CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

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 did _you_ do?”

“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 find _another_ person. 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! If _I_ could _I_!—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 say _No_. 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 that _there_ was 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.

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