“Peace be with you!” said the friar as he entered. “There is nothing
more to hope from man: so much the greater must be our confidence in
God; and I’ve already had a pledge of his protection.” None of the three
entertained much hope from the visit of Father Christopher: for it would
have been not only an unusual, but an absolutely unheard-of fact, for a
nobleman to desist from his criminal designs at the mere prayer of his
defenceless victim. Still, the sad certainty was a painful stroke.
The women bent down their heads; but in the mind of Renzo anger
prevailed over disappointment. “I would know,” cried he, gnashing his
teeth, and raising his voice as he had never done before in the presence
of Father Christopher, “I would know what reasons this dog has given,
that my wife should not _be_ my wife?”
“Poor Renzo!” said the father, with an accent of pity, and with a look
which greatly enforced moderation; “poor Renzo! if those who commit
injustice were always obliged to give a reason for it, things would not
be as they are!”
“He has said, then, the dog! that he will not, because he will not?”
“He has not even said _so_, poor Renzo! There would be something gained,
if he would make an open confession of his iniquity.”
“But he has said something; _what_ has this firebrand of hell said?”
“I could not repeat his words. He flew into a passion at me for my
suspicions, and at the same time confirmed me in them: he insulted me,
and then called himself offended; threatened, and complained. Ask no
farther. He did not utter the name of Lucy, nor even pretend to know
you: he affected to intend nothing. In short, I heard enough to feel
that he is inexorable. But confidence in God! Poor children! be patient,
be submissive! And thou, Renzo! believe that I sympathise with all that
passes in thy heart.—But _patience_! It is a poor word, a bitter word
to those who want faith; but, Renzo, will you not let God work? Will you
not trust Him? Let Him work, Renzo; and, for your consolation, know that
I hold in my hand a clue, by which I hope to extricate you from your
distress. I cannot say more now. To-morrow I shall not be here; I shall
be all day at the convent employed for you. Renzo, if thou canst, come
there to me; but, if prevented by any accident, send some trusty
messenger, by whom I can make known to you the success of my endeavours.
Night approaches; I must return to the convent. Farewell! Faith and
courage!” So saying, he departed, and hastened by the most abrupt but
shortest road, to reach the convent in time, and escape the usual
reprimand; or, what was worse, the imposition of some penance, which
might disenable him, for the following day, from continuing his efforts
in favour of his protégés.
“Did you hear him speak of a clue which he holds to aid us?” said Lucy;
“it is best to trust in him; he is a man who does not make rash
promises.”
“He ought to have spoken more clearly,” said Agnes; “or at least have
taken me aside, and told me what it was.”
“I’ll put an end to the business; I’ll put an end to it,” said Renzo,
pacing furiously up and down the room.
“Oh! Renzo!” exclaimed Lucy.
“What do you mean?” said Agnes.
“What do I mean? I mean to say that he may have a hundred thousand
devils in his soul, but he is flesh and blood notwithstanding.”
“No, no, for the love of Heaven!” said Lucy, but tears choked her voice.
“It is not a theme for jesting,” said Agnes.
“For jesting?” cried Renzo, stopping before her, with his countenance
inflamed by anger; “for jesting! you will see if I am in jest.”
“Oh! Renzo!” said Lucy, sobbing, “I have never seen you thus before!”
“Hush, hush!” said Agnes, “speak not in this manner. Do you not fear
the law, which is always to be had against the poor? And, besides, how
many arms would be raised at a word!”
“I fear nothing,” said Renzo; “the villain is well protected, dog that
he is! but no matter. Patience and resolution! and the time will come.
Yes! justice shall be done! I will free the country! People will bless
me! Yes, yes.”
The horror which Lucy felt at this explicit declaration of his purpose
inspired her with new resolution. With a tearful countenance, but
determined voice, she said to Renzo, “It can no longer be of any
consequence to you, that I should become yours; I promised myself to a
youth who had the fear of God in his heart; but a man who had
once——were you safe from the law, were you secure from vengeance, were
you the son of a king——”
“Well!” cried Renzo, in a voice of uncontrollable passion, “well! I
shall not have you, then; but neither shall he; of _that_ you may——”
“For pity’s sake, do not talk thus; do not talk so fiercely!” said Lucy
imploringly.
“You to implore me!” said he, somewhat appeased. “You! who will do
nothing for _me_! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have I
not supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain——”
“Yes, yes,” replied Lucy, hastily, “I will go to the curate’s to-morrow;
now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go.”
“Do you promise me?” said Renzo, softening immediately.
“I promise.”
“Well, I am satisfied.”
“God be praised!” said Agnes, much relieved.
“I have promised you,” said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, “but
you have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher.”
“Ha! will you now draw back?” said Renzo.
“No, no,” said Lucy, again alarmed, “no, no, I have promised, and will
perform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. God
forbid that——”
“Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person.”
“Well, well,” said Lucy, “I will hope for the best.”
Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allot
to each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, and
he reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart.
The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation and
trouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue is
uncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busied
themselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a mere
spectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, she
still promised to do the best she could.
“Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as he
desired you last night?” said Agnes to Renzo.
“Oh! no,” replied he, “the father would soon read in my countenance that
there was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should be
obliged to tell him. You had better send some one.”
“I will send Menico.”
“Yes, that will do,” replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make farther
arrangements.
Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad of
twelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, was
a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of his
parents to keep him all day “for a particular service.” She took him
home, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go to
Pescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send him
back with a message.
“_Father Christopher_, you understand; that nice old man, with a white
beard; him they call the Saint.”
“I know him, I know him!” said Menico: “he speaks so kindly to the
children, and often gives them pictures.”
“Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near the
convent until he has an answer ready, don’t stray away; don’t go to the
lake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish,
nor——”
“Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby.”
“Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give you
these new _parpagliole_.”[3]
[3] A sort of coin.
During the remainder of this long morning, several strange things
occurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled minds
of Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of his
kind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing every
object around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presented
to him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with a
mixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to which
Agnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, he
pretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to the
stairs. They called to him, “Stay, stay! where are you going, good man?
this way.” He returned, excusing himself with an affectation of
humility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and stern
features. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strange
people. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road;
another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, as
if to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house during
the remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some one
approach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations,
however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression of
impending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogether
to suppress.
To explain to the reader the true character of these suspicious
wanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in the
hall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more he
reflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged and
ashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke of
Nathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through the
apartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors,
senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt his
indignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. A
base-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans of
vengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledge
it to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears,
and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, he
rang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, and
to say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again.
The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed.
“And the Count Attilio?” asked Don Roderick.
“He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord.”
“Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat.
Be quick.”
The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a rich
sword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around his
shoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air of
proud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armed
ruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunk
from his approach; their profound and timid salutations received no
notice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination of
the head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, was
incontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whose
salutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was the
Spanish governor. In order to get rid of his _ennui_, and banish the
idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of a
gentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with that
apparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towards
the powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace,
he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought,
took a chair, but said little.
Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when the
count, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, “Cousin, when will
you pay me my wager?”
“San Martin’s day has not yet passed.”
“Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar may
pass, before you——”
“We will see about that!” said Don Roderick.
“Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I am
so certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another.”
“Why!”
“Why? because the father—the father—in short, this friar has converted
you.”
“One of your fine imaginations, truly!”
“Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be a
fine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And how
flattering to the father! he don’t catch such fish every day. Be
assured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actions
will be trumpeted from the pulpit!”
“Enough, enough!” interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and half
disposed to laugh. “I will double the wager with you, if you please.”
“The devil! perhaps _you_ have converted the father!”
“Do not speak of him; but as to the wager, San Martin will decide.” The
curiosity of the count was aroused; he made many enquiries, which Don
Roderick evaded, referring him to the day of decision.
The following morning, when he awoke, Don Roderick was “himself again.”
The various emotions that had agitated him after his interview with the
father, had now resolved themselves into the simple desire of revenge.
Hardly risen, he sent for Griso.—“Something serious,” muttered the
servant to whom the order was given; as this _Griso_ was nothing less
than the leader of the _bravoes_ to whom was intrusted the most
dangerous and daring enterprises, who was the most trusted by the
master, and the most devoted to him, from gratitude and interest. This
man had been guilty of murder; he had fled from the pursuit of justice
to the palace of Don Roderick, who took him under his protection, and
thus sheltered him from the pursuit of the law. He, therefore, stood
pledged to the performance of any deed of villany that should be imposed
on him.
“Griso,” said Don Roderick, “you must show your skill in this
emergency. Before to-morrow, this Lucy must be in this palace.”
“It shall never be said that Griso failed to execute a command from his
illustrious protector.”
“Take as many men as are necessary, and dispose of them as appears to
you best; only let the thing succeed. But be careful that no harm be
done to her.”
“Signor, a little fright—we cannot do less.”
“Fright—may be unavoidable. But touch not a hair of her head; and,
above all, treat her with the greatest respect. Do you hear?”
“Signor, I could not take a flower from the bush, and carry it to your
Highness, without touching it; but I will do only what is absolutely
necessary.”
“Well; I trust thee. And—how wilt thou do it?”
“I was thinking, signor. It is fortunate that her cottage is at the
extremity of the village; we have need of some place of concealment; and
not far from her house there is that old uninhabited building in the
middle of the fields, that one—but, your Highness knows nothing of
these matters—which was burnt a few years ago, and, not having been
repaired, is now deserted, except by the witches, who keep all cowardly
rascals away from it; so that we may take safe possession.”
“Well; what then?”
Here Griso went on to propose, and Don Roderick to approve, until they
had agreed upon the manner of conducting the enterprise to the desired
conclusion, without leaving a trace of the authors of it: and also upon
the manner of imposing silence, not only upon poor Agnes, but also upon
the more impatient and fiery Renzo.
“If this rash fellow fall in your way by chance,” added Don Roderick,
“you had best give him, on his shoulders, something he will remember; so
that he will be more likely to obey the order to remain quiet, which he
will receive to-morrow. Do you hear?”
“Yes, yes, leave it to me,” said Griso, as, with an air of importance,
he took his leave.
The morning was spent in reconnoitring,—the mendicant of whom we have
spoken was Griso; the others were the villains whom he employed, to
gain a more perfect knowledge of the scene of action. They returned to
the palace to arrange and mature the enterprise;—all these mysterious
movements were not effected without rousing the suspicions of the old
domestic, who, partly by listening, and partly by conjecture, came to
the knowledge of the concerted attempt of the evening. This knowledge
came a little too late, for already a body of ruffians were laying in
wait in the old house. However, the poor old man, although well aware of
the dangerous game he played, did not fail to perform his promise; he
left the palace on some slight pretence, and hurried to the convent.
Griso and his band left shortly after, and met at the old building,—the
former had previously left orders at the palace, that, at the approach
of night, there should be a litter brought thither,—he then despatched
three of the bravoes to the village inn; one to remain at its entrance
to observe the movements on the road, and to give notice when the
inhabitants should have retired to rest; the other two to occupy
themselves within as idlers, gaming and drinking. Griso, with the rest
of the troop, continued in ambush, on the watch.
All this was going forward, and the sun was about to set, when Renzo
entered the cottage, and said to Lucy and her mother, “Tony and Jervase
are ready; I am going with them to sup at the inn; at the sound of the
‘Ave Maria,’ we will come for you; take courage, Lucy, all depends on a
moment.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “courage;” with a voice that contradicted her
words.
When Renzo and his companions arrived at the inn, they found the door
blockaded by a sentinel, who, leaning on one side of it, with his arms
folded on his breast, occupied half its width; at the same time rolling
his eagle eyes first to the right and then to the left, displaying
alternately their blacks and their whites. A flat cap of crimson velvet,
placed sideways, covered the half of the _long lock_, which, parted on a
dark forehead, was fastened behind with a comb. He held in his hand a
club; his arms, properly speaking, were concealed beneath his garments.
When Renzo evinced a desire to enter, he looked at him fixedly without
moving; of this, the young man, wishing to decline all conversation,
took no notice, but, beckoning to his companions to follow his example,
slid between the figure and the door-post. Having gained an entrance, he
beheld the other two bravoes with a large mug between them, seated at
play; they stared at him with a look of enquiry, making signs to each
other, and then to their comrade at the door. This was not unobserved by
Renzo, and his mind was filled with a vague sentiment of suspicion and
alarm. The innkeeper came for his orders; which were, “a private room,
and supper for three.”
“Who are those strangers?” asked he of the landlord, when he came in to
set the table.
“I do not know them,” replied he.
“How! neither of them?”
“The first rule of our trade,” said he, spreading the cloth, “is, not to
meddle with the affairs of others; and, what is wonderful, even our
women are not curious. It is enough for us that customers pay well; who
they are, or who they are not, matters nothing. And now, I will bring
you a dish of polpette, the like of which you have never eaten.”
When he returned to the kitchen, and was employed in taking the polpette
from the fire, one of the bravoes approached, and said, in an under
tone, “Who are those men?”
“Good people of this village,” replied the host, pouring the mince-meat
into a dish.
“Well; but what are their names? Who are they?” insisted he, in a rough
voice.
“One is called Renzo,” replied the host; “esteemed a good youth, and an
excellent weaver of silk. The other is a peasant, whose name is Tony; a
jovial fellow,—it is a pity he has no more money, for he would spend it
all here. The other is a simpleton, who eats when they feed him. By your
leave——” So saying, he slipped past him, with the dish in his hand,
and carried it to the place of its destination.
“How do you know?” said Renzo, continuing the conversation from the
point at which it had been dropped, “how do you know that they are
honest men, when you are not acquainted with them?”
“From their actions, my good fellow; men are known by their actions. He
who drinks wine without criticising it; he who shows the face of the
king on the counter without prattling; he who does not quarrel with
other customers, and, if he has a blow or two to give, goes away from
the inn, so that the poor host need not suffer from it; _he_ is an
honest man. But what the devil makes you so inquisitive, when you are
engaged to be married, and should have other things in your head? And
with this mince-meat before you, which would make the dead revive?” So
saying, he returned to the kitchen.
The supper was not very agreeable; the two guests would have lingered
over the unusual luxury; but Renzo, preoccupied, and troubled and uneasy
at the singular appearance of the strangers, longed for the hour of
departure. He conversed in brief sentences, and in an under tone, so
that he might not be overheard by them.
“What an odd thing it is,” blundered Jervase, “that Renzo wishes to be
married, and has needed——” Renzo looked sternly at him. “Keep silence,
you beast!” said Tony to him, accompanying the epithet with a cuff.
Jervase obeyed, and the remainder of the repast was consumed in silence.
Renzo observed a strict sobriety, in order to keep his companions under
some restraint. Supper being over, he paid the reckoning, and prepared
to depart: they were obliged to pass the three men again, and encounter
a repetition of their eager gaze. When a few steps distant from the inn,
Renzo, looking back, perceived that he was followed by the two whom he
had left seated in the kitchen. He stopped; observing this, they stopped
also, and retraced their steps.
If he had been near enough, he would have heard a few words of strange
import; “It would be a glorious thing,” said one of the scoundrels,
“without reckoning the cash, if we could tell at the palace how we had
flattened their ribs,—without the direction, too, of Signor Griso.”
“And spoil the whole work,” added the other; “but see! he stops to look
at us! Oh! if it were only later! But let us turn back, not to create
suspicion. People are coming on all sides; let us wait till they go to
their rests.”
Then was heard in the village the busy hum of the evening, which
precedes the solemn stillness of the night; then were seen women
returning from their daily labour, with their infants on their backs,
and leading by the hand the older children, to whom they were repeating
the evening prayers; men with their spades, and other instruments of
culture, thrown over their shoulders. At the opening of the cottage
doors, was discerned the bright light of the fires, kindled in order to
prepare their meagre suppers; in the street there were salutations given
and returned, brief and mournful observations on the poverty of the
harvest, and the scarcity of the year; and at intervals was heard the
measured strokes of the bell which announced the departure of the day.
When Renzo saw that the two men no longer followed him, he continued his
way, giving instructions, in a low voice, from time to time, to his two
companions. It was dark night when they arrived at the cottage of Lucy.
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.”
Lucy endured many hours the anguish of such a dream; and Agnes, even
Agnes, the author of the plot, was thoughtful and silent. But, in the
moment of action, new and various emotions pass swiftly through the
mind: at one instant, that which had appeared difficult becomes
perfectly easy; at another, obstacles present themselves which were
never before thought of, the imagination is filled with alarm, the limbs
refuse their office, and the heart fails at the promise it had given
with such security. At the gentle knock of Renzo, Lucy was seized with
such terror, that, at the moment, she resolved to suffer any thing, to
endure a separation from him for ever, rather than execute her
resolution; but when, with an assured and encouraging air, he said, “All
is ready; let us begone,” she had neither heart nor time to suggest
difficulties. Agnes and Renzo placed her between them, and the
adventurous company set forward. Slowly and quietly they took the path
that led around the village,—it would have been nearer to pass directly
through it, to Don Abbondio’s house, but their object was to avoid
observation. Upon reaching the house, the lovers remained concealed on
one side of it, Agnes a little in advance, so as to be prepared to speak
to Perpetua as soon as she should make her appearance. Tony, with
Jervase, who did nothing, but _without_ whom nothing could be done,
courageously knocked at the door.
“Who is there, at this hour?” cried a voice from the window, which they
recognised to be that of Perpetua. “No one is sick, that I know of. What
is the matter?”
“It is I,” replied Tony, “with my brother; we want to speak with the
curate.”
“Is this an hour for Christians?” replied Perpetua, briskly. “Come
to-morrow.”
“Hear me; I will come, or not, as I choose; I have received I can’t tell
how much money, and I have come to balance the small account that you
know of. I have here twenty-five fine new pieces; but if he cannot see
me,—well—I know how and where to spend them.”
“Wait, wait. I will speak to you in a moment. But why come at this
hour?”
“If you can change the hour, I am willing; as for me, I am here, and, if
you don’t want me to stay, I’ll go away.”
“No, no, wait a moment; I will give you an answer.” So saying, she
closed the window. As soon as she disappeared, Agnes separated herself
from the lovers, saying to Lucy, in a low voice, “Courage, it is but a
moment.” She then entered into conversation with Tony at the door, that
Perpetua, on opening it, might suppose she had been accidentally passing
by, and that Tony had detained her.
