 | CHAPTER V. The bravo |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“We'll follow Cade, we'll follow Cade.”
Henry VI.
The night wore on. The strains of music again
began to break through the ordinary stillness of the
town, and the boats of the great were once more
in motion on every canal. Hands waved timidly
in recognition, from the windows of the little dark
canopies, as the gondolas glided by, but few paused
to greet each other in that city of mystery and suspicion.
Even the refreshing air of the evening was
inhaled under an appearance of restraint, which,
though it might not be at the moment felt, was too
much interwoven with the habits of the people, ever
to be entirely thrown aside.
Among the lighter and gayer barges of the patricians,
a gondola of more than usual size, but of
an exterior so plain as to denote vulgar uses, came
sweeping down the great canal. Its movement was
leisurely, and the action of the gondoliers that of
men either fatigued or little pressed for time. He
who steered, guided the boat with consummate skill,
but with a single hand, while his three fellows, from
time to time, suffered their oars to trail on the water
in very idleness. In short, it had the ordinary
listless appearance of a boat returning to the city,
from an excursion on the Brenta, or to some of the
more distant isles.
Suddenly, the gondola diverged from the centre
pulled, and shot into one of the least frequented canals
of the city. From this moment its movement
became more rapid and regular, until it reached a
quarter of the town inhabited by the lowest order
of the Venetians. Here it stopped by the side of a
warehouse, and one of its crew ascended to a bridge.
The others threw themselves on the thwarts and
seemed to repose.
He who quitted the boat threaded a few narrow
but public allies, such as are to be found in every
part of that confined town, and knocked lightly
at a window. It was not long before the casement
opened, and a female voice demanded the name of
him without.
“It is I, Annina;” returned Gino, who was not an
unfrequent applicant for admission, at that private
portal. “Open the door, girl, for I have come on a
matter of pressing haste.”
Annina complied, though not without making sure
that her suitor was alone.
“Thou art come unseasonably, Gino,” said the
wine-seller's daughter; “I was about to go to St.
Mark's to breathe the evening air. My father and
brothers are already departed, and I only stay to
make sure of the bolts.”
“Their gondola will hold a fourth?”
“They have gone by the footways.”
“And thou walkest the streets alone at this hour,
Annina?”
“I know not thy right to question it, if I do,”
returned the girl, with spirit. “San Teodoro be
praised, I am not yet the slave of a Neapolitan's
servitor!”
“The Neapolitan is a powerful noble, Annina, able
and willing to keep his servitors in respect.”
“He will have need of all his interest—but why
hast thou come at this unseasonable hour? Thy
other affairs, they are disagreeable.”
Had the passion of the gondolier been very deep
or very sensitive, this plain dealing might have given
him a shock; but Gino appeared to take the repulse
as coolly as it was given.
“I am used to thy caprices, Annina,” he said,
throwing himself upon a bench, like one determined
to remain where he was. “Some young patrician
has kissed his hand to thee as thou hast crossed San
Marco, or thy father has made a better day of it
than common on the Lido—thy pride always mounts
with thy father's purse.”
“Diamine! to hear the fellow, one would think
he had my troth, and that he only waited in the sacristy
for the candles to be lighted, to receive my
vows! What art thou to me, Gino Tullini, that thou
takest on thee these sudden airs?”
“And what art thou to me, Annina, that thou
playest off these worn-out caprices on Don Camillo's
confidant?”
“Out upon thee, insolent! I have no time to waste
in idleness.”
“Thou art in much haste to-night, Annina.”
“To be rid of thee. Now listen to what I say,
Gino, and let every word go to thy heart, for they
are the last thou wilt ever hear from me. Thou
servest a decayed noble, one who will shortly be
chased in disgrace from the city, and with him will
go all his idle servitors. I choose to remain in the
city of my birth.”
The gondolier laughed in real indifference at her
affected scorn. But remembering his errand, he
quickly assumed a graver air, and endeavored to
still the resentment of his fickle mistress, by a more
respectful manner.
“St. Mark protect me, Annina!” he said. “If we
are not to kneel before the good priore together, it
have I come into the dark canals, within stone's-throw
of thy very door, with a gondola of mellow
Lachryma Christi, such as honest 'Maso, thy father,
has rarely dealt in, and thou treatest me as a dog,
that is chased from a church!”
“I have little time for thee, or thy wines, to-night,
Gino. Hadst thou not stayed me, I should already
have been abroad and happy.”
“Close thy door, girl, and make little ceremony
with an old friend,” said the gondolier, officiously
offering to aid her in securing the dwelling. Annina
took him at his word, and as both appeared to work
with good will, the house was locked, and the wilful
girl and her suitor were soon in the street. Their
route lay across the bridge already named. Gino
pointed to the gondola, as he said, “Thou art not to
be tempted, Annina?”
“Thy rashness in leading the smugglers to my
father's door will bring us to harm some day, silly
fellow!”
“The boldness of the act will prevent suspicion.”
“Of what vineyard is the liquor?”
“It came from the foot of Vesuvius, and is ripened
by the heat of the volcano. Should my friends
part with it to thy enemy, old Beppo, thy father will
rue the hour!”
Annina, who was much addicted to consulting her
interests on all occasions, cast a longing glance at
the boat. The canopy was closed, but it was large,
and her willing imagination readily induced her to
fancy it well filled with skins from Naples.
“This will be the last of thy visits to our door,
Gino?”
“As thou shalt please.—But go down and taste—”
Annina hesitated, and, as a woman is said always
to do when she hesitates, she complied. They reached
the boat, with quick steps, and without regarding
glided immediately beneath the canopy. A fifth
gondolier was lying at length on the cushions, for,
unlike a boat devoted to the contraband, the canopy
had the usual arrangement of a bark of the canals.
“I see nothing to turn me aside!” exclaimed the
disappointed girl. “Wilt thou aught with me,
Signore?”
“Thou art welcome. We shall not part so readily
as before.”
The stranger had arisen while speaking, and as
he ended, he laid a hand on the shoulder of his visitor,
who found herself confronted with Don Camillo
Monforte.
Annina was too much practised in deception to
indulge in any of the ordinary female symptoms,
either of real or of affected alarm. Commanding
her features, though in truth her limbs shook, she
said, with assumed pleasantry—
“The secret trade is honored in the services of
the noble Duke of St. Agata!”
“I am not here to trifle, girl, as thou wilt see in
the end. Thou hast thy choice before thee, frank
confession, or my just anger.”
Don Camillo spoke calmly, but in a manner that
plainly showed Annina she had to deal with a resolute
man.
“What confession would your eccellenza have
from the daughter of a poor wine-seller?” she asked,
her voice trembling in spite of herself.
“The truth—and remember, that this time we do
not part until I am satisfied. The Venetian police
and I are now fairly at issue, and thou art the first
fruits of my plan.”
“Signor Duca, this is a bold step to take in the
heart of the canals!”
“The consequences be mine. Thy interest will
teach thee to confess.”
“I shall make no great merit, Signore, of doing
that which is forced upon me. As it is your pleasure
to know the little I can tell you, I am happy to
be permitted to relate it.”
“Speak, then; for time presses.”
“Signore, I shall not pretend to deny you have
been ill-treated. Capperi! how ill has the council
treated you! A noble cavalier, of a strange country,
who, the meanest gossip in Venice knows, has a just
right to the honors of the senate, to be so treated is
a disgrace to the republic! I do not wonder that
your eccellenza is out of humor with them. Blessed
St. Mark himself would lose his patience to be thus
treated!”
“A truce with this, girl, and to your facts.”
“My facts, Signor Duca, are a thousand times
clearer than the sun, and they are all at your eccellenza's
service. I am sure I wish I had more of
them, since they give you pleasure.”
“Enough of this profession.—Speak to the facts
themselves.”
Annina, who, in the manner of most of her class
in Italy, that had been exposed to the intrigues of
the towns, had been lavish of her words, now found
means to cast a glance at the water, when she saw
that the boat had already quitted the canals, and
was rowing easily out upon the Lagunes. Perceiving
how completely she was in the power of Don
Camillo, she began to feel the necessity of being
more explicit.
“Your eccellenza has probably suspected that the
council found means to be acquainted with your intention
to fly from the city with Donna Violetta?”
“All that is known to me.”
“Why they chose me to be the servitor of the
noble lady is beyond my powers to discover. Our
Lady of Loretto! I am not the person to be sent for,
when the state wishes to part two lovers!”
“I have borne with thee, Annina, because I would
let the gondola get beyond the limits of the city; but
now thou must throw aside thy subterfuge, and speak
plainly. Where didst thou leave my wife?”
“Does your eccellenza then think the state will
admit the marriage to be legal?”
“Girl, answer, or I will find means to make thee.
Where didst thou leave my wife?”
“Blessed St. Theodore! Signore, the agents of the
republic had little need of me, and I was put on the
first bridge that the gondola passed.”
“Thou strivest to deceive me in vain. Thou wast
on the Lagunes till a late hour in the day, and I have
notice of thy having visited the prison of St. Mark
as the sun was setting; and this on thy return from
the boat of Donna Violetta.”
There was no acting in the wonder of Annina.
“Santissima Maria! You are better served, Signore,
than the council thinks!”
“As thou wilt find to thy cost, unless the truth be
spoken. From what convent didst thou come?”
“Signore, from none. If your eccellenza has discovered
that the senate has shut up the Signora
Tiepolo, in the prison of St. Mark, for safe-keeping,
it is no fault of mine.”
“Thy artifice is useless, Annina;” observed Don
Camillo, calmly. “Thou wast in the prison, in quest
of forbidden articles that thou hadst long left with
thy cousin Gelsomina, the keeper's daughter, who
little suspected thy errand, and on whose innocence
and ignorance of the world thou hast long successfully
practised. Donna Violetta is no vulgar prisoner,
to be immured in a jail.”
“Santissima Madre di Dio!”
Amazement confined the answer of the girl to
this single, but strong, exclamation.
“Thou seest the impossibility of deception. I am
acquainted with so much of thy movements as to
astray. Thou art not wont to visit thy cousin; but
as thou entered the canals this evening—”
A shout on the water caused Don Camillo to
pause. On looking out he saw a dense body of
boats, sweeping towards the town as if they were
all impelled by a single set of oars. A thousand
voices were speaking at once, and occasionally a
general and doleful cry proclaimed that the floating
multitude, which came on, was moved by a common
feeling. The singularity of the spectacle, and
the fact that his own gondola lay directly in the
route of the fleet, which was composed of several
hundred boats, drove the examination of the girl,
momentarily, from the thoughts of the noble.
“What have we here, Jacopo?” he demanded, in
an under-tone, of the gondolier who steered his own
barge.
“They are fishermen, Signore, and by the manner
in which they come down towards the canals, I
doubt they are bent on some disturbance. There
has been discontent among them since the refusal of
the doge to liberate the boy of their companion from
the galleys.”
Curiosity induced the people of Don Camillo to
linger a minute, and then they perceived the necessity
of pulling out of the course of the floating mass,
which came on like a torrent, the men sweeping
their boats with that desperate stroke which is so
often seen among the Italian oarsmen. A menacing
hail, with a command to remain, admonished Don
Camillo of the necessity of downright flight, or of
obedience. He chose the latter, as the least likely
to interfere with his own plans.
“Who art thou?” demanded one, who had assumed
the character of a leader. “If men of the
Lagunes and Christians, join your friends, and away
with us to St. Mark, for justice!”
“What means this tumult?” asked Don Camillo,
whose dress effectually concealed his rank, a disguise
that he completed by adopting the Venetian
dialect. “Why are you here in these numbers,
friends?”
“Behold!”
Don Camillo turned, and he beheld the withered
features and glaring eyes of old Antonio, fixed in
death. The explanation was made by a hundred
voices, accompanied by oaths so bitter, and denunciations
so deep, that had not Don Camillo been
prepared by the tale of Jacopo, he would have found
great difficulty in understanding what he heard.
In dragging the Lagunes for fish, the body of
Antonio had been found, and the result was, first a
consultation on the probable means of his death,
then a collection of the men of his calling, and
finally the scene described.
“Giustizia!” exclaimed fifty excited voices, as
the grim visage of the fisherman was held towards
the light of the moon; “Giustizia in Palazzo e pane
in Piazza!”
“Ask it of the senate!” returned Jacopo, not attempting
to conceal the derision of his tones.
“Thinkest thou our fellow has suffered for his
boldness yesterday?”
“Stranger things have happened in Venice!”
“They forbid us to cast our nets in the Canale
Orfano, lest the secrets of justice should be known,
and yet they have grown bold enough to drown
one of our own people in the midst of our gondolas!”
“Justice, justice!” shouted numberless hoarse
throats.
“Away to St. Mark's! Lay the body at the feet
of the doge—away, brethren—Antonio's blood is on
their souls!”
Bent on a wild and undigested scheme of asserting
their wrongs, the fishermen again plied their
composed of a single mass.
The meeting, though so short, was accompanied
by cries, menaces, and all those accustomed signs
of rage which mark a popular tumult among those
excitable people, and it had produced a sensible
effect on the nerves of Annina. Don Camillo profited
by her evident terror to press his questions, for
the hour no longer admitted of trifling.
The result was, that while the agitated mob
swept into the mouth of the Great Canal, raising
hoarse shouts, the gondola of Don Camillo Monforte
glided away across the wide and tranquil surface
of the Lagunes.
| CHAPTER V. The bravo | |