The Betrothed · CHAPTER II.

“What is the matter now?” thought Renzo; but without waiting to answer his own question, “Signor Curate,” said he, “I am come to know at what hour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at the church?”

“Of what day do you speak?”

“How! of what day? do you not remember that this is the day appointed?”

“To-day?” replied Don Abbondio, as if he heard it for the first time, “to-day? to-day? be patient, I cannot to-day——”

“You cannot to-day? why not?”

“In the first place I am not well——”

“I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will not be much fatigued.”

“But then—but then——”

“But then, what, sir?”

“There are difficulties.”

“Difficulties! How can that be?”

“People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there are to these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removing impediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happiness of others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproaches for it.”

“In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me at once what is the matter?”

“Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage can be celebrated?”

“I must, indeed, know something of them,” said Renzo, beginning to grow angry, “since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these few days back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all there was to do?”

“All, all, you expect; but be patient, I tell you. I have been a blockhead to neglect my duty, that I might not cause pain to others;—we poor curates—we are, as may be said, ever between a hawk and a buzzard. I pity you, poor young man! I perceive your impatience, but my superiors——Enough, I have reasons for what I say, but I cannot tell all—we, however, are sure to suffer.”

“But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform it immediately.”

“Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?”

“How can I know any thing of obstacles?”

“Error, conditio, votum, cognatis, crimen, cultus disparitas, vis, ordo.... Si sit affinis....”

“Oh! for Heaven’s sake—how should I understand all this Latin?”

“Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do——all that depends on me. I—I wish to see you satisfied—I wish you well—— And when I think that you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim entered your head to be married——”

“What words are these, Signor?” interrupted Renzo, with a look of astonishment and anger.

“I say, do be patient—I say, I wish to see you happy. In short—in short, my dear child, I have not been in fault; I did not make the laws. Before concluding a marriage, we are required to search closely that there be no obstacles.”

“Now, I beseech you, tell me at once what difficulty has occurred?”

“Be patient—these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There _will_ be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into the matter. The passage is clear and explicit,—‘antiquam matrimonium denunciet——’”

“I’ll not hear your Latin.”

“But it is necessary to explain to you——”

“But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait——”

“See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened every thing to serve you; but—but there has occurred——well, well, I know——”

“And what do you wish that I should do?”

“Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity; be patient.”

“For how long a time then?”

“We are coming to a good conclusion,” thought Don Abbondio. “Come,” said he, gently, “in fifteen days I will endeavour——”

“Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the very day you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteen days! Fifteen,” resumed he, with a low and angry voice.

Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with an imploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. “Come, come, don’t be angry; for the love of Heaven! I’ll see, I’ll see if in a week——”

“And what shall I say to Lucy?” said Renzo, softening.

“That it has been a mistake of mine.”

“And to the world?”

“Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made some great blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Come in a week.”

“And then there will be no further difficulties?”

“When I say a thing——”

“Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be put off with no further excuses:—for the present, I take my leave.” So saying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.

With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The cold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained and impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.

“Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day.”

“But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo.”

“I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?”

“Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master.”

“I was right in supposing there was a mystery,” thought Renzo. “Come, come, Perpetua,” continued he, “we are friends; tell me what you know,—help a poor young man.”

“It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo.”

“That is true,” replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions—“that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor.”

“Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame.”

“Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.

“I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God.”

“Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”

“Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”

Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio’s house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.

“Eh! eh! what has happened now?” said Don Abbondio.

“Who is this powerful personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?”

“What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket.

“Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I’ll know it too. Who is it, I say?”

“Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of your soul.”

“I must know it at once—this moment.” So saying, he placed his hand on his dagger, but perhaps without intending it.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.

“I _must_ know it.”

“Who has told you?”

“Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly.”

“Do you mean to kill me?”

“I mean to know that which I have a right to know.”

“But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?”

“Speak, then.”

The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. “Promise me—swear,” said he, “never to tell——”

“Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or——”

At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly articulated, “Don——”

“Don?” replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the rest. “Don?”

“Don Roderick!” muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped his lips.

“Ah! dog!” shouted Renzo; “and how has he done it? what has he said to you to——”

“What? what?” said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. “I wish you were like myself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would not have had so many whims in your head.” He, however, related in terrible colours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subdued by fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo, between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bent down, he continued in a lively manner, “You have made a pretty business of it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack an honest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You have done a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which I concealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it, what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I had judgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, no question of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open the door; give me the key.”

“I may have been to blame,” replied Renzo with a softened voice, but in which might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, “I may have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation——” He drew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.

“Swear to me,” said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face.

“I may have been to blame—forgive me,” replied Renzo, moving to depart.

“Swear first,” said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm.

“I may have been to blame,” said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp, and immediately springing out of the room.

“Perpetua! Perpetua!” cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain called back the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was so overwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasing perplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that he conceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all, by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed, was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxious watching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined to produce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in his large chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice, “Perpetua.”—Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under her arm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened. We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denials that passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio ordered Perpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any one knocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with a fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed, where we will leave him.

Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled and distracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Those who injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, but also of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of the injured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now his nature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault him there; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoes within, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friends and servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that not even a tradesman could be seen there without being examined from head to foot; and he, above all, would be, alas! but too well known. He then imagined himself placed behind a hedge, with his arquebuss in his hand, waiting till Roderick should pass by alone; rejoicing internally at the thought, he pictured to himself an approaching footstep; the villain appears, he takes aim, fires, and he falls; he exults a moment over his dying struggles, and then escapes for his life beyond the confines! And Lucy? This name recalled his wiser and better thoughts: he remembered the last instructions of his parents; he thought of God, the Holy Virgin, and the Saints; and he tremblingly rejoiced that he had been guilty of the deed only in imagination. But how many hopes, promises, and anticipations did the idea of Lucy suggest? And this day so ardently desired! How announce to her the dreadful news? And then, what plan to pursue? How make her his own in spite of the power of this wicked lord? And now a tormenting suspicion passed through his mind. Don Roderick must have been instigated to this injury by a brutal passion for Lucy! And she! He could not for a moment endure the maddening thought that she had given him the slightest encouragement. But was she not informed of his designs? Could he have conceived his infamous purpose, and have advanced so far towards its completion, without her knowledge? And Lucy, his own beloved, had never uttered a syllable to him concerning it!

These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house, which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that of Lucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard in front, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by a low wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices in the upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company, and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance. A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, crying out, “The bridegroom! the bridegroom!” “Hush, Betsy, hush,” said Renzo, “come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear—but let no one hear you—whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lower chamber, and that she must come at once.” The little girl hastily ascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute. Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, and surrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring to steal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity of rustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with her bending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared. Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up in multiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins of silver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is still the custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had a necklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore a boddice embroidered in flowers, the sleeves tied with ribands; a short petticoat of silk, with numerous minute plaits; crimson stockings, and embroidered silk slippers. But beyond all these ornaments was the modest and beautiful joy depicted on her countenance; a joy, however, troubled by a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into the circle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. “I shall return in a moment,” said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quitted the room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo, “What is the matter?” said she, not without a presentiment of evil.

“Lucy,” replied Renzo, “all is at a stand, and God knows whether we shall ever be man and wife!”

“How!” said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of the morning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of Don Roderick, “Ah!” exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, “has it then come to this?”

“Then you knew!” said Renzo.

“Too well,” replied Lucy.

“What did you know?”

“Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I’ll call my mother and dismiss the company. We must be alone.”

As she departed, Renzo whispered, “And you have never spoken of it to me!”

“Ah, Renzo!” replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him.

He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said, “Can you doubt me?”

Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) had descended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter’s disappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to the company, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, “The Signor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day.” The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips of the neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particular enquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio’s sickness. The truth of this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun to intimate by brief and mysterious hints.