CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Here, among those who were expecting the arrival of the army in alarm and consternation, we find persons of our acquaintance. He who did not behold Don Abbondio on the day when the report was spread of the descent of the army, of its near approach, and its excesses, can have no idea of the power of fright upon a feeble mind. All sorts of reports were afloat. They are coming—thirty, forty, fifty thousand men. They have sacked Cortenova; burnt Primaluna; plundered Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio. They have been seen at Balobbio; to-morrow they will be here. Such were the statements in circulation. The villagers assembled in tumultuous crowds, hesitating whether to fly or remain, while the women lamented aloud over their miserable fate.

Don Abbondio, to whom flight had immediately suggested itself, saw in it, nevertheless, invincible obstacles, and frightful dangers. “What shall I do?” cried he; “where shall I go?” The mountains, without speaking of the difficulty of ascending them, were not safe; the foot soldiers climbed them like cats, if they had the slightest indication or hope of booty; the waters of the lake were swollen; it was blowing violently; in addition to which, the greater part of the watermen, fearing to be forced to pass soldiers or baggage, had taken refuge with their boats on the opposite shore; the few barks that remained were already filled with people, and endangered by the weather. It was impossible to find a carriage or horse, or any mode of conveyance. Don Abbondio did not dare venture on foot, incurring, as he would, the probability of being stopped on the road. The confines of the Bergamascan territory were not so distant, but that he could have walked there in a little while; but a report had reached the village, that a squadron of _cappelletri_ had been sent in haste from Bergamo, to guard the frontiers against the German foot-soldiers. These were not less devils incarnate than those they were commissioned to oppose. The poor man was beside himself with terror; he endeavoured to concert with Perpetua some plan of escape, but Perpetua was quite occupied in collecting and concealing his valuables; with her hands full, she replied, “Let me place this in safety; we will then do as other people do.” Don Abbondio desired eagerly to discuss with her the best means to be pursued, but Perpetua, between hurry and fright, was less tractable than usual: “Others will do the best they can,” said she, “and so will we. Excuse me, but you only hinder one. Do you not think they have skins to save as well as we?”

Relieving herself thus from his importunities, she went on with her occupation; the poor man, as a last resource, went to a window, and cried, in a piteous tone, to the people who were passing, “Do your poor curate the favour to bring him a horse or a mule; is it possible no one will come to help me? Wait for me at least; wait till I can go with you; abandon me not. Would you leave me in the power of these dogs? Know you not that they are Lutherans, and that the murder of a priest will seem to them a meritorious deed? Would you leave me here to be martyred?”

But to whom did he address this appeal? to men who were themselves incumbered with the weight of their humble movables, or, disturbed by the thoughts of what they had been obliged to leave behind, exposed to the ravages of the destroyer. One drove his cow before him; another conducted his children, who were also laden with burdens, his wife perhaps with an infant in her arms. Some went on their way without replying or looking at him; others merely said, “Eh, sir, do as you can; you are fortunate in having no family to think of; help yourself; do the best you can.”

“Oh, poor me!” cried Don Abbondio, “oh, what savages! they have no feeling; they give not a thought to their poor curate!” And he went again in search of Perpetua.

“Oh, you are come just in time,” said she, “where is your money?”

“What shall we do with it?”

“Give it to me; I will bury it in the garden with the plate.”

“But——”

“But, but, give it to me; keep a few pence for necessity, and let me manage the rest.”

Don Abbondio obeyed, and drawing his treasure from his strong box, gave it to Perpetua. “I will bury it in the garden, at the foot of the fig-tree,” said she, as she disappeared. She returned in a few moments, with a large basket, full of provisions, and a small one, which was empty; into the latter she put a few articles of clothing for herself and master.

“You must take your breviary with you,” said she.

“But where are we going?”

“Where every one else goes. We will go into the street, and then we shall hear and see what we must do.”

At this moment Agnes entered with a small basket in her hand, and with the air of one about to make an important proposal.

She had decided not to wait the approach of the dangerous guests, alone as she was, and with the gold of the Unknown in her possession; but had remained some time in doubt where to seek an asylum. The residue of the crowns, which in time of famine would have been so great a treasure, was now the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution; as, under the present circumstances, those who had money were worse off than others; being exposed at the same time to the violence of strangers, and the treachery of their companions. It is true, none knew of the wealth which had thus, as it were, fallen to her from heaven, except Don Abbondio, to whom she had often applied to change a crown, leaving him always some part of it for those more unfortunate than herself. But hidden property, above all, to those not accustomed to such a possession, keeps the possessor in continual suspicion of others. Now, whilst she reflected on the peculiar dangers to which she was exposed, by the very generosity itself of the Unknown, the offer of unlimited service, which had accompanied the gift, suddenly occurred to her recollection. She remembered the descriptions she had heard of his castle, as situated in a high place, where, without the concurrence of the master, none dared venture but the birds of heaven. Resolving to go thither, and reflecting on the means of making herself known to this signor, her thoughts recurred to Don Abbondio, who, since the conversation with the archbishop, had been very particular in his expression of good feeling towards her, as he could at present be, without compromising himself, there being but little probability, from the situation of affairs, that his benevolence would be put to the test. She naturally supposed, that in a time of such consternation, the poor man would be more alarmed than herself, and might acquiesce in her plan; this was, therefore, the purpose of her visit. Finding him alone with Perpetua, she made known her intentions.

“What do you say to it, Perpetua?” asked Don Abbondio.

“I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we must lose no time, and set off immediately.”

“But then——”

“But then, but then; when we have arrived safely there, we shall be very glad, that’s all. It is well known that this signor thinks of nothing now but doing good to others, and he will afford us an asylum with the greatest pleasure. There, on the frontiers, and almost in the sky, the soldiers will not trouble us. But then—but then, we shall have enough to eat, no doubt. On the top of the mountains, the provisions we have here with us would not serve us long.”

“Is it true that he is really converted?”

“Can you doubt it, after all you have seen?”

“And if, after all, we should be voluntarily placing ourselves in prison?”

“What prison? With this trifling, excuse me, we shall never come to any conclusion. Worthy Agnes! your plan is an excellent one.” So saying, she placed the basket on the table, and having passed her arms through the straps, swung it over her shoulders.

“Could we not procure,” said Don Abbondio, “some man to accompany us? Should we encounter some ruffian on the way, what assistance would you be to me?”

“Not done yet! always losing time!” cried Perpetua. “Go then, and look for a man, and you will find every one engaged in his own business, I warrant you. Come, take your breviary, and your hat, and let us be off.”

Don Abbondio was obliged to obey, and they departed. They passed through a small door into the churchyard. Perpetua closed it from custom; not for the security it could now give. Don Abbondio cast a look towards the church,—“It is for the people to guard it,” thought he; “it is their church: let them see to it, if they have the heart.” They took the by-paths through the fields, but were in continual apprehension of encountering some one, who might arrest their progress. They met no one, however; all were employed, either in guarding their houses, or packing their furniture, or travelling, with their moveables, towards the mountains.

Don Abbondio, after many sighs and interjections, began to grumble aloud: he complained of the Duke of Nevers, who could have remained to enjoy himself in France, had he not been determined to be Duke of Mantua, in despite of all the world; of the emperor, and above all, of the governor, whose duty it was to keep this scourge from the country, and not invoke it by his taste for war.

“Let these people be, they cannot help us now,” said Perpetua. “These are your usual chatterings, excuse me, which mean nothing. That which gives me the most uneasiness——”

“What is it?”

Perpetua, who had been leisurely recalling to mind the things which she had so hastily concealed, remembered that she had forgotten such an article, and had not safely deposited such another; that she had left traces which might impart information to the depredators.

“Well done!” cried Don Abbondio, in whom the security he was beginning to feel with regard to his life allowed his anxiety to appear for his property; “well done! Is this what you have been doing? Where were your brains?”

“How!” replied Perpetua, stopping for a moment, and attempting, as far as her load would permit, to place her arms a-kimbo; “do you find fault, when it was yourself who teased me out of my wits, instead of helping me as you ought to have done? I have thought more of my master’s goods than my own; and if there is any thing lost, I can’t help it, I have done more than my duty.”

Agnes interrupted these disputes by introducing her own troubles: she was obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing her dear Lucy, for some time at least; for she could not expect that Donna Prassede would come into this vicinity under such circumstances. The sight of the well-remembered places through which they were passing increased the anguish of her feelings. Leaving the fields, they had taken the high road, the same which the poor woman had travelled, in re-conducting, for so short a time, her daughter to her home, after having been with her at the tailor’s. As they approached the village, “Let us go and visit these worthy people,” said Agnes.

“And rest a little, and eat a mouthful,” said Perpetua, “for I begin to have enough of this basket.”

“On condition that we lose no time, for this is not by any means a journey for amusement,” said Don Abbondio.

They were received with open arms, and cordially welcomed; Agnes, embracing the good hostess, wept bitterly; replying with sobs to the questions her husband and she asked concerning Lucy.

“She is better off than we are,” said Don Abbondio; “she is at Milan, sheltered from danger, far from these horrible scenes.”

“The signor curate and his companions are fugitives, are they not?” said the tailor.

“Yes,” replied, at the same time, Perpetua and her master.

“I sympathise with your misfortunes.”

“We are going to the castle of——”

“That is well thought of; you will be as safe as in Paradise.”

“And are you not afraid here?”

“We are too much off the road. If they should turn out of their way, we shall be warned in time.”

The three travellers decided to take a few hours’ rest: as it was the hour of dinner, “Do me the honour,” said the tailor, “to partake of my humble fare.”

Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to break her fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreed to seat themselves at the dinner table.

The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailor ordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; “and you,” said he to another, “go to the garden, and bring some peaches; all that are ripe. And you,” to a third, “climb the fig-tree, and gather the best figs; it is a business to which you are well accustomed.” As for himself, he left the room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of a table-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendly board, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfaction than they could have anticipated from the events of the morning.

“What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I can fancy I’m reading the history of the Moors in France,” said the tailor.

“What do I say? That even that misfortune might have befallen me,” replied Don Abbondio.

“You have chosen an excellent asylum, however; for none can ascend those heights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerous company there. Many people have already fled thither, and there are fresh arrivals every day.”

“I dare to hope we shall be well received. I know this worthy signor: when I had the honour to be in his company he was all politeness.”

“And,” said Agnes, “he sent me word by his illustrious lordship, that if ever I should need assistance, I had only to apply to him.”

“What a wonderful conversion!” resumed Don Abbondio. “And he perseveres? does he _not_ persevere?”

The tailor spoke at length of the holy life of the Unknown, and said, that after having been the scourge of the country, he had become its best example and benefactor.

“And the people of his household—that band?” asked Don Abbondio, who had heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel, therefore, quite secure.

“The greater part have left him,” replied the tailor, “and those who have remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castle has become like the Thebaid. The signor curate understands me.”

Then retracing with Agnes the visit of the cardinal, “What a great man!” said he, “a great man, indeed! what a pity he remained so short a time with us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able to address him again, more at my leisure!”

When they rose from table, he showed them an engraving of the cardinal, which he had hung on the door, from veneration to his virtues, and also to enable him to assure every body that it was no likeness; he knew it was not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this very room.

“Did they mean that for him?” said Agnes. “The habit is the same, but——”

“It is no likeness, is it?” said the tailor; “that is what I always say, but other things being wanting, there is at least his name under it, which tells who it is.”

Don Abbondio being impatient to be gone, the tailor went in search of a vehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, and returned in a few moments to inform them it was ready. “Signor curate,” said he, “if you wish a few books to carry with you, I can lend you some; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not like yours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but——”

“A thousand thanks, but under present circumstances I have scarcely brains enough to read my breviary.”

After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they bade farewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, the remainder of their journey.

The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new life of the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he had continued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries, reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed and unfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defence he now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other. He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequences of the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding to his crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was a debtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil done to him would be sin against God, it would be but a just retribution against himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge an injury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not less inviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollection of his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, the former exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering this revenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, to substitute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whom no one could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with the deepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond their hopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they could never have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, the satisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and participate, so to speak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abasement, his countenance and manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevated and noble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever.

This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from public retribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank and family, which had always been a species of defence to him, still prevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined the personal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and nobility had rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as this conversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed to ask nor obtain. Probably, also, the name of the Cardinal Frederick, whose interest in his conversion, and subsequent friendship for him, were well known, served him as an impenetrable shield.

Upon the arrival of the German troops, when fugitives from the invaded countries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long the object of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded as a place of security and protection, the Unknown received them rather with gratitude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that his doors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placing not only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence: assembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them on the opportunity God had afforded them, as well as himself, to serve those whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his old accent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gave them general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who should take refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. He gave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as also to the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in its defence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and their different stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his former criminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that he had made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of his garrison.

He also employed the females of the household in preparing beds, straw, mattresses, sacks, in various rooms intended as temporary dormitories. He ordered abundant provisions to be brought to the castle for the use of the guests God should send him; and in the mean while he was himself never idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, and maintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence.

“One work. Many languages. One reading experience.”