 | CHAPTER X. The bravo |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine hath been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd—forbidden fare.
Prisoner of Chillon.
When the day dawned on the following morning,
the square of St. Mark was empty. The priests still
chanted their prayers for the dead, near the body
of old Antonio, and a few fishermen still lingered
in and near the cathedral but half persuaded of the
manner in which their companion had come to his
end. But, as was usual at that hour of the day, the
city appeared tranquil, for though a slight alarm had
passed through the canals, at the movement of the
rioters, it had subsided in that specious and distrustful
quiet, which is, more or less, the unavoidable
based on the willing support of the mass.
Jacopo was again in the attic of the doge's
palace, accompanied by the gentle Gelsomina. As
they threaded the windings of the building, he recounted
to the eager ear of his companion, all the
details connected with the escape of the lovers;
omitting, as a matter of prudence, the attempt of
Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of Don Camillo.
The unpractised and single-hearted girl heard him
in breathless attention, the color of her cheek, and
the changeful eye, betraying the force of her sympathies,
at each turn in their hazardous adventure.
“And dost thou think they can yet escape from
those up above?” murmured Gelsomina, for few in
Venice would trust their voices, by putting such a
question aloud. “Thou knowest the republic hath,
at all times, its galleys in the Adriatic!”
“We have had thought of that, and the Calabrian
is advised to steer for the mole of Ancona. Once
within the States of the Church, the influence of
Don Camillo and the rights of his noble wife will
protect them. Is there a place here, whence we
can look out upon the sea?”
Gelsomina led the Bravo into an empty room of
the attic which commanded a view of the port, the
Lido, and the waste of water beyond. The breeze
came in strong currents, over the roofs of the
town, and causing the masts of the port to rock, it
lighted on the Lagunes, without the tiers of the
shipping. From this point, to the barrier of sand,
it was apparent, by the stooping sails and the struggles
of the gondoliers who pulled towards the quay,
that the air was swift. Without the Lido, itself, the
element was shadowed and fitful, while farther in
the distance, the troubled waters, with their crests
of foam, sufficiently proved its power.
“Santa Maria be praised!” exclaimed Jacopo,
and distant view—“they are already far down the
coast, and with a wind like this they cannot fail to
reach their haven, in a few hours.—Let us go to
the cell.”
Gelsomina smiled, when he assured her of the
safety of the fugitives, but her look saddened when
he changed the discourse. Without reply, however,
she did as he desired, and in a very few moments
they were standing by the side of the prisoner's
pallet. The latter did not appear to observe
their entrance, and Jacopo was obliged to announce
himself.
“Father!” he said, with that melancholy pathos
which always crept into his voice when he addressed
the old man, “it is I.”
The prisoner turned, and though evidently much
enfeebled, since the last visit, a wan smile gleamed
on his wasted features.
“And thy mother, boy?” he asked, so eagerly as
to cause Gelsomina to turn hastily aside.
“Happy, father—happy!”
“Happy without me?”
“She is ever with thee, in spirit, father. She
thinks of thee in her prayers. Thou hast a saint
for an intercessor, in my mother—father.”
“And thy good sister?”
“Happy too—doubt it not, father. They are
both patient and resigned.”
“The senate, boy?”
“Is the same: soulless, selfish, and pretending!”
answered Jacopo sternly; then turning away his
face, in bitterness of heart, though without permitting
the words to be audible, he cursed them.
“The noble Signori were deceived in believing
me concerned in the attempt to rob their revenues,”
returned the patient old man; “one day they will
see and acknowledge their error.”
Jacopo made no answer, for, unlettered as he
was, and curtailed of that knowledge which should
be, and is, bestowed on all, by every paternal government,
the natural strength of his mind had enabled
him to understand, that a system, which on its
face professed to be founded on the superior acquirements
of a privileged few, would be the least
likely to admit the fallacy of its theories, by confessing
it could err.
“Thou dost the nobles injustice, son; they are illustrious
patricians, and have no motive in oppressing
one like me.”
“None, father, but the necessity of maintaining
the severity of the laws, which make them senators
and you a prisoner.”
“Nay, boy, I have known worthy gentlemen of
the senate! There was the late signor Tiepolo,
who did me much favor in my youth. But for this
false accusation, I might now have been one of
the most thriving of my craft in Venice.”
“Father, we will pray for the soul of the Tiepolo.”
“Is the senator dead?”
“So says a gorgeous tomb in the church of the
Redentore.”
“We must all die at last,” whispered the old man,
crossing himself. “Doge as well as patrician—
patrician as well as gondolier.—Jaco—”
“Father!” exclaimed the Bravo, so suddenly as
to interrupt the coming word, then kneeling by the
pallet of the prisoner he whispered in his ear, “thou
forgettest there is reason why thou should'st not
call me by that name. I have told thee, often, that
if thus called, my visits must stop.”
The prisoner looked bewildered, for the failing
of nature rendered that obscure which was once so
evident to his mind. After gazing long at his son,
he smiled childishly.
“Wilt thou look, good boy, if the spider is come
back?”
Jacopo groaned, but he rose to comply.
“I do not see it, father; the season is not yet
warm.”
“Not warm! my veins feel heated to bursting.
Thou forgettest this is the attic, and that these are
the leads, and then the sun—oh! the sun! The illustrious
senators do not bethink them of the pain
of passing the bleak winter below the canals, and
the burning summers beneath hot metal.”
“They think of nothing but their power,” murmured
Jacopo—“that which is wrongfully obtained,
must be maintained by merciless injustice—but
why should we speak of this, father; hast thou all
thy body needs?”
“Air—son, air!—give me of that air, which God
has made for the meanest living thing.”
The Bravo rushed towards those fissures in the
venerable but polluted pile, he had already striven
to open, and with frantic force he endeavored to
widen them with his hands. The material resisted,
though blood flowed from the ends of his fingers, in
the desperate effort.
“The door, Gelsomina, open wide the door!” he
cried, turning away from the spot, exhausted with
his fruitless exertions.
“Nay, I do not suffer now, my child—it is when
thou hast left me, and when I am alone with my
own thoughts, when I see thy weeping mother and
neglected sister, that I most feel the want of air—
are we not in the fervid month of August, son?”
“Father, it is not yet June.”
“I shall then have more heat to bear! God's will
be done, and blessed Santa Maria, his mother undefiled!—give
me strength to endure it.”
The eye of Jacopo gleamed with a wildness,
scarcely less frightful than the ghastly look of the
old man, his chest heaved, his fingers were clenched,
and his breathing was audible.
“No,” he said, in a low, but in so determined a
voice, as to prove how fiercely his resolution was
set, “thou shalt not await their torments: arise,
father, and go with me. The doors are open, the
ways of the palace are known to me, in the darkest
night, and the keys are at hand. I will find means
to conceal thee until dark, and we will quit the accursed
republic for ever.”
Hope gleamed in the eye of the old captive, as
he listened to this frantic proposal, but distrust of
the means immediately altered its expression.
“Thou forgettest those up above, son.”
“I think only of One truly above, father.”
“And this girl—how canst thou hope to deceive
her?”
“She will take thy place—she is with us in heart,
and will lend herself to a seeming violence. I do
not promise for thee, idly, kindest Gelsomina?”
The frightened girl, who had never before witnessed
so plain evidence of desperation in her companion,
had sunk upon an article of furniture, speechless.
The look of the prisoner changed from one
to the other, and he made an effort to rise, but debility
caused him to fall backward, and not till then,
did Jacopo perceive the impracticability, on many
accounts, of what, in a moment of excitement, he
had proposed. A long silence followed. The hard
breathing of Jacopo gradually subsided, and the expression
of his face changed to its customary, settled,
and collected look.
“Father,” he said, “I must quit thee; our misery
draws near a close.”
“Thou wilt come to me soon again?”
“If the saints permit—thy blessing, father.”
The old man folded his hands above the head
of Jacopo, and murmured a prayer. When this
pious duty was performed, both the Bravo and Gelsomina
busied themselves, a little time, in contributing
to the bodily comforts of the prisoner, and
then they departed in company.
Jacopo appeared unwilling to quit the vicinity of
the cell. A melancholy presentiment seemed to
possess his mind, that these stolen visits were soon
to cease. After a little delay, however, they descended
to the apartments below, and as Jacopo
desired to quit the palace, without re-entering the
prisons, Gelsomina prepared to let him out by the
principal corridor.
“Thou art sadder than common, Carlo,” she observed,
watching with feminine assiduity his averted
eye. “Methinks thou should'st rejoice in the
fortunes of the Neapolitan, and of the lady of the
Tiepolo.”
“That escape is like a gleam of sunshine, in a
wintry day. Good girl—but we are observed!
why is yon spy on our movements?”
“'Tis a menial of the palace; they constantly
cross us in this part of the building: come hither, if
thou art weary. The room is little used, and we
may again look out upon the sea.”
Jacopo followed his mild conductor into one of
the neglected closets of the second floor, where, in
truth, he was glad to catch a glimpse of the state
of things in the piazza, before he left the palace.
His first look was at the water, which was still
rolling southward, before the gale from the Alps.
Satisfied with this prospect, he bent his eye beneath.
At the instant, an officer of the republic issued from
the palace gate, preceded by a trumpeter, as was
usual, when there was occasion to make public proclamation
of the senate's will. Gelsomina opened
the casement, and both leaned forward to listen.
the cathedral, the trumpet sounded, and the voice of
the officer was heard.
“Whereas many wicked and ruthless assassinations
have of late been committed on the persons of
divers good citizens of Venice,”—he proclaimed—
“the senate, in its fatherly care of all whom it is
charged to protect, has found reason to resort to
extraordinary means of preventing the repetition of
crimes so contrary to the laws of God and the security
of society. The Illustrious Ten therefore offer,
thus publicly, a reward of one hundred sequins to
him who shall discover the perpetrator of any of
these most horrible assassinations; and, whereas,
during the past night, the body of a certain Antonio,
a well-known fisherman, and a worthy citizen, much
esteemed by the patricians, has been found in the
Lagunes, and, whereas, there is but too much reason
to believe that he has come to his death by the hands
of a certain Jacopo Frontoni, who has the reputation
of a common Bravo, but who has been long watched,
in vain, by the authorities, with the hope of detecting
him in the commission of some one of the
aforesaid horrible assassinations; now, all good and
honest citizens of the republic are enjoined to assist
the authorities in seizing the person of the said Jacopo
Frontoni, even though he should take sanctuary:
for Venice can no longer endure the presence
of one of his sanguinary habits, and for the encouragement
of the same, the senate, in its paternal care,
offers the reward of three hundred sequins.” The
usual words of prayer and sovereignty closed the
proclamation.
As it was not usual for those who ruled so much
in the dark, to make their intentions public, all near
listened, with wonder and awe, to the novel procedure.
Some trembled, lest the mysterious and
much-dreaded power was about to exhibit itself;
of the fatherly interest of their rulers audible.
None heard the words of the officer with more
feeling than Gelsomina. She bent her body far
from the window, in order that not a syllable should
escape her.
“Did'st thou hear, Carlo?” demanded the eager
girl, as she drew back her head; “they proclaim, at
last, money for the monster who has committed so
many murders!”
Jacopo laughed; but to the ears of his startled
companion the sounds were unnatural.
“The patricians are just, and what they do is
right,” he said. “They are of illustrious birth, and
cannot err! They will do their duty.”
“But here is no other duty than that they owe to
God, and to the people.”
“I have heard of the duty of the people, but little
is said of the senate's.”
“Nay, Carlo, we will not refuse them credit when
in truth they seek to keep the citizens from harm.
This Jacopo is a monster, detested by all, and his
bloody deeds have too long been a reproach to
Venice. Thou hearest that the patricians are not
niggard of their gold, when there is hope of his being
taken.—Listen! they proclaim again!”
The trumpet sounded, and the proclamation was
repeated between the granite columns of the Piazzetta,
and quite near to the window occupied by Gelsomina
and her unmoved companion.
“Why dost thou mask, Carlo?” she asked, when
the officer had done; “it is not usual to be disguised,
in the palace, at this hour.”
“They will believe it the doge, blushing to be an
auditor of his own liberal justice, or they may mistake
me for one of the Three, itself.”
“They go by the quay to the arsenal; thence they
will take boat, as is customary, for the Rialto.”
“Thereby giving this redoubtable Jacopo timely
notice to secrete himself! Your judges up above are
mysterious when they should be open, and open when
they should be secret. I must quit thee, Gelsomina;
go, then, back to the room of thy father, and leave
me to pass out by the court of the palace.”
“It may not be, Carlo—thou knowest the permission
of the authorities—I have exceeded—why should
I wish to conceal it from thee—but, it was not permitted
to thee to enter at this hour.”
“And thou hast had the courage to transgress the
leave, for my sake, Gelsomina?”
The abashed girl hung her head, and the color
which glowed about her temples was like the rosy
light of her own Italy.
“Thou would'st have it so,” she said.
“A thousand thanks, dearest, kindest, truest Gelsomina;
but doubt not my being able to leave the
palace unseen. The danger was in entering. They
who go forth, do it with the air of having authority.”
“None pass the halberdiers masked by day, Carlo,
but they who have the secret word.”
The Bravo appeared struck with this truth, and
there was great embarrassment expressed in his
manner. The terms of his admittance were so well
understood to himself, that he distrusted the expediency
of attempting to get upon the quays by the
prison, the way he had entered, since he had little
doubt that his retreat would be intercepted by those
who kept the outer gate, and who were probably, by
this time, in the secret of his true character. It now
appeared that egress by the other route was equally
hazardous. He had not been surprised so much by
the substance of the proclamation, as by the publicity
the senate had seen fit to give to its policy,—and he
had heard himself denounced, with a severe pang,
it is true, but without terror. Still he had so many
means of disguise, and the practice of personal concealment
no great distrust of the result until he now
found himself in this awkward dilemma. Gelsomina
read his indecision in his eye, and regretted that she
should have caused him so much uneasiness.
“It is not so bad as thou seemest to think, Carlo,”
she observed; “they have permitted thee to visit thy
father, at stated hours, and the permission is a proof
that the senate is not without pity. Now that I, to
oblige thy wishes, have forgotten one of their injunctions,
they will not be so hard of heart as to
visit the fault as a crime.”
Jacopo gazed at her with pity, for well did he
understand how little she knew of the real nature
and wily policy of the state.
“It is time that we should part,” he said, “lest
thy innocence should be made to pay the price of
my mistake. I am now near the public corridor,
and must trust to my fortune to gain the quay.”
Gelsomina hung upon his arm, unwilling to trust
him to his own guidance in that fearful building.
“It will not do, Carlo; thou wilt stumble on a
soldier, and thy fault will be known; perhaps they
will refuse to let thee come again; perhaps altogether
shut the door of thy poor father's cell.”
Jacopo made a gesture for her to lead the way,
and followed. With a beating but still lightened
heart, Gelsomina glided along the passages, carefully
locking each door, as of wont, behind her,
when she had passed through it. At length they
reached the well-known Bridge of Sighs. The
anxious girl went on with a lighter step, when she
found herself approaching her own abode, for she
was busy in planning the means of concealing her
companion in her father's rooms, should there be
hazard in his passing out of the prison during the
day.
“But a single minute, Carlo,” she whispered, applying
latter building—the lock yielded, but the hinges refused
to turn. Gelsomina paled as she added—
“They have drawn the bolts within!”
“No matter; I will go down by the court of the
palace, and boldly pass the halberdier unmasked.”
Gelsomina, after all, saw but little risk of his being
known by the mercenaries who served the doge,
and, anxious to relieve him from so awkward a position,
she flew back to the other end of the gallery.
Another key was applied to the door by which
they had just entered, with the same result. Gelsomina
staggered back, and sought support against
the wall.
“We can neither return nor proceed!” she exclaimed,
frightened she knew not why.
“I see it all,” answered Jacopo, “we are prisoners
on the fatal bridge.”
As he spoke, the Bravo calmly removed his mask,
and showed the countenance of a man whose resolution
was at its height.
“Santa Madre di Dio! what can it mean?”
“That we have passed here once too often, love.
The council is tender of these visits.”
The bolts of both doors grated, and the hinges
creaked at the same instant. An officer of the inquisition
entered armed, and bearing manacles. Gelsomina
shrieked, but Jacopo moved not limb or
muscle, while he was fettered and chained.
“I too!” cried his frantic companion. “I am the
most guilty—bind me—cast me into a cell, but let
poor Carlo go.”
“Carlo!” echoed an officer, laughing unfeelingly.
“Is it such a crime to seek a father in his prison!
They knew of his visits—they permitted them—he
has only mistaken the hour.”
“Girl, dost thou know for whom thou pleadest?”
“For the kindest heart—the most faithful son in
done, over the sufferings of the old captive—if ye
had seen his very form shivering in agony, ye would
have pity on him!”
“Listen;” returned the officer, raising a finger
for attention.
The trumpeter sounded on the bridge of St.
Mark, immediately beneath them, and proclamation
was again made, offering gold for the arrest of the
Bravo.
“'Tis the officer of the republic, bidding for the
head of one who carries a common stiletto,” cried
the half-breathless Gelsomina, who little heeded the
ceremony at that instant; “he merits his fate.”
“Then why resist it?”
“Ye speak without meaning!”
“Doting girl, this is Jacopo Frontoni!”
Gelsomina would have disbelieved her ears, but
for the anguished expression of Jacopo's eye. The
horrible truth burst upon her mind, and she fell lifeless.
At that moment the Bravo was hurried from
the bridge.
| CHAPTER X. The bravo | |