 | CHAPTER VII. The bravo |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
The very last of that illustrious race.
Rogers.
When the fishermen landed on the quay, they deserted
the gondola of the state to a man. Donna
Violetta and her governess heard the tumultuous
departure of their singular captors with alarm, for
they were nearly in entire ignorance of the motive
which had deprived them of the protection of father
Anselmo, and which had so unexpectedly made
them actors in the extraordinary scene. The
monk had simply explained that his offices were
required in behalf of the dead, but the apprehension
of exciting unnecessary terror prevented him
from adding that they were in the power of a mob.
by looking from the windows of the canopy,
and from the cries of those around her, to get a
glimmering of the truth. Under the circumstances,
she saw that the most prudent course was to keep
themselves as much as possible from observation.
But when the profound stillness that succeeded the
landing of the rioters announced that they were
alone, both she and her charge had an intuitive perception
of the favorable chance, which fortune had
so strangely thrown in their way.
“They are gone!” whispered Donna Florinda,
holding her breath in attention, as soon as she had
spoken.
“And the police will be soon here to seek us!”
No further explanation passed, for Venice was a
town in which even the young and innocent were
taught caution. Donna Florinda stole another look
without.
“They have disappeared, Heaven knows where!
Let us go!”
In an instant the trembling fugitives were on the
quay. The Piazzetta was without a human form,
except their own. A low, murmuring, sound arose
from the court palace, which resembled the hum of
a disturbed hive; but nothing was distinct or intelligible.
“There is violence meditated,” again whispered
the governess; “would to God that father Anselmo
were here!”
A shuffling footstep caught their ears, and both
turned towards a boy, in the dress of one of the
Lagunes, who approached from the direction of the
Broglio.
“A reverend Carmelite bid me give you this,”
said the youth, stealing a glance behind him, like
one who dreaded detection. Then putting a small
piece of paper in the hand of Donna Florinda, he
silver coin glittered, to the moon, and vanished.
By the aid of the same light the governess succeeded
in tracing pencil-marks, in a hand that had
been well known to her younger days.
“Save thyself, Florinda—There is not an instant
to lose. Avoid public places, and seek a shelter
quickly.”
“But whither?” asked the bewildered woman,
when she had read aloud the scroll.
“Anywhere but here,” rejoined Donna Violetta;
“follow me.”
Nature frequently more than supplies the advantages
of training and experience, by her own gifts.
Had Donna Florinda been possessed of the natural
decision and firmness of her pupil, she would not now
have been existing in the isolated condition which is
so little congenial to female habits, nor would father
Anselmo have been a monk. Both had sacrificed
inclination to what they considered to be duty, and if
the ungenial life of the governess was owing to the
tranquil course of her ordinary feelings, it is probable
that its impunity was to be ascribed to the same
respectable cause. Not so with Violetta. She was
ever more ready to act than to reflect, and though,
in general, the advantage might possibly be with
those of a more regulated temperament, there are
occasions that form exceptions to the rule. The
present moment was one of those turns in the
chances of life, when it is always better to do any
thing than to do nothing.
Donna Violetta had scarcely spoken, before her
person was shadowed beneath the arches of the
Broglio. Her governess clung to her side, more in
affection than in compliance with the warning of the
monk, or with the dictates of her own reason. A
vague and romantic intention of throwing herself at
the feet of the doge, who was a collateral descendant
the mind of the youthful bride, when she first fled;
but no sooner had they reached the palace, than a
cry from the court acquainted them with its situation,
and consequently with the impossibility of penetrating
to the interior.
“Let us retire, by the streets, to thy dwelling, my
child,” said Donna Florinda, drawing her mantle
about her in womanly dignity. “None will offend
females of our condition; even the senate must, in
the end, respect our sex.”
“This from thee, Florinda!—Thou, who hast so
often trembled for their anger! But go, if thou wilt—
I am no longer the senate's.—Don Camillo Monforte
has my duty.”
Donna Florinda had no intention of disputing this
point, and as the moment had now arrived when the
most energetic was likely to lead, she quietly submitted
herself to the superior decision of her pupil.
The latter took the way along the portico, keeping
always within its shadows. In passing the gateway,
which opened towards the sea, the fugitives had a
glimpse of what was passing in the court. The
sight quickened their steps, and they now flew, rather
than ran, along the arched passage. In a minute
they were on the bridge, which crosses the canal of
St. Mark, still flying with all their force. A few
mariners were looking from their feluccas and gazing
in curiosity, but the sight of two terrified females,
seeking refuge from a mob, had nothing in itself
likely to attract notice.
At this moment, a dark mass of human bodies
appeared advancing along the quay in the opposite
direction. Arms glittered in the moon-beams, and
the measured tread of trained men became audible.
The Dalmatians were moving down from the arsenal
in a body. Advance and retreat now seemed equally
impossible to the breathless fugitives. As decision
Violetta did not understand so readily as the circumstances
required, that it was more than probable
the hirelings of the republic would consider the flight
perfectly natural, as it had appeared to the curious
gazers of the port.
Terror made them blind, and as shelter was now
the sole object of the fugitives, they would probably
have sought it in the chamber of doom, itself, had
there been an opportunity. As it was, they turned
and entered the first, and indeed the only, gate which
offered. They were met by a girl, whose anxious
face betrayed that singular compound of self-devotion
and terror, which probably has its rise in the instinct
of feminine sympathies.
“Here is safety, noble ladies,” said the youthful
Venetian, in the soft accent of her native islands;
“none will dare do you harm within these walls.”
“Into whose palace have I entered?” demanded
the half-breathless Violetta. “If its owner has a
name in Venice, he will not refuse hospitality to a
daughter of Tiepolo.”
“Signora, you are welcome,” returned the gentle
girl, curtsying low, and still leading the way deeper
within the vast edifice. “You bear the name of an
illustrious house!”
“There are few in the republic of note, from
whom I may not claim, either the kindness of ancient
and near services, or that of kindred. Dost thou
serve a noble master?”
“The first in Venice, lady.”
“Name him, that we may demand his hospitality
as befits us.”
“Saint Mark.”
Donna Violetta and her governess stopped short.
“Have we unconsciously entered a portal of the
palace?”
“That were impossible, lady, since the canal lies
St. Mark master here. I hope you will not esteem
your safety less, because it has been obtained in
the public prison, and by the aid of its keeper's
daughter.”
The moment for headlong decision was passed,
and that of reflection had returned.
“How art thou called, child?” asked Donna Florinda,
moving ahead of her pupil and taking the
discourse up, where in wonder the other had permitted
it to pause. “We are truly grateful for the
readiness with which thou threw open the gate for
our admission, in a moment of such alarm—How
art thou called?”
“Gelsomina,” answered the modest girl. “I am
the keeper's only child—and when I saw ladies of
your honorable condition, fleeing on the quay, with
the Dalmatians marching on one side, and a mob
shouting on the other, I bethought me that even a
prison might be welcome.”
“Thy goodness of heart did not mislead thee.”
“Had I known it was a lady of the Tiepolo, I
should have been even more ready; for there are
few of that great name now left to do us honor.”
Violetta curtsied to the compliment, but she
seemed uneasy that haste and pride of rank had led
her, so indiscreetly, to betray herself.
“Canst thou not lead us to some place less public?”
she asked, observing that her conductor had stopped
in a public corridor to make this explanation.
“Here you will be retired as in your own palaces,
great ladies;” answered Gelsomina, turning into a
private passage, and leading the way towards the
rooms of her family, from a window of which she
had first witnessed the embarrassment of her guests.
“None enter here, without cause, but my father and
myself; and my father is much occupied with his
charge.”
“Hast thou no domestic?”
“None, lady. A prison-keeper's daughter should
not be too proud to serve herself.”
“Thou sayest well. One of thy discretion, good
Gelsomina, must know it is not seemly for females
of condition to be thrown within walls like these,
even by accident, and thou wilt do us much favor,
by taking more than common means, to be certain
that we are unseen. We give thee much trouble,
but it shall not go unrequited. Here is gold.”
Gelsomina did not answer, but as she stood with
her eyes cast to the floor, the color stole to her
cheeks, until her usually bloodless face was in a soft
glow.
“Nay, I have mistaken thy character!” said Donna
Florinda, secreting the sequins, and taking the
unresisting hand of the silent girl. “If I have
pained thee, by my indiscretion, attribute the offer
to our dread of the disgrace of being seen in this
place.”
The glow deepened, and the lips of the girl
quivered.
“Is it then a disgrace to be innocently within these
walls, lady?” she asked, still with an averted eye.
“I have long suspected this, but none has ever before
said it, in my hearing!”
“Holy Maria pardon me! If I have uttered a
syllable to pain thee, excellent girl, it has been unwittingly
and without intention!”
“We are poor, lady, and the needy must submit
to do that which their wishes might lead them to
avoid. I understand your feelings, and will make
sure of your being secret, and Blessed Maria will
pardon a greater sin, than any you have committed
here.”
While the ladies were wondering, at witnessing
such proofs of delicacy and feeling in so singular a
place, the girl withdrew.
“I had not expected this in a prison!” exclaimed
Violetta.
“As all is not noble, or just, in a palace, neither
is all to be condemned unheard, that we find in a
prison. But this is, in sooth, an extraordinary girl
for her condition, and we are indebted to blessed
St. Theodore, (crossing herself,) for putting her in
our way.”
“Can we do better than by making her a confidant
and a friend?”
The governess was older, and less disposed than
her pupil, to confide in appearances. But the more
ardent mind and superior rank of the latter had
given her an influence, that the former did not always
successfully resist. Gelsomina returned before
there was time to discuss the prudence of what
Violetta had proposed.
“Thou hast a father, Gelsomina?” asked the Venetian
heiress, taking the hand of the gentle girl, as
she put her question.
“Holy Maria be praised!—I have still that happiness.”
“It is a happiness—for surely a father would not
have the heart to sell his own child to ambition and
mercenary hopes! And thy mother?”
“Has long been bed-ridden, lady. I believe we
should not have been here, but we have no other
place so suitable for her sufferings, as this jail.”
“Gelsomina, thou art happier than I, even in thy
prison. I am fatherless—motherless—I could almost
say, friendless.”
“And this from a lady of the Tiepolo!”
“All is not as it seems in this evil world, kind
Gelsomina. We have had many doges, but we
have had much suffering. Thou mayest have heard
that the house of which I come is reduced to a single,
youthful girl like thyself, who has been left in
the senate's charge?”
“They speak little of these matters, lady, in Venice;
and, of all here, none go so seldom into the
square as I. Still have I heard of the beauty and
riches of Donna Violetta. The last I hope is true;
the first I now see is so.”
The daughter of Tiepolo colored, in turn, but it
was not in resentment.
“They have spoken in too much kindness for an
orphan,” she answered; “though that fatal wealth
is perhaps not over-estimated. Thou knowest that
the state charges itself with the care and establishment
of all noble females, whom Providence has
left fatherless?”
“Lady, I did not. It is kind of St. Mark to do it!”
“Thou wilt think differently, anon. Thou art
young, Gelsomina, and hast passed thy time in privacy?”
“True, lady. It is seldom I go farther than my
mother's room, or the cell of some suffering prisoner.”
Violetta looked towards her governess, with an
expression which seemed to say, that she anticipated
her appeal would be made in vain, to one so little
exposed to the feelings of the world.
“Thou wilt not understand then, that a noble female
may have little inclination to comply with all
the senate's wishes, in disposing of her duties and
affections?”
Gelsomina gazed at the fair speaker, but it was
evident that she did not clearly comprehend the
question. Again Violetta looked at the governess
as if asking aid.
“The duties of our sex are often painful,” said
Donna Florinda, “understanding the appeal with
female instinct. Our attachments may not always
follow the wishes of our friends. We may not
choose, but we cannot always obey.”
“I have heard that noble ladies are not suffered to
if that is what your eccellenza means, and, to me,
the custom has always seemed unjust, if not cruel.”
“And are females of thy class permitted to make
friends among those who may become dearer at
any other day?” asked Violetta.
“Lady, we have that much freedom even in the
prisons.”
“Then art thou happier than those of the palaces!
I will trust thee, generous girl, for thou canst not
be unfaithful to the weakness and wrongs of thy
sex.”
Gelsomina raised a hand, as if to stop the impetuous
confidence of her guest, and then she listened
intently.
“Few enter, here,” she said; “but there are
many ways of learning secrets within these walls
which are still unknown to me. Come deeper into
the rooms, noble ladies, for here is a place that I
have reason to think is safe, even from listeners.”
The keeper's daughter led the way into the little
room, in which she was accustomed to converse
with Jacopo.
“You were saying, lady, that I had a feeling for
the weakness and helplessness of our sex, and
surely you did me justice.”
Violetta had leisure to reflect an instant, in passing
from one room to the other, and she began her
communications with more reserve. But the sensitive
interest that a being of the gentle nature and
secluded habits of Gelsomina took in her narrative,
won upon her own natural frankness, and, in a
manner nearly imperceptible to herself, she made
the keeper's daughter mistress of most of the circumstances
under which she had entered the prison.
The cheek of Gelsomina became colorless as
she listened, and when Donna Violetta ceased,
every limb of her slight frame trembled with interest.
“The senate is a fearful power to resist!” she
said, speaking so low as hardly to be audible.
“Have you reflected, lady, on the chances of what
you do?”
“If I have not, it is now too late to change my
intentions. I am the wife of the Duke of Sant'
Agata, and can never wed another.”
“Gesu!—This is true.—And yet, methinks, I
would choose to die a nun rather than offend the
council!”
“Thou knowest not, good girl, to what courage
the heart of even a young wife is equal.—Thou art
still bound to thy father, in the instruction and
habits of childhood, but thou mayest live to know
that all thy hopes will centre in another.”
Gelsomina ceased to tremble, and her mild eye
brightened.
“The council is terrible,” she answered, “but it
must be more terrible to desert one to whom you
have vowed duty and love at the altar!”
“Hast thou the means of concealing us, kind
girl,” interrupted Donna Florinda, “and canst thou,
when this tumult shall be quieted, in any manner
help us to farther secrecy or flight?”
“Lady, I have none. Even the streets and
squares of Venice are nearly strangers to me. Santissima
Maria! what would I give to know the
ways of the town as well as my cousin Annina,
who passes, at will, from her father's shop to the
Lido, and from St. Mark's to the Rialto, as her
pleasure suits. I will send for my cousin, who will
counsel us in this fearful strait!”
“Thy cousin!—Hast thou a cousin named Annina?”
“Lady, Annina. My mother's sister's child.”
“The daughter of a wine-seller called Tomaso
Torti?”
“Do the noble dames of the city take such heed
she has great desires to be noted by the great.”
“And does thy cousin come hither?”
“Rarely, lady—We are not of much intimacy.
I suppose Annina finds a girl, simple and uninstructed
as I, unworthy of her company. But she will
not refuse to aid us, in a danger like this. I know
she little loves the republic, for we have had words
on its acts, and my cousin has been bolder of
speech about them, than befits one of her years, in
this prison.”
“Gelsomina, thy cousin is a secret agent of the
police, and unworthy of thy confidence—”
“Lady!”
“I do not speak without reason. Trust me, she
is employed in duties that are unbecoming her sex,
and unworthy of thy confidence.”
“Noble dames, I will not say any thing to do displeasure
to your high rank and present distress, but
you should not urge me to think thus of my mother's
niece. You have been unhappy, and you
may have cause to dislike the republic, and you are
safe here—but I do not desire to hear Annina censured.”
Both Donna Florinda and her less experienced
pupil knew enough of human nature, to consider
this generous incredulity as a favorable sign of the
integrity of her who manifested it, and they wisely
contented themselves with stipulating that Annina
should, on no account, be made acquainted with
their situation. After this understanding, the three
discussed, more leisurely, the prospect of the fugitives
being able to quit the place, when ready, without
detection.
At the suggestion of the governess, a servitor of
the prison was sent out by Gelsomina, to observe
the state of the square. He was particularly
charged, though in a manner to avoid suspicion, to
friars. On his return, the menial reported
that the mob had quitted the court of the palace,
and was gone to the cathedral, with the body of
the fisherman who had so unexpectedly gained the
prize in the regatta of the preceding day.
“Repeat your aves and go to sleep, Bella Gelsomina,”
concluded the sub-keeper, “for the fishermen
have left off shouting to say their prayers. Per
Diana! The bare-headed and bare-legged rascals
are as impudent as if St. Mark were their inheritance!
The noble patricians should give them a
lesson in modesty, by sending every tenth knave
among them to the galleys. Miscreants! to disturb
the quiet of an orderly town with their vulgar complaints!”
“But thou hast said nothing of the friar; is he
with the rioters?”
“There is a Carmelite at the altar—but my blood
boiled at seeing such vagabonds disturb the peace
of respectable persons, and I took little note of his
air or years.”
“Then thou failedst to do the errand on which I
sent thee. It is now too late to repair thy fault.
Thou canst return to thy charge.”
“A million pardons, Bellissima Gelsomina, but indignation
is the uppermost feeling, when one in office
sees his rights attacked by the multitude. Send me
to Corfu, or to Candia, if you please, and I will bring
back the color of every stone in their prisons, but
do not send me among rebels. My gorge rises at
the sight of villany!”
As the keeper's daughter withdrew, while her
father's assistant was making this protestation of
loyalty, the latter was compelled to give vent to the
rest of his indignation in a soliloquy.
One of the tendencies of oppression is to create
a scale of tyranny, descending from those who rule
He, who has been much accustomed to
view men, need not be told that none are so arrogant
with their inferiors, as those who are oppressed by
their superiors; for poor human nature has a secret
longing to revenge itself on the weak for all the injuries
it receives from the strong. On the other
hand, no class is so willing to render that deference,
when unexacted, which is the proper meed of virtue,
and experience, and intelligence, as he who knows
that he is fortified on every side against innovations
on his natural rights. Thus it is, that there is more
security against popular violence and popular insults
in these free states, than in any other country on
earth, for there is scarcely a citizen so debased as
not to feel that, in assuming the appearance of a wish
to revenge the chances of fortune, he is making an
undue admission of inferiority.
Though the torrent may be pent and dammed by
art, it is with the constant hazard of breaking down
the unnatural barriers; but left to its own course, it
will become the tranquil and the deep stream, until
it finally throws off its superfluous waters into the
common receptacle of the ocean.
When Gelsomina returned to her visitors, it was
with a report favorable to their tranquillity. The
riot in the court of the palace, and the movement of
the Dalmatians, had drawn all eyes in another direction;
and although some errant gaze might have
witnessed their entrance into the gate of the prison,
it was so natural a circumstance, that no one would
suspect females of their appearance of remaining
there an instant longer than was necessary. The
momentary absence of the few servants of the prison,
who took little heed of those who entered the
open parts of the building, and who had been drawn
away by curiosity, completed their security. The
humble room they were in was exclusively devoted
scarcely a possibility of interruption, until the council
had obtained the leisure and the means of making
use of those terrible means, which rarely left any
thing it wished to know concealed.
With this explanation Donna Violetta and her
companion were greatly satisfied. It left them
leisure to devise means for their flight, and kindled
a hope, in the former, of being speedily restored to
Don Camillo. Still there existed the cruel embarrassment
of not possessing the means of acquainting
the latter with their situation. As the tumult ceased,
they resolved to seek a boat, favored by such disguises
as the means of Gelsomina could supply, and
to row to his palace; but reflection convinced Donna
Florinda of the danger of such a step, since the
Neapolitan was known to be surrounded by the
agents of the police. Accident, which is more effectual
than stratagem in defeating intrigues, had
thrown them into a place of momentary security,
and it would be to lose the vantage-ground of their
situation to cast themselves, without the utmost
caution, into the hazards of the public canals.
At length the governess bethought her of turning
the services of the gentle creature, who had already
shown so much sympathy in their behalf, to account.
During the revelations of her pupil, the feminine
instinct of Donna Florinda had enabled her to discover
the secret springs which moved the unpractised
feelings of their auditor. Gelsomina had listened
to the manner in which Don Camillo had thrown
himself into the canal to save the life of Violetta,
with breathless admiration; her countenance was a
pure reflection of her thoughts, when the daughter
of Tiepolo spoke of the risks he had run to gain her
love, and woman glowed in every lineament of her
mild face, when the youthful bride touched on the
nature of the engrossing tie which had united them,
senate's policy.
“If we had the means of getting our situation
to the ears of Don Camillo,” said the governess, “all
might yet be saved; else will this happy refuge in
the prison avail us nothing.”
“Is the cavalier of too stout a heart to shrink before
those up above?” demanded Gelsomina.
“He would summon the people of his confidence,
and ere the dawn of day we might still be beyond
their power. Those calculating senators will deal
with the vows of my pupil, as if they were childish
oaths, and set the anger of the Holy See itself at
defiance, when there is question of their interest.”
“But the sacrament of marriage is not of man;
that, at least, they will respect!”
“Believe it not. There is no obligation so solemn
as to be respected, when their policy is concerned.
What are the wishes of a girl, or what the happiness
of a solitary and helpless female, to their fortunes?
That my charge is young, is a reason why
their wisdom should interfere, though it is none to
touch their hearts with the reflection that the misery
to which they would condemn her, is to last the
longer. They take no account of the solemn obligations
of gratitude; the ties of affection are so
many means of working upon the fears of those
they rule, but none for forbearance; and they laugh
at the devotedness of woman's love, as a folly to
amuse their leisure, or to take off the edge of disappointment
in graver concerns.”
“Can any thing be more grave than wedlock,
lady?”
“To them it is important, as it furnishes the
means of perpetuating their honors and their proud
names. Beyond this, the councils look little at domestic
interests.”
“They are fathers and husbands!”
“True, for to be legally the first, they must become
the last. Marriage to them is not a tie of
sacred and dear affinity, but the means of increasing
their riches and of sustaining their names;”
continued the governess, watching the effect of her
words on the countenance of the guileless girl.
“They call marriages of affection children's games,
and they deal with the wishes of their own daughters,
as they would traffic with their commodities
of commerce. When a state sets up an idol of
gold as its god, few will refuse to sacrifice at its
altar!”
“I would I might serve the noble Donna Violetta!”
“Thou art too young, good Gelsomina, and I fear
too little practised in the cunning of Venice.”
“Doubt me not, lady; for I can do my duty like
another, in a good cause.”
“If it were possible to convey to Don Camillo
Monforte a knowledge of our situation—but thou art
too inexperienced for the service!”
“Believe it not, Signora,” interrupted the generous
Gelsomina, whose pride began to stimulate her natural
sympathies with one so near her own age, and
one too, like herself, subject to that passion which
engrosses a female heart. “I may be apter than
my appearance would give reason to think.”
“I will trust thee, kind girl, and if the Sainted
Virgin protects us, thy fortunes shall not be forgotten!”
The pious Gelsomina crossed herself, and, first
acquainting her companions with her intentions, she
went within to prepare herself, while Donna Florinda
penned a note, in terms so guarded as to defy
detection in the event of accident, but which might
suffice to let the lord of St. Agata understand their
present situation.
In a few minutes the keeper's daughter reappeared.
modest Venetian maiden of humble condition, needed
no concealment; and the mask, an article of
dress which none in that city were without, effectually
disguised her features. She then received the
note, with the name of the street, and the palace
she was to seek, a description of the person of the
Neapolitan, with often-repeated cautions to be wary,
and departed.
| CHAPTER VII. The bravo | |