand the last remnant of his wealth.
The slight repast he had made, and the good deed he had performed (for we are composed of body and soul), had equally tended to refresh and invigorate him. If, to afford relief to these unhappy persons, Providence had kept in reserve the last farthing of a fugitive stranger, would he leave the wants of that stranger unsupplied? He looked with renewed hope to the future; he pictured to himself the return of abundant harvests, and in the mean time he had his cousin Bartolo and his own industry to depend on, and moreover he had left at home a small sum of money, the fruit of his economy, which he could send for, if needed. “Then,” said he, “plenty will eventually return, and trade will be profitable again; the Milanese workmen will be in demand, and can set a high price on their labour; I shall have more than enough to satisfy my wants, and can lay by money, and can furnish my nice house, and then write to Agnes and Lucy to come—and then—But why wait for this? We should have been obliged to live, had we remained at home; we should have been obliged to live during this winter, upon my little savings, and we can do the same here. There are curates every where, and they can come shortly. Oh! what joy will it be to walk together on this same road; to go to the borders of the Adda, where I will point out to them the place where I embarked, the woods through which I passed, the spot where I stood watching for a boat.”
He reached at last the village of his cousin; at its entrance, he saw a very high house, with numerous windows, and perceived it to be a silk manufactory; he entered, and amidst the noise of the water and machinery loudly demanded, “if Bartolo Castagneri was within?”
“Signor Bartolo? there he is.”
“Signor! that’s a good sign,” thought Renzo. He perceived his cousin, and ran towards him, exclaiming, “I am come at last!” Bartolo made an exclamation of surprise, and embraced him; he then took him into another chamber, apart from the noise of the machinery and the notice of the inquisitive, and said, “I am glad to see you, but you are a droll fellow. I have invited you many times to come hither; you have always refused, and now choose a most unfavourable moment.”
“What shall I say to you? I have not now come of my own free will,” said Renzo; and he briefly, and with much emotion, related the mournful story.
“That’s another affair truly,” said Bartolo. “Poor Renzo! you have relied on me, and I will not abandon you. To say truth, workmen are not in much demand at present; and it is with difficulty that those already engaged are kept by their employers. But my master regards me, and he has money; and besides, without boasting, we are equally dependent on each other—he has the capital, and I the skill, such as it is! I am his first workman, hisfactotum! Poor Lucy Mondella! I remember her as if it was but yesterday that I last saw her! An excellent girl! always so modest at church; and if you passed by her cottage—I see it now, the little cottage beyond the village, with a large fig-tree against the wall——”
“No, no,” said Renzo, “do not speak of it.”
“I meant to say, that if you passed it, you always heard the noise of her reel. And Don Roderick! even before I left, showed symptoms of his character; but now, it seems, he plays the devil outright, until God shall put a bridle on his neck. Well, as I said, we suffer here also the consequences of scarce harvests.—But, apropos, are you not hungry?”
“It is not long since I have eaten,” said Renzo.
“And how are you off for money?” Renzo extended the palm of his hand and shook his head. “No matter,” said Bartolo: “I have plenty. Cheer up; things will change for the better soon, and then you can repay me.”
“I have a small sum at home, and I will send for it.”
“Well, in the mean while, depend on me. God has given me wealth to spend for others, and above all, for my relations and friends.”
“I knew that you would befriend me,” said Renzo, affectionately pressing his cousin’s hand.
“Well, what a fuss they have made at Milan,” continued Bartolo; “the people seem to me to be mad. The report has reached us, but I shall be glad to know the particulars from you. I think we shall have enough to talk about, shall we not? Here, however, things are conducted with more judgment. The city purchased two thousand loads of corn from a merchant of Venice; the corn comes from Turkey. Now, what do you think happened? The governors of Verona and Brescia forbade the transit of the corn. What did the people of Bergamo do then, do you think? They sent to Venice a man that knew how to talk, I can tell you: he went to the doge, and made a speech which they say deserves to be printed! Immediately an order was sent to let the corn pass: the governors were obliged to obey. The country, too, has been thought of. Another good man informed the senate that the people here were famishing, and the senate granted us four thousand bushels of millet, which makes very good bread. And then, if there is no bread, you and I can eat meat; God has given me wealth I tell you. Now I will conduct you to my patron. I have often spoken of you to him; he will make you welcome. He is a native of Bergamo, a man of an excellent disposition. ’Tis true, he did not expect you at this time, but when he learns your story—And then he knows how to value skilful workmen, because scarcity lasts but a little while, and business must finally go on.—But I must hint to you one thing; do you know what name they give to us Milanese in this country?”
“What name they give us?”
“They call us simpletons.”[29]
“That is certainly not a very agreeable name.”
“What matters it? Whoever is born in the territory of Milan, and would gain his living in that of Bergamo, must put up with it. As to the people here, they call a Milanese a simpleton as freely as they call a gentlemansir.”
“They say so, I suppose, to those who will suffer it.”
“My good fellow, if you are not disposed to submit to be called simpleton, till it becomes familiar to your taste, you must not expect to live in Bergamo. You would always be obliged to carry your knife in hand; and when you had killed three or four, you might be killed yourself, and have to appear before the bar of God with three or four murders to answer for?”
“And a Milanese who understands his trade?”
“It is all the same; he would still be a simpleton. Do you know how my master expresses himself when he talks of me to his friends?Heaven has sent me this simpleton to carry on my business. If it were not for this simpleton I should never get on.It is the custom.”
“It is a silly custom, to say the least of it; and especially as it is we who have brought the art hither, and who carry it on. Is it possible that there is no remedy?”
“None. Time may accomplish it. The next generation may be different, but at present we must submit. And after all, what is it?”
“Why, if there is no other evil——”
“Ah! now that you are convinced, all will be well. Let us go to my master. Be of good courage.”
In fact, the promises of Bartolo were realised, and allwaswell. It was truly a kind Providence; for we shall see how little dependence Renzo could place on the treasure he had left at home,—the savings of his labour.
On this same day, the 13th of November, there arrived a courier extraordinary to the signorpodestàof Lecco. The courier brought an express from the head of the police, containing an order to make every possible search for a young man of the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino, silk weaver, who, having escaped from the hands “of the illustrious head above cited,” had probably returned to the territory of Lecco. That, in case of his discovery, he should be committed to prison, and an account rendered to the police of his wicked practices, his ostensible means of procuring subsistence, and his accomplices. And furthermore, that an execution should be put into the house of the above-said Lorenzo Tramaglino, and every thing taken from thence that might aid in throwing light on his nefarious deeds.
The signor podestà, after ascertaining as well as he could, that Renzo had not returned to the village, took with him the constable of the place, and obeyed these injunctions, accompanied by a large escort of notary, constable, and officers. The key of the house was not to be found; the door was accordingly forced. The report of this transaction spread around, and soon reached the ears of Father Christopher. The good man was surprised and afflicted; and not being able to gain satisfactory information with regard to Renzo, he wrote to the Father Bonaventura for intelligence concerning him. In the mean while the relations and friends of Renzo were summoned to give in their testimony, with regard to his depravity of character. To bear the name of Tramaglino became a disgrace; the village was all in commotion. By little and little, it was understood that Renzo had escaped from the hands of justice, even in the heart of Milan, and had disappeared: it was whispered that he had committed some enormous crime, the nature of which remained unknown. The more enormous, however, the less it was believed, for Renzo was known by every body to be a worthy youth; the greatest number thought, therefore, that it was a machination of Don Roderick to ruin his poor rival. Thus it is true, that judging from inference, and without the indispensable knowledge of facts, we often wrongfully suspect even the wicked.
But we, who have the facts in our hands, can affirm, that if Don Roderick had no share in creating these misfortunes, he rejoiced in them as if they had been his own work; and made them a subject of merriment with his friends, and above all with Count Attilio, who had been deterred from prosecuting his intended journey to Milan by the account received of the disturbances there: but this order from the police gave him to understand that things had resumed their usual course. He then determined to depart immediately, and, exhorting his cousin to persist in his undertaking, and to surmount every obstacle, he promised to use his efforts to rid him of the friar. Attilio had hardly taken his departure, when Griso arrived, safe and sound, from Monza, and gave in his report to his master of all he had been able to collect. He told him that Lucy had been taken into the convent under the protection of the signora; that she lived there as secluded as if she were a nun, never putting her foot without the walls; that she assisted at the ceremonies of the church behind a grated window; and that it was impossible to obtain a view of her.
This relation put the devil into Roderick, or rather rendered the one more uncontrollable that sojourned there already. So many favourable circumstances concurring to forward his designs, inflamed the medley of spleen, rage, and infamous desire, which he dignified by the name of love. Renzo absent, expelled, banished, every measure against him became lawful; his betrothed herself might be considered in some sort as the property of a rebel. The only man who could and would take her under his protection, the friar, would soon be deprived of the power to do so; but, amidst so many unlooked-for facilities, one obstacle appeared to render them unavailable. A monastery of Monza, even if there were nosignorathere, was an obstacle not to be surmounted even by Don Roderick. He in vain wandered, in his imagination, around this asylum, not being able to devise any means of violating it, either by force or intrigue. He was upon the point of renouncing the enterprise, of going to Milan, of mixing in its pleasures, and thus drowning all remembrance of Lucy; but, in place of relief, would he not find there fresh food for vexation? Attilio had certainly told the story, and every one would ask him about the mountain girl! What reply would he be obliged to give? He had been outwitted by a capuchin and a clown; and, moreover, when a happy unexpected chance had rid him of the one, and a skilful friend removed the other, then he, like a simpleton, abandoned the undertaking! There was enough in this to prevent his ever lifting up his head in the society of his equals; or else to compel him to go among them sword in hand! And on the other hand, how could he return and remain in this spot, where he would be tormented by the remembrance of his passion, and the disgrace of its failure. How resolve? What do? Shall he go forward? Shall he draw back? A means presented itself to his mind, by which his enterprise might succeed. This was to call to his aid the assistance of a man whose power could accomplish whatever he thought fit to undertake, and for whom the difficulty of an enterprise would be only an additional motive for engaging in it. But this project had nevertheless its inconveniences and dangers, the consequences of which it was impossible to calculate. No one could foresee the termination of an affair, when they had once embarked in it with this man; a powerful auxiliary, assuredly, but a guide not less absolute than dangerous. Such reflections kept Don Roderick many days in a state of painful irresolution: he received, in the meanwhile, a letter from his cousin, informing him that the intrigue was prospering. After the lightning came the thunder. One fine morning he heard that Father Christopher had left the convent of Pescarenico! Such complete and prompt success, and the letter of Attilio, who encouraged him by his advice and vexed him by his jokes, inclined him to hazard every thing; and what above all confirmed him in his intention, was the unexpected intelligence that Agnes had returned to the village, and was at her own house! We will relate these two events for the information of the reader.
Lucy and her mother had hardly entered their asylum, when the news of the terrible insurrection at Milan spread through Monza, and even penetrated the walls of the convent. The accounts were various and contradictory.
The portress, who from necessity went much abroad, heard all the news, and related them to her guests. “They have put several in prison,” said she; “some were taken before the bakers of the Crutches, others in front of the house inhabited by the superintendant of provision——But listen to this; there was one who escaped, who was from Lecco, or thereabouts. I don’t know his name, but I will ascertain it from some one; perhaps you may know him.”
This intelligence, joined to the circumstance that Renzo must have arrived in Milan precisely on this fatal day, gave some uneasiness to Lucy and her mother; judge what must have been their feelings, when the portress came again to tell them, “He that fled to avoid hanging is from your village, a silk weaver, one Tramaglino. Do you know him?”
Lucy was seated, busy at her work; it fell from her hands; she turned pale, and her emotion must certainly have attracted the attention of the portress, had she not been too eagerly engaged in delivering her report to Agnes, who was standing by the door at some distance from the poor girl. Agnes, notwithstanding she was much agitated, avoided any exhibition of her feelings. She made an effort to reply, that in a small village every one was known, but she could hardly believe this to be true of Tramaglino, as he was a quiet worthy youth. She asked if it was true that he had escaped, and if it was known where he was?
“Escaped, he certainly has, for every one knows it; but where, no one knows. Perhaps they may take him again, perhaps he is in safety; but if your peaceful youth falls into their hands——”
Here very fortunately the portress was called away; you may imagine the feelings of Agnes and her daughter! The poor woman and the desolate Lucy remained more than a day in cruel uncertainty, imagining the details and the probable consequences of this unhappy event. Tormented with vain hopes and anxious fears, their only relief was in each other’s sympathy.
At length, a man arrived at the convent, and asked to see Agnes; he was a fishmonger of Pescarenico, who was going, according to custom, to Milan, to sell his fish; the good Christopher had desired him to stop at the convent, to relate what he knew of the unhappy affair of Renzo to Lucy and her mother, and exhort them, in his name, to have patience and to confide in God. As for him, he should certainly not forget them, and would seize every possible opportunity to aid them; in the meanwhile he would not fail to send them news every week, by this or some other means. All that the messenger could tell them further of Renzo was, that it was considered certain that he had taken refuge in Bergamo. Such a certainty was a great balm to the affliction of Lucy; her tears flowed less bitterly, and she experienced some comfort in discoursing upon it with her mother; and they united in heartfelt thanks to the Great Being who had saved them from so many dangers.
Gertrude made Lucy often visit her in her private parlour, and conversed much with her, finding a charm in the ingenuousness and sweetness of the poor girl, and delighted with listening to expressions of gratitude from her mouth. She changed insensibly the suspicions of Lucy with regard to her into a sentiment of the deepest compassion, by relating to her, in confidence, a part of her history, that part of it which she dared avow. Lucy found in the relation reasons more than sufficient to explain what had appeared strange in the manners of her benefactress. She was very careful, however, not to return the confidence Gertrude placed in her, by speaking of her new fears and misfortunes, lest she should thereby extend the knowledge of Renzo’s supposed crime and disgrace. She avoided as much as possible replying to the repeated enquiries of the signora on that part of her history, which preceded the promise of marriage; to her modesty and innocence it appeared an impossible thing to converse freely on such a subject. Gertrude was often tempted to quarrel with her shyness, but how could she? Lucy was nevertheless so respectful, so grateful, so trusting! Sometimes her shrinking and susceptible modesty might displease her, from other motives; but all was lost in the sweetness of the thought that to Lucy, if to no other human being, she was doing good. And this was true; for besides the asylum she afforded her, her conversation and endearments encouraged the timid mind of the maiden; whose only other resource was constant employment. The nuns, at her solicitation, furnished her with occupation; and, as from morning till night she plied her needle, her reel, her beloved but now forsaken reel, recurred to her memory, bringing with it a throng of painful recollections.
The following week another message was received from Father Christopher, confirming the flight of Renzo, but with regard to the extent or nature of his misdemeanor, there was no further information. The friar had hoped for satisfaction on this point from his brother at Milan, to whom he had recommended him; but had received for answer that he had neither seen the young man, nor received the letter; that some one from abroad had been at the convent to ask for him, and not finding him there, had gone away.
The third week there was no messenger, which not only deprived them of a desired and expected consolation, but also produced a thousand uneasy suspicions. Before this, Agnes had thought of taking a journey home, and this disappointment confirmed her resolution. Lucy was unwilling to be separated from her mother, but her anxiety to gain more satisfactory intelligence of Renzo, and the security she felt in her sacred asylum, reconciled her. It was therefore agreed between them, that Agnes should wait on the road the following day for the return of the fishmonger from Milan, and should ask the favour of a seat in his cart, in order to go to her mountains. Upon seeing him approach, therefore, she asked him if Father Christopher had not sent any message by him. The fishmonger had been occupied the whole day before his departure in fishing, and had received no message from the friar! She then preferred her request, and having obtained a compliance with it, bade farewell to her daughter and the signora, promising a speedy return.
The journey was without accident; early in the morning they arrived at Pescarenico. Here Agnes took leave of her conductor, with many thanks for the obligation he had conferred on her; and as she was before the convent gates, she determined to speak with the good friar before she proceeded homeward. She pulled the bell—the friar Galdino, whom we may remember as the nut collector, appeared to answer it.
“Oh! good dame, what good wind brings you here?”
“I come to see Father Christopher!”
“Father Christopher? He is not here!”
“No? will it be long before he returns? Where is he gone?”
“To Rimini.”
“To——?”
“To Rimini.”
“Where is that?”
“Eh! eh! eh!” replied the friar, extending his arms, as if to indicate a great distance.
“Miserable that I am! But why did he go so suddenly?”
“Because the father provincial would have it so.”
“And why did they send away one who did so much good here? Oh! unhappy me!”
“If our superiors were obliged to give reasons for what they do, where would be our obedience, my good woman?”
“But this is such a loss!”
“Shall I tell you how it has happened? they have probably wanted a good preacher at Rimini; (we have them in every place to be sure, but sometimes a particular man is needed;) the father provincial of that place has written to the father provincial of this, to know if there were such a person in this convent; the father provincial returned for answer, that there was none but Father Christopher who corresponded to the description.”
“Oh! unfortunate! When did he go?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“Oh! if I had only come a few days sooner, as I wished to do! And do they not know when he will return?”
“Why! my dear woman! the father provincial knows, if any one does; but when one of our preachers has taken his flight, it is impossible to say on what branch he will rest. They want him here; they want him there; for we have convents in the four quarters of the world. Father Christopher will make a great noise at Rimini, with his Lent sermon; the fame of this great preacher will resound every where, and it is our duty to give him up, because we live on the charity of others, and it is but right we should serve all the world.”
“Oh! misery! misery!” cried Agnes, weeping; “what shall I do without this good man? He was a father to us; what a loss! what a loss!”
“Hear me, good woman—Father Christopher was truly a good man, but we have others equally so; there is Father Antanasio, Father Girolamo, Father Zaccaria! Father Zaccaria is a worthy man! And you must not wonder, as some ignorant people do, at his shrill voice and his little beard; I do not say that he is a preacher, because every one has his talent; but to give advice, he is the man.”
“Oh! holy patience!” cried Agnes, with a mixture of gratitude and vexation one feels at an offer containing more good-will than suitableness; “What is it to me what another man is, when he who is gone knew our affairs, and had every thing prepared to help us!”
“Then you must have patience.”
“I know that. Excuse the trouble I have given you.”
“That is of no consequence, my good woman; I pity you; if you decide upon asking advice of one of the fathers, you will find the convent still in its place. But let me see you soon, when I collect the oil.”
“God preserve you,” said Agnes; and she proceeded homeward, confused and disconcerted as a blind man who had lost his staff.
Having more information than Friar Galdino, we are enabled to relate the truth of this affair. Attilio, immediately on his arrival at Milan, performed his promise to Don Roderick, and visited his uncle of the secret council; (this was a committee composed of thirteen members, whose sanction was necessary to the proceedings of government; in case of the absence or death of the governor, the council assumed temporarily the control.) The count, one of the oldest members of the council, enjoyed in it some authority, which he did not fail to make known on all occasions. His language was ambiguous; his silence significant; he had the art of flattering, without absolutely promising; of menacing, without perhaps the power to perform; but these flatteries and menaces produced in the minds of others an impression of his unlimited power, which was the end and purpose of all his actions. Towards this point he lately made a great stride on an extraordinary occasion. He had been sent on an embassy to Madrid! And to hear him describe his reception there! Among other honours, the count-duke had treated him with particular attention, had admitted him to his confidence, so far as to ask him in the presence of the whole court,if he were pleased with Madrid? and to tell him on another occasion, at a window, thatthe cathedral of Milan was the most magnificent church in the king’s dominions.
After having paid his duty to the count, and presented the compliments of his cousin, Attilio, with a seriousness which he knew well how to assume, said, “I believe it to be my duty to inform the signor, my uncle, of an affair in which Roderick is concerned, and which requires the interference of your lordship to avert the serious consequences that——”
“Ah! one of his pranks, I suppose.”
“In truth, I must say that the injury has not been committed by Roderick, but he is exasperated, and none but my uncle can——”
“What is it? what is it?”
“There is in his neighbourhood a capuchin friar who sets himself in array against my cousin, who hates him, and the matter stands thus——”
“How often have I told you both to let the friars manage their own affairs? It is enough for those to whom it belongs—but you, you can avoid having any thing to do with them——”
“Signor uncle, it is my duty to inform you that Roderick would have avoided it, if it had been possible. It is the friar who has quarrelled with him, and he has used every means——”
“What the devil can the friar have in common with my nephew?”
“First of all, he is known to be a quarrelsome fellow; he protects a peasant girl of the village, and regards her with a benevolence, to say the least of it, very suspicious.”
“I comprehend,” said his uncle; and a ray of malice passed over the depth of dulness which nature had stamped on his countenance.
“For some time,” continued Attilio, “the friar has suspected Roderick of designs on this young girl——”
“Hehas suspected, indeed! I know the signor Roderick too well myself, not to need to be told that he is incorrigible in such matters!”
“That Roderick, signor uncle, may have had some trifling conversation with this girl, I can very well believe; he is young, and, moreover, not a capuchin,—but these are idle tales, not worth engaging your attention. The serious part of the affair is, that the friar speaks of Roderick as if he were a villain, and instigates all the country against him——”
“And the other friars?”
“They do not meddle with it, because they know him to be hot-headed, though they have great respect for Roderick; but then, on the other hand, the friar passes for a saint with the villagers, and——”
“I imagine he does not know Roderick is my nephew.”
“Does he not know it? it is that, precisely, which animates him to this course of conduct.”
“How? how?”
“He takes pleasure, and he tells it to every one, he takes the more pleasure in vexing Roderick, because he has a protector as powerful as your lordship; he laughs at the nobility, and at diplomatists, and exults at the thought, that the girdle of Saint Francis can tie up all the swords, and that——”
“Oh! the presumptuous man! what is his name?”
“Friar Christopher, of ***,” said Attilio. The count drew his portfolio towards him, and inscribed the name.
Meanwhile, Attilio proceeded: “He has always had this character; his life is well known; he was a plebeian, and having some wealth, wished to associate with gentlemen, and not being able to succeed, killed one of them for rage; and to escape the gallows he assumed the habit of a friar.”
“Bravo! well done! we will see, we will see,” said the count in a fume.
“Now,” continued Attilio, “he is more enraged than ever, because he has failed in a project he had much at heart. It is by this that your lordship can see what kind of a man he is. He wished to have this girl married, to remove her from the dangers of the world, you understand; and he had found his man, a fellow whose name you have doubtless heard, because I have understood that the secret council has been obliged to take notice of the worthy youth.”
“Who is he?”
“A silk weaver, Lorenzo Tramaglino, he who——”
“Lorenzo Tramaglino!” cried the count. “Well done, friar! Truly—now I remember—he had a letter for a—it is a pity that—but no matter. And pray, why did Don Roderick say nothing of all this? why did he suffer things to go so far, before he acquainted one who has the power and the will to support him?”
“I will tell you also the truth with respect to that: knowing the multitude of cases which you have to perplex you, he has not been willing to add to them; and, besides, since I must say it, he is beside himself on account of the insults offered him by the friar, and would wish to wreak summary justice on him himself, rather than obtain it from prudence and the power of your lordship. I have tried to cool his ardour, but finding it impossible, I thought it my duty to inform your lordship, who, after all, is the prop and chief column of the house.”
“You ought to have spoken sooner.”
“That is true. But I hoped the affair would finish of itself, or that the friar would regain his reason, or that he would leave the convent, as often happens to these friars, who are sometimes here, sometimes there; and then all would have been settled. But——”