On this same day, the 13th of November, there arrived a courier
extraordinary to the signor _podestà_ of 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 no
_signora_ there, 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, that _the
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——”
“_He_ has 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——”
“The arrangement of the business now rests with me.”
“That is what I thought; I said to myself, the signor our uncle is the
only one who can save the honour of Don Roderick; he has a thousand
means that I know not of: I know that the father provincial has a great
respect for him, and if our uncle should think that the best thing for
this friar would be a change of air, he can in a few words——”
“Will your lordship leave the care of the business to him to whom it
appertains?” said the count, sharply.
“Ah! that is true,” cried Attilio; “am I the man to give advice to your
lordship? But the regard I have for the honour of the family made me
speak. And I am afraid I have committed another folly,” added he,
affecting a pensive air: “I am afraid I have injured Don Roderick in
your opinion; I should have no rest if you doubted Roderick’s confidence
in you, and submission to your will. I hope the signor our uncle will
believe, that in this case, it is truly——”
“Well, well, you two will be always friends, until one of you become
prudent. Ever in fault, and relying on me to repair it! You give me more
trouble than all the affairs of state!” continued he, with an expression
of grave importance.
Attilio proffered a few more excuses, promises, and compliments, and
took his leave, with a parting injunction from his uncle _to be
prudent_!
