“I know it too well, the rascals.”
“But then——”
“But, I tell you, they think no more about it. Andhe, doesheyet live? ishehere?”
“I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of the affairs of this place; I tell you that——”
“I ask you ifheis here;”
“Oh, just Heaven! Speak in another manner. Is it possible you still retain so much warmth, after all that has happened?”
“Ishehere, or ishenot?”
“He is not. But the plague, my son, the plague keeps every one from travelling at present.”
“If the pestilence was all that we need fear—I speak for myself, I have had it, and I fear it not.”
“You had better render thanks to Heaven. And——”
“I do, from the bottom of my heart.”
“And not go in search of other evils, I say. Listen to my advice.”
“You have had it also, sir, if I am not mistaken.”
“That I have, truly! most terrible it was! it is by a miracle I am here; you see how it has left me. I have need of repose to restore my strength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name of Heaven, what do you do here? Go away, I beseech you.”
“You always return to yourgo away. If I ought to go away, I would not have come. You keep saying,What do you come for? what do you come for?Sir, I am come home.”
“Home!”
“Tell me, have there been many deaths here?”
“Many!” cried Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he gave a long list of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it is true, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances, friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and could only exclaim, from time to time, “Misery! misery! misery!”
“And it is not yet over,” pursued Don Abbondio. “If those who remain do not listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be the end of the world.”
“Do not concern yourself; I do not intend to remain here.”
“Heaven be praised! you talk reason at last. Go at once——”
“Do not trouble yourself about it; the affair belongs to me. I think I have arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one that you have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you will not betray me?”
“I understand,” said Don Abbondio, angrily, “I understand. You would ruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I have suffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand.” And continuing to mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way.
Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seek another asylum. In the catalogue of deaths given to him by Don Abbondio, there was a family which had all been carried off by the pestilence, with the exception of a young man nearly of his own age, who had been his companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a little beyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitality which it might afford him. On his way he passed his own vineyard. The vines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and most luxuriant growth, principally of the parasitical order, covered the place, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branches of the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. The garden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriant wildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of the lansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzo turned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to his friend’s. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on a small bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a man stupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound of steps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him to distinguish objects distinctly, he said, “Are there not others besides me? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an act of charity.”
Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.
“Renzo?” replied he.
“It is indeed,” said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.
“Is it you indeed?” said his friend: “oh, how happy I am to see you! who would have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who torment me daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone! alone as a hermit!”
“I know it but too well,” said Renzo. They entered the cottage together, each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to prepare the table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with a pitcher of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seated themselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutually congratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years, and the circumstances under which they met, revived and added new vigour to their former friendship.
No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only on account of the particular affection she bore him, but she alone possessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitated awhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not very far off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, he adhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he could concerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt from his friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others were explained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures of Lucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed that Don Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt, moreover, to pronounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it is true, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it was written; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange a sound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend, probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although this was the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was in question his mind was set at rest. The signor Podestà was dead, and most of the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters too pressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his own adventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of the passage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies. “Dreadful as are our afflictions,” said he, as he led him for the night to a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants, “there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends.”
At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. “If all goes well,” said he, “if I find her living—if—I will return. I will go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, and then—but if, by a misfortune, which may God avert—then, I know not what I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me here again.”
As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey, he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish, his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friend accompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell, prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity and enjoyment.
Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him to arrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on the morrow. His journey was without accident, except a repetition of the same wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he had done the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast, which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Passing through Monza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; he bought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter; stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water, he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs he reached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket.
Towards evening he passed through Greco, and quitting the high road, went into the fields in search of some small house where he might pass the night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a better shelter than he anticipated; perceiving an opening in a hedge which surrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no one within: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the door of it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder, settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break of day. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, and proceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polar star. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate.
Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding the entrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; but these were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when such prohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution. Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life, than dangerous to that of others.
With this conviction, Renzo’s design was to attempt a passage at the first gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of the walls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult to say how many gates he thought Milan had.
When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was no indication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thick cloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, and infected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every where along the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholy conflagrations.
The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud, or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surrounding country was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a drop of dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, and silence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo’s thoughts; he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gateNuova, which had been hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed. A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men, saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied and careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, a hand-barrow, upon which twomonattiwere extending an unfortunate man, to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had just been attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of the convoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he passed forwards quickly; the sentinel cried out “Holla!” Renzo stopping, showed him a half ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had the pestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed to Renzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, “Go in, quickly,” a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He had hardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop. He pretended not to hear, and passed on. The call was repeated, but in a tone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed—and this being equally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his room.
Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads to the canalNaviglio, and had advanced some distance into the city without encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man coming towards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he moved towards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo, when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a polite mountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club, armed with a spike, he cried, “Off! off! off!” “Oh! oh!” cried Renzo; he put on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, he turned his back on the discourteous passenger and went on his way.
The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and looking back in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had met him with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamous impostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did not know exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he had not kept him at a distance. “It was unlucky,” said he, “that we were in so private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would have called the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it was enough to have saved myself—but who knows what destruction he may not already have effected in the city:”—and years after, when the poisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact, as “he had had ocular proof.”
Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflecting on this reception, he was more angry than fearful. “This is a bad beginning,” thought he; “my star always seems unpropitious when I enter Milan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken. However—by the help of God—if I find—if I succeed in finding—all will be well.”
The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; a single disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the street and the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed to him; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman, surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. As he did so, “O good young man!” said she, “do me the kindness to go to the commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They have nailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; and since yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, and these poor innocents are dying of hunger.”
“Of hunger!” cried Renzo. “Here, here,” said he, drawing the two loaves from his pocket. “Lower something in which I may put them.”
“God reward you! wait a moment,” said the woman, as she went in search of a basket and cord to suspend it.
“As to the commissary, my good woman,” said he, putting the loaves in the basket, “I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a stranger in Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one a little humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him.”
The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street in which she lived.
“You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing,” said Renzo. “Can you tell me where there is a nobleman’s house in Milan, named ***?”
“I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is. Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you. And remember to speak of us.”
“Do not doubt me,” said Renzo, as he passed on.
As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a sound of wheels and horses’ feet, with the noise of little bells, and occasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries.
As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were two beams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horrible instrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and widest streets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnished with the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted a condemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other act appeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme and inefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdly authorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard the sounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; it was anapparitore, and behind him came two horses, who advanced with difficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car came another, and another, and another;monattiwalked by the side of the horses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies were for the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heaped one upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seen hanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms were loosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of the spectator with indescribable horror!
The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknown dead. A frightful thought passed over his mind. “There, perhaps, there, with them—O God! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!”
The funeral convoy having passed on, he crossed the square, and reached the Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standing before a half-open door, in an attitude of attention, as if he were confessing some one. “Here,” said he, “is my man. If a priest, and in the discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in the world who has.” When he was at a few paces distance from him, he took off his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping, however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good man unnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel. “May God watch over you now and for ever!” said Renzo, “and,” added he, “I would ask another favour.” And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman. The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestow help where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell.
Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turnings pointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensions for the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubts and fears; he was to be told, “she is living,” or, “she is dead!” This idea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, he would rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at the commencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearly approached. He gathered courage, however. “Ah!” cried he, “if I play the child now, how will it end!” Plunging therefore into the heart of the city, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which is called theCarrobio di Porta Nuova. The fury of the contagion here, and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, that those who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst the passenger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senses were painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on, hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive at the end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still be called the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door was closed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open by the flight of the inhabitants, or by themonatti; some were nailed on the outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of the pestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose of informing themonattithat their services were required, and much of this was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of health happened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforce the regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages, clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodies which had been left in the streets until a car should pass to take them up, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown from the houses; so much had the long duration and the violence of the pest brutalised men’s minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling or sympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure had ceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeral cars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or the vociferations of themonatti.
At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gave the signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by the archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches. Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voices and groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed with consolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirds of the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or had left the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadful calamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. The cloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, in short, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, was carefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible. Men’s beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery on the part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even a pistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown in keeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown from windows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if the aspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe the condition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling to rise no more—beggars, children, women.
Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of this desolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishable the horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells.
At the entrance of one of the most spacious streets, he perceived four cars standing;monattiwere seen entering houses, coming forth with burthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some were clothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but the greater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customary dress,—plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air of triumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from the different windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzo avoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but his attention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; a female, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty, veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility which seemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in the Lombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, although there were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillity and profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it was notherappearance alone which excited compassion in hearts nearly closed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl about nine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hair divided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of the purest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady, her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed, if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and her head reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment more decided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! If the resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have known it by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance!
A hideousmonattoapproached the lady, and with unusual respect offered to relieve her of her burthen. “No,” said she, with an appearance neither of anger nor disgust, “do not touch her yet; it is I who must place her on the car. Take this,” and she dropped a purse into the hands of themonatto; “promise me not to touch a hair of her head, nor to let others do it, and bury her thus.”
Themonattoplaced his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared a place on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed her forehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spread over her a white cloth, and took a last look; “Farewell! Cecilia! rest in peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separated no more!” Turning again to themonatto, “As you pass to-night,” said she, “you will come for me; and not for me only!”
She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window, holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, but with the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated the unworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes, and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remained for them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts its head, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels every herb of the field.
“O God!” cried Renzo, “save her! protect her! her and this innocent creature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!”
He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity. Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street on their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die on their own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women as usual with their little ones, and even some of these supported and encouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older than themselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for this affecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly passed, he addressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than the rest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He replied, “The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left.”
The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at his heart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raised his hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he could summon resolution to knock.
At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it, looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, “Is itmonatti? thieves? or poisoners?”
“Signora,” said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, “is there not here in service a young villager of the name of Lucy?”
“She is no longer here; begone,” replied the woman, about to close the window.
“A moment, I beseech you. She is no longer here! Where is she?”
“At the lazaretto.”
“A moment, for the love of Heaven! With the pestilence?”
“Yes. It is something very uncommon, is it not? Begone then.”
“Wait an instant. Was she very ill? Is it long since?”
But this time the window was closed entirely.
“Oh! signora, signora! one word, for charity! Alas! alas! one word!” But he might as well have talked to the wind.
Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the rude treatment of the woman, Renzo seized the knocker again, and raised it for the purpose of striking. In his distress, he turned to look at the neighbouring houses, with the hope of seeing some one, who would give him more satisfactory information. But the only person he discovered, was a woman, about twenty paces off, who, with an appearance of terror, anger, and impatience, was making signs to some one to approach; and this she did, as if not wishing to attract Renzo’s notice. Perceiving him looking at her, she shuddered with horror.
“What the devil!” said Renzo, threatening her with his fist, but she, having lost the hope of his being seized unexpectedly, cried aloud, “A poisoner! catch him! catch him! stop the poisoner!”
“Who? I! old sorceress! be silent,” cried Renzo, as he approached her in order to compel her to be so. But he soon perceived that it was best to think of himself, as the cry of the woman had gathered people from every quarter; not in so great numbers as would have been seen three months before under similar circumstances, but still many more than one man could resist. At this moment, the window was again opened, and the same discourteous woman appeared at it, crying, “Seize him, seize him; he must be one of the rascals who wander about to poison the doors of people.”
Renzo determined in an instant that it was better to fly than to stop to justify himself. Rapidly casting his eyes around to see on which side there were the fewest people, and fighting his way through those that opposed him, he soon freed himself from their clutches.
The street was deserted before him; but behind him the terrible cry still resounded, “Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!” It gained on him, steps were close at his heels. His anger became rage; his agony, despair; drawing his knife from his pocket, and brandishing it in the air, he turned, crying aloud, “Let him who dares come here, the rascal, and I will poison him indeed with this.”
But he saw, with astonishment and pleasure, that his persecutors had already stopped, as if some obstacle opposed their path; and were making frantic gestures to persons beyond him. Turning again, he beheld a car approaching, and even a file of cars with their usual accompaniments. Beyond them was another little band of people prepared to seize the poisoner, but prevented by the same obstacle. Seeing himself thus between two fires, it occurred to Renzo, thatthatwhich was an object of terror to these people, might be to him a source of safety. Reflecting that this was not a moment for fastidious scruples, he advanced towards the cars, passed the first, and perceiving in the second a space large enough to receive him, threw himself into it.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried themonattiwith one shout. Some of them were following the convoy on foot, others were seated on the cars, others on the dead bodies, drinking from an enormous flagon, which they passed around. “Bravo! that was well done!”
“You have placed yourself under the protection of themonatti; you are as safe as if you were in a church,” said one, who was seated on the car into which Renzo had thrown himself.
The enemy was obliged to retreat, crying, however, “Seize him! seize him! he is a poisoner!”
“Let me silence them!” said themonatto; and drawing from one of the dead bodies a dirty rag, he tied it up in a bundle, and made a gesture as if intending to throw it among them, crying, “Here, rascals!” At the sight, all fled away in horror!
A howl of triumph arose from themonatti.
“Ah! ah! you see we can protect honest people,” said themonattoto Renzo, “one of us is worth a hundred of those cowards.”
“I owe my life to you,” said Renzo, “and I thank you sincerely.”
“’Tis a trifle, a trifle; you deserve it; ’tis plain to be seen you’re a brave fellow; you do well to poison this rabble; extirpate the fools, who, as a reward for the life we lead, say, that the plague once over, they will hang us all. They must all be finished, before the plague ceases; themonattialone must remain to sing for victory, and to feast in Milan.”
“Life to the pestilence, and death to the rabble!” cried another, putting the flagon to his mouth, from which he drank freely, and then offered it to Renzo, saying, “Drink to our health.”
“I wish it to you all,” said Renzo, “but I am not thirsty, and do not want to drink now.”
“You have been terribly frightened, it seems,” said themonatto; “you appear to be a harmless sort of a person; you should have another face than that for a poisoner.”
“Give me a drop,” said amonatto, who walked by the side of the cars; “I would drink to the health of the nobleman, who is here in such good company—in yonder carriage!” And with a malignant laugh he pointed to the car in which poor Renzo was seated. Then brutally composing his features to an expression of gravity, he bowed profoundly, saying, “Will you permit, my dear master, a poor devil of amonattoto taste a little wine from your cellar? Do now, because we lead rough lives, and moreover, we are doing you the favour to take you a ride into the country. And besides, you are not accustomed to wine, and it might harm your lordship; but the poormonattihave good stomachs.”
His companions laughed loudly; he took the flagon, and before he drank, turned again to Renzo, and with an air of insulting compassion said, “The devil with whom you have made a compact, must be very young; if we had not saved you, you would have been none the better for his assistance.”
His companions laughed louder than before, and he applied the flagon to his lips.
“Leave some for us! some for us!” cried those from the forward car. After having taken as much as he wanted, he returned the flagon to his companions, who passed it on; the last of the company having emptied it, threw it on the pavement, crying, “Long live the pestilence!” Then they commenced singing a lewd song, in which they were accompanied by all the voices of the horrible choir. This infernal music, blended with the tingling of the bells, the noise of the wheels, and of the horses’ feet, resounded in the empty silence of the streets, echoed through the houses, wringing the hearts of the very few who still inhabited them!
But the danger of the preceding moment had rendered more than tolerable to Renzo, the company of these wretches and the dead they were about to inter; and even this music was almost agreeable to his ears, as it relieved him from the embarrassment of such conversation. He returned thanks to Providence for having enabled him to escape from his peril, without receiving or doing an injury; and he prayed God to help him now to deliver himself from his liberators. He kept on the watch to seize the first opportunity of quietly quitting the car, without exciting the opposition of his protectors.
At last they reached the lazaretto. At the appearance of a commissary, one of the twomonattiwho were on the car with Renzo jumped to the ground, in order to speak with him: Renzo hastily quitting the car, said to the other, “I thank you for your kindness; God reward you.”
“Go, go, poor poisoner,” replied he, “it will not be you who will destroy Milan!”
Fortunately no one heard him. Renzo hastened onwards by the wall, crossed the bridge, passed the convent of the capuchins, and then perceived the angle of the lazaretto. In front of the inclosure a horrible scene presented itself to his view. Arrived in front of the lazaretto, throngs of sick were pressing into the avenues which led to the building; some were seated or lying in the ditch, which bordered the road on either side, their strength not having sufficed to enable them to reach their asylum, or who, having quitted it in desperation, were too weak to go further; others wandered by themselves, stupified, and insensible to their condition; one was quite animated, relating his imaginations to a miserable companion, who was stretched on the ground, oppressed by suffering; another was furious from despair; a third, more horrible still! was singing, in a voice above all the rest, and with heart-rending hilarity, one of the popular songs of love, gay and playful, which the Milanese callvillanelle.
Already weary, and confounded at the view of so much misery concentrated within so small a space, our poor Renzo reached the gate of the lazaretto. He crossed the threshold, and stood for a moment motionless under the portico.
The reader may imagine the lazaretto, peopled with sixteen thousand persons infected with the plague: the vast enclosure was encumbered with cabins, tents, cars, and human beings. Two long ranges of porticoes, to the right and left, were crowded with the dying or the dead, extended upon straw; and from the immense receptacle of woe, was heard a deep murmur, similar to the distant voice of the waves, agitated by a tempest.
Renzo went forward from hut to hut, carefully examining every countenance he could discern within—whether broken down by suffering, distorted by spasm, or fixed in death. Hitherto he met none but men, and judged, therefore, that the women were distributed in some other part of the inclosure. The state of the atmosphere seemed to add to the horror of the scene: a dense and dark fog involved all things. The disc of the sun, as if seen through a veil, shed a feeble light in its own part of the sky, but darted down a heavy deathlike blast of heat: a confused murmuring of distant thunder might be heard. Not a leaf moved, not a bird was seen—save the swallow only, which descended to the plain, and, alarmed at the dismal sounds around, remounted the air, and disappeared. Nature seemed at war with human existence—hundreds seemed to grow worse—the last struggle more afflictive—and no hour of bitterness was comparable to that.
Renzo had, in his search, witnessed, as he thought, every variety of human suffering. But a new sound caught his ear—a compound of children’s crying and goats’ bleating: looking through an opening of the boards of a hut, he saw children, infants, lying upon sheets or quilts upon the floor, and nurses attending them; but the most singular part of the spectacle, was a number of she-goats supplying the maternal functions, and with all the appearance of conscious sympathy hastening, at the cries of the helpless little ones, to afford them the requisite nutrition. The women were aiding these efficient coadjutors, in rendering their supplies available to the poor bereft babies. Whilst observing this wretched scene, an old capuchin entered with two infants, just taken from their lifeless mother, to seek among the flock for one to supply her place. Quitting this spot, and looking about on every side, a sudden apparition struck his sight, and set his thoughts in commotion. He saw at some distance, among the tents, a capuchin, whom he instantly recognised to be Father Christopher!
The history of the good friar, from the moment in which we lost sight of him until this meeting, may be related in few words. He had not stirred from Rimini, and he would not now have thought of doing so if the plague breaking out at Milan had not afforded him the opportunity, so long desired, of sacrificing his life for the benefit of others. He demanded, as a favour, permission to go and assist those who were infected with the disease. The count, he of the secret council, was dead; and moreover, at this time, there was a greater want of guardians to the sick, than of politicians: his request was readily granted. He had now been in the lazaretto nearly three months.
But the joy of Renzo at seeing the good father was not unalloyed. It was he indeed; but, alas! how changed! how wan! Exhausted nature appeared to be sustained for a while by the mind, that had acquired new vigour from the perpetual demand on its sympathies and activity.
“Oh, Father Christopher!” said Renzo, when he was near enough to speak to him.
“You here!” said the friar, rising.
“How are you, my father, how are you?”
“Better than these unfortunate beings that you see,” replied the friar. His voice was feeble—hollow and changed as his person. His eye alone “had not lost its original brightness”—benevolence and charity appeared to have imparted to it a lustre superior to that which bodily weakness was gradually extinguishing.
“But you,” pursued he, “why are you here? Why do you thus come to brave the pestilence?”
“I have had it, thank Heaven! I come——in search of——Lucy.”
“Lucy! Is Lucy here?”
“Yes. At least I hope so.”
“Is she thy wife?”
“My dear father! alas! no, she is not my wife. Do you know nothing, then, of what has happened?”
“No, my son. Since God removed me from you, I have heard nothing. But now that he sends you to me, I wish much to know. And your banishment?”
“You know, then, what they did to me?”
“But you, what didyoudo?”
“My father, if I were to say I was prudent on that day at Milan, I should tell a falsehood; but I committed no bad action wilfully.”
“I believe you; I have always thought so.”
“Now then I will tell you all.”
“Wait a moment.”
He approached a cabin, and called “Father Victor.”
In a few moments a young capuchin appeared. “Do me the favour, Father Victor,” said he, “to take my place in watching over our poor patients for a little while. If, however, any should particularly ask for me, be so good as to call me.”
The young friar complied, and Father Christopher, turning to Renzo, “Let us enter here,” said he. “But,” added he, “you appear much exhausted, you have need of food.”
“It is true. Now that you make me think of it, I have not tasted any thing to-day.”
“Wait, then, a moment.” He soon brought Renzo a bowl of broth, from a large kettle, the common property of the establishment, and making him sit down on his bed, the only seat his cabin afforded, and placing some wine on a little table by his side, he seated himself next him. “Now tell me about my poor child,” said he, “and be in haste, for time is precious, and I have much to do, as you perceive.”
Renzo related the history of Lucy; that she had been sheltered in the convent of Monza, and carried off from her asylum. At the idea of such treatment and peril, and at the thought, too, that it was he who had unwittingly exposed her to it, the good friar was breathless with attention; but he recovered his tranquillity when he heard of her miraculous deliverance, her restoration to her mother, and her having been placed under the protection of Donna Prassede.
Renzo then briefly related his journey to Milan, his flight, and his return home; that he had not found Agnes there; and at Milan had learned that Lucy was in the lazaretto. “And I am here,” concluded he, “I am here in search of her; to see if she yet lives, and if—— she still thinks of me——because——sometimes——”
“But what direction did they give you? Did they tell you where she was placed when she came here?”
“I know nothing, dear father, nothing; only that she is here, if she still lives, which may God grant!”
“Oh, poor child! But what have you done here until now?”
“I have searched, and searched, but have seen hardly any but men. I think the females must be in another part by themselves; you can tell me if this is the case?”
“Know you not that it is forbidden to men to enter there unless their duty calls them?”
“Oh, well! what can happen to me if I should attempt?”
“The law is a good one, my dear son; and if our weight of affliction does not permit us to enforce it, is that a reason why an honest man should infringe it?”
“But, Father Christopher, Lucy should have been my wife; you know how we have been separated; it is twenty months since I have suffered, and taken my misfortunes patiently; I have come here, risking every thing to behold her, and now——”
“I know not what to say,” resumed the friar; “you are, no doubt, guided by a praiseworthy motive; would to God that all those who have free access to these places conducted themselves as well as I am sure you will. God, who certainly blesses thy perseverance of affection, thy fidelity in desiring and seeking her whom he has given thee, God, who is more rigorous than man, but also more indulgent, will not regard what may be irregular in this enquiry for one so dear.”
So saying, he arose, and Renzo followed him. While listening to him, he had been confirmed in his resolution not to acquaint the father with Lucy’s vow. “If he learns that,” thought he, “he will certainly raise new difficulties. Either I shall find her, and we can then disclose, or——and then——what use would it be?”
After having conducted him to the opening of the cabin, towards the north, “From yonder little temple,” said he, “rising above the miserable tents, Father Felix is about to lead in procession the small remnant who are convalescent, to another station, to finish their quarantine. Avoid notice, but watch them as they pass. If she is not of the number, this side,” added he, pointing to the edifice before them, “this side of the building and a part of the field before it are assigned to the women. You will perceive a railing which divides that quarter from this, but so broken, in many places, that you can easily pass through. Once there, if you do nothing to offend, probably no one will speak to you. If, however, there is any difficulty, say that Father Christopher knows you, and will answer for you. Seek her, then, seek her with confidence—and with resignation; for remember, it is an unusual expectation, a person alive within the walls of the lazaretto! Go, then, and be prepared for whatever result——”
“Yes, I understand!” said Renzo, a dark cloud overshadowing his countenance; “I understand, I will seek in every place, from one end of the lazaretto to the other——And if I do not find her!”
“If you do not find her?” repeated the father, in a serious and admonitory tone.
But Renzo, giving vent to the wrath which had been for some time pent up in his bosom, pursued, “If I do not find her, I will findanotherperson. Either at Milan, or in his abominable palace, or at the end of the world, or in the house of the devil, I will find the villain who separated us; but for whom Lucy would have been mine twenty months ago; and if we had been destined to die, at least we should have died together. If he still lives, I will find him——”
“Renzo!” said the friar, seizing him by the arm, and looking at him severely.
“And if I find him,” continued Renzo, entirely blinded by rage, “if the pestilence has not already done justice—the time is past when a poltroon, surrounded by bravoes, can reduce men to despair, and laugh at them! the time is come when men meet face to face, and I will do myself justice.”
“Unhappy youth!” cried Father Christopher, with a voice which had suddenly become strong and sonorous, his head raised, and eyes darting forth more than their wonted fire; “unhappy youth! look around you! Behold who punishes and who judges; who punishes and pardons! But you, feeble worm, you would do yourself justice! Do you know what justice is? Unhappy youth! begone! I hoped——yes, I hoped that before I died, God would afford me the consolation to learn that my poor Lucy still lived; to see her, perhaps, and to hear her promise that she would send a prayer to yonder grave where I shall rest. Begone, you have taken away my hope. God has not left her on the earth for thee, and you certainly have not the audacity to believe yourself worthy that God should think of consoling you. Go, I have no time to listen to you farther.” And he dropped the arm of Renzo, which he had grasped, and moved towards a cabin.
“Oh, my father!” said Renzo, following him with a supplicating look, “will you send me away thus?”
“How!” resumed the capuchin, but in a gentler tone, “would you dare ask me to steal the time from these poor afflicted ones, who are expecting me to speak to them of the pardon of God, in order to listen to thy accents of rage—thy projects of vengeance? I listened to you, when you asked consolation and advice, but now that you have revenge in your heart, what do you want with me? Begone, I have listened to the forgiveness of the injured, and the repentance of the aggressor; I have wept with both; but what have I to do with thee?”
“Oh, I pardon him! I pardon him! I pardon him for ever!” said the young man.
“Renzo,” said the friar, in a calmer tone, “think of it, and tell me how often you have pardoned him?”
He kept silence some time, and not receiving an answer, he bowed his head, and, with a voice trembling from emotion, continued, “You know why I wear this habit?”
Renzo hesitated.
“You know it?” repeated the old man.
“I know it.”
“I likewise hated, I, who have reprimanded you for a thought, a word. The man I hated, I killed.”
“Yes, but it was a noble, one of those——”
“Silence!” interrupted the friar. “If that were justification, believe you I should not have found it in thirty years? Ah! if I could now make you experience the sentiment I have since had, and that I now have for the man I hated! IfIcouldI!—but God can. May he do it! Hear me, Renzo. He is a better friend to you, than you are to yourself; you have thought of revenge, but He has power enough, pity enough, to prevent it; you know you have often said that he can arrest the arm of the powerful; but learn, also, that he can arrest that of the vindictive. And because you are poor, because you are injured, can he not defend against you a man created in his image? Will he suffer you to do all you wish? No! but he can cast you off for ever; he can, for this sentiment which animates you, embitter your whole life, since, whatever happens to you, hold for certain, that all will be punishment until you have pardoned, pardoned freely and for ever!”
“Yes, yes,” said Renzo, with much emotion, “I feel that I have never truly pardoned him; I have spoken as a brute and not as a Christian; and now, by the help of God, I pardon him from the bottom of my soul.”
“And should you see him?”
“I would pray God to grant me patience, and to touch his heart.”
“Do you remember that the Lord has not only told us to pardon our enemies, but to love them? Do you remember that he loved them so as to die for them?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, come and behold him. You have said you would find him; you shall do so; come, and you will see against whom you preserve hatred, to whom you desire evil, against what life you would arm yourself!”
He took the hand of Renzo, who followed him, without daring to ask a question. The friar led the way into one of the cabins. The first object Renzo beheld was a sick person seated on a bed of straw, who appeared to be convalescent. On seeing the father, he shook his head, as if to sayNo. The father bowed his with an air of sorrow and resignation. Renzo, meanwhile, gazing with uneasy curiosity around the cabin, beheld in the corner of it a sick person lying on a feather bed, wrapped up in a sheet, and covered with a cloak. Looking attentively, he recognised Don Roderick! The unfortunate man lay motionless; his eyes wide open, but without any cognisance of the objects around him; the stamp of death was on his face, which was covered with black spots; his lips were swollen and black: you would have thought it the face of the dead, if a violent contraction about the mouth had not revealed a tenacity of life; his respiration was painful, and his livid hand, extending on the outside of the covering, was firmly grasping his cloak, and pressing it upon his heart, as if conscious thattherewas his deepest agony.
“Behold!” said the friar, in a low solemn voice; “the sentiment you hold towards this man, who has offended you, such will God hold towards you on the great day. Bless him, and be blessed! For four days he has been here in this condition, without giving any sign of perception. Perhaps the Lord is disposed to grant him an hour of repentance, but he would have you pray for it; perhaps he desires that you should pray for him with this innocent girl; perhaps he reserves this favour for thy prayer alone, for the prayer of an afflicted and resigned heart. Perhaps the salvation of this man and thine own depend at this moment upon thyself, upon thy pity, upon thy love.” He kept silence, and clasping his hands, bowed his head as in prayer, and Renzo, completely subdued, followed his example. Their supplications were interrupted in a short time by the striking of a bell: they immediately arose and left the cabin.
“The procession is about to move,” said the father; “go then, prepared to make a sacrifice, to praise God, whatever may be the issue of your search; and whatever that may be, return to me, and we will praise him together.”
Here they separated; the one to resume his painful duties, the other to the little temple, which was close at hand.
Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time of his greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided between Lucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of him mingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fear called up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bed of pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. He could not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his present undertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of his former resentment and revenge.
He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by his attitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembled convalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience. In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at them intently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be a vain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touched by his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his own solicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded in his affecting address:—
“Let us think for a moment,” said he, “of the thousands who have gone forth thither,” pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the burying ground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. “Let us look at the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let us also look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice! praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in the choice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not to preserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude? That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may value it accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That the remembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and actively benevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, and feared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we pass amidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve us from any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escaping that death against which they are still struggling! May they see us depart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them; that they may say,Even beyond these walls they will remember us, they will continue to pray for us!Let us begin from this moment, from the first step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let those who have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to the feeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left without children become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will be softened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!”
Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in the assembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cord around his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention and profound silence.
“For myself,” said he, “and for all my companions, who have been chosen to the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask your forgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. If indolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us less attentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded; if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes to appear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserable thought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humility towards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may have given you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and bless you!”
We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of that which he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompanied them. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve the afflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not to have worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt his deficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need of it. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied in serving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and he who now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was the first in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. The good friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holding it up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, which opened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at their head.
Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself near a cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, his heart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of the emotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness.
Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, with the cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advanced slowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others, but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largest children followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted, and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of them leading a child, and singing alternately themiserere. The feeble sound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, would have excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzo was occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of the procession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. He looked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rank to rank, from face to face—they came, they passed—in vain, in vain—none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mind as he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents who were still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approached so slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But he was again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael, with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of the procession.
Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His only ground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of the disease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour of his nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, and breathed forth an unconnected, but fervent prayer; he arose, strengthened in hope; and passing the railing pointed out by the father, entered into the quarter allotted to the women. As he entered it, he saw on the ground one of the little bells that themonatticarried on their feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it might serve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began his painful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in part to those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weight of the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, and a greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodily suffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to bear their own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others.
Renzo had proceeded some distance on his search, when he heard behind him a “Ho!” which appeared to be addressed to him. Turning, he saw at a distance a commissary, who cried, “Go there into those rooms; they want you there; they have not finished carrying all off.”
Renzo perceived that he took him for amonatto, and that the little bell had caused the mistake. He determined to extricate himself from it as soon as he could. Making a sign of obedience, he hid himself from the commissary, by passing between two cabins which were very near each other.
As he stooped to unloose the strap of the little bell, he rested his head against the straw wall of one of the cabins; a voice reached his ear. O Heaven! is it possible? His whole soul was in his ear, he scarcely breathed. Yes! yes! it was that voice! “Fear of what?” said that gentle voice; “we have passed through worse dangers than a tempest. He who has watched over us until now, will still continue to do so.”
Renzo scarcely breathed, his knees trembled, his sight became dim; with a great effort recovering his faculties, he went to the door of the cabin, and beheld her who had spoken! She was standing, leaning over a bed; she turned at the sound of his steps, and gazed for a moment bewildered; at last she exclaimed, “Oh! blessed Lord!”
“Lucy! I have found you again! I have found you again! It is, indeed, you! You live!” cried Renzo, advancing with trembling steps.
“Oh! blessed Lord!” cried Lucy, greatly agitated; “is it indeed you? How? Why? the pestilence——”
“I have had it. And you?”
“Yes. I have had it also. And my mother?”
“I have not seen her yet; she is at Pasturo. I believe, however, that she is well. But you are still suffering! how feeble you appear! you are cured, however; you are, is it not so?”
“The Lord has seen fit to leave me a little longer here below,” said Lucy. “But, Renzo! why are you here?”
“Why?” said Renzo, approaching her, “do you ask me why I am here? Must I tell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longer Lucy?”
“Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?”
“Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poor unfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who never injured you!”
“But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew—why come, why?”
“Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are we no longer the same! Is all forgotten?”
“O God!” cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; “why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! what have you done! Alas! I hoped——that with time——I should have driven from my memory——”
“A kind hope indeed! and to say so to me!”
“Oh! what have you done! in this place! in the midst of these sorrows! Here, where there is nothing but death, you have dared——”
“We must pray to God for those who die, and trust that they will be happy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live in despair——”
“But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! a vow!”
“I tell you, such promises are good for nothing.”
“Oh! where have you been all this time? with whom have you associated, that you speak thus?”
“I speak as a good Christian. I think better of the Virgin than you do, because I do not believe vows to the injury of others are acceptable to her. If the Virgin had spoken herself, oh! then indeed——but it is simply an idea of your own!”
“No, no, you know not what you say; you know not what it is to make a vow! Leave me, leave me, for the love of Heaven!”
“Lucy!” said Renzo, “tell me at least, tell me, if this reason did not exist——would you feel the same towards me?”
“Unfeeling man!” said Lucy, with difficulty restraining her tears; “would it satisfy you to hear me confess that which might be sinful, and would certainly be useless! Leave me, oh! leave me! forget me! we were not destined for each other. We shall meet again above; we have not long to remain in the world. Go! tell my mother that I am cured, that even here God has assisted me, that I have found a good soul, this worthy woman who has been a mother to me; tell her we shall meetwhenit is the will of God, andasit is his will. Go! for the love of Heaven! and remember me no more——except when you pray to God!”
And as if wishing to withdraw from the temptation to prolong the conversation, she drew near the bed where the female was lying of whom she had spoken.
“Hear me, Lucy, hear me!” said Renzo, without however approaching her.
“No, no; go away! for charity!”
“Hear me, Father Christopher——”
“How!”
“He is here.”
“Here! where? how do you know?”
“I have just spoken with him; a man like him it appears to me——”
“He is here! to assist the afflicted, no doubt. Has he had the plague?”
“Ah! Lucy! I fear, I greatly fear——” As Renzo hesitated to utter his fears, she had unconsciously again approached him, with a look of anxious enquiry——“I fear he has it now!”
“Oh! poor man! But what do I say? poor man! he is rich, rich in the favour of God! How is he? Is he confined to his bed? Has he assistance?”
“He is, on the contrary, still assisting others——but if you were to see him! Alas! there can be no mistake!”
“Oh! is he indeed within these walls?” said Lucy.
“Here, and not far off; hardly farther than from your cottage to mine——if you remember——”
“Oh! most holy Virgin!”
“Shall I tell you what he said to me? He said I did well to come in search of you, that God would approve it, and that he would assist me to find you——Thus, then, you see——”
“If he spoke thus, it was because he did not know—”
“What use would there be in his knowing a mere imagination of your own? A man of sense, such as he is, never thinks of things of that sort. But oh! Lucy! Shall I tell you what I have seen?”——And he related his visit to the cabin.
Lucy, although familiarised in this abode of horrors to spectacles of wretchedness and despair, was shocked at the recital.
“And at the side of that bed,” said Renzo, “if you could have heard the holy man! He said, that God has perhaps resolved to look in mercy on this unfortunate—(I can now give him no other name)—that he designs to subdue him to himself, but that he desires that we should pray together for him—together! do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, we will pray each, there where the Lord shall place us. He can unite our prayers.”
“But if I tell you his very words——”
“But, Renzo, he does not know——”
“But can you not comprehend, when such a man speaks, it is God who speaks in him, and that he would not have spoken thus, if it ought not to be exactly so? And the soul of this unfortunate! I have prayed, and will pray for him; I have prayed with all my heart, as if he were my brother. But what, think you, will be his condition in the other world, if we do not repair some of the evil he has done? If you return to reason, all will be set in order. That which has been, has been—he has had his punishment here below——”
“No, Renzo, no! God would not have us do evil that good may come. Leave to him the care of this unfortunate man; our duty is to pray for him. If I had died that fatal night, would not God have been able to pardon him? And if I am not dead, if I have been delivered——”
“And your mother, poor Agnes, who desired so much to see us man and wife, has she not told you it was a foolish imagination?”
“My mother! think you my mother would advise me to break a vow? Would you desire that she should? But, Renzo, you are not in your right mind!”
“Oh! you women cannot be made to comprehend reason! Father Christopher told me to return, and inform him whether I had found you—I will go, and get his advice——”
“Yes, yes, go to the holy man! Tell him I pray for him, and that I desire his prayers! But, for the love of Heaven! for your soul’s sake, and for mine, do not return here, to trouble, to——tempt me! Father Christopher will explain matters to you, and make you return to yourself; he will set your heart at rest.”
“My heart at rest! Oh! don’t encourage an idea of that sort! You have, before now, caused such language to be written to me! and the suffering it caused me! and now you have the heart to tell it to me! As for me, I declare to you plainly, that I will never set my heart at rest. Lucy! you have told me to forget you; forget you! how can I do it? After so many trials! so many promises! Who have I thought of ever since we parted? Is it because I have suffered, that you treat me thus? because I have been unfortunate? because the world has persecuted me? because I have been so long away from you? because the first moment I was able, I came to seek you?”
“Oh! holy Virgin!” exclaimed Lucy, as the tears flowed from her eyes, “come to my help. You have aided me hitherto; aid me now. Since that night such a moment as this have I never passed.”
“Yes, Lucy, you do well to invoke the Virgin. She is the mother of compassion, and will take no pleasure in our sufferings. But, if this is an excuse—if I have become odious to you—tell me, speak frankly——”
“For pity, Renzo, for pity, stop—stop. Do not make me die. Go to Father Christopher; commend me to him. Do not return here—do not return here.”
“I go, but think not I will not return. I would return from the end of the world; yes, I would return!” and he disappeared.
Lucy threw herself on the floor near the bed, upon which she rested her head, and wept bitterly. The good woman, who had been a silent spectator of the painful scene, demanded the cause of her anguish and her tears? But, perhaps, the reader will wish to know something of this benevolent person: we will satisfy the desire in a few words.
She was a rich tradeswoman, about thirty years of age: she had beheld her husband and children die of the plague. Attacked by it herself, she had been brought to the lazaretto, and placed in the cabin with Lucy, who was just beginning to recover her senses, which had forsaken her from the commencement of her attack in the house of Don Ferrante. The humble roof could only accommodate two guests, and there grew up, in their affliction, a strict and intimate friendship between them. They derived great consolation from each other’s society, and had pledged themselves not to separate, after quitting the lazaretto. The good woman, whose wealth was now far more ample than were her desires, wished to retain Lucy with her as a daughter: the proposition was received with gratitude, and accepted, on condition of the permission and approval of Agnes. Lucy had, however, never made known to her the circumstances of her intended marriage, and her other extraordinary adventures; but now she related, as distinctly as tears permitted her to do so, her sad story.