 | CHAPTER XII. The bravo |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
“There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of
the oppressor.”
—Job.
The manner in which the Council of Three held
its more public meetings, if aught connected with
that mysterious body could be called public, has already
been seen. On the present occasion, there
were the same robes, the same disguises, and the
same officers of the inquisition, as in the scene related
in a previous chapter. The only change was
in the character of the judges, and in that of the
accused. By a peculiar arrangement of the lamp,
too, most of the light was thrown upon the spot it
was intended the prisoner should occupy, while the
side of the apartment on which the inquisitors sate,
was left in a dimness that well accorded with their
gloomy and secret duties. Previously to the opening
of the door, by which the person to be examined
was to appear, there was audible the clanking
of chains, the certain evidence that the affair in
hand was considered serious. The hinges turned,
and the Bravo stood in presence of those unknown
men who were to decide on his fate.
As Jacopo had often been before the council,
though not as a prisoner, he betrayed neither surprise
nor alarm at the black aspect of all his eye
beheld. His features were composed though pale,
his limbs immovable, and his mien decent. When
the little bustle of his entrance had subsided, there
reigned a stillness in the room.
“Thou art called Jacopo Frontoni?” said the
secretary, who acted as the mouth-piece of the
Three, on this occasion.
“I am.”
“Thou art the son of a certain Ricardo Frontoni,
a man well known as having been concerned in
robbing the republic's customs, and who is thought
to have been banished to the distant islands, or to
be otherwise punished?”
“Signore—or otherwise punished.”
“Thou wert a gondolier in thy youth?”
“I was a gondolier.”
“Thy mother is—”
“Dead;” said Jacopo, perceiving the other paused
to examine his notes.
The depth of the tone, in which this word was
uttered, caused a silence, that the secretary did not
interrupt, until he had thrown a glance backward
at the judges.
“She was not accused of thy father's crime?”
“Had she been, Signore, she is long since beyond
the power of the republic.”
“Shortly after thy father fell under the displeasure
of the state, thou quittedst thy business of a
gondolier?”
“Signore, I did.”
“Thou art accused, Jacopo, of having laid aside
the oar for the stiletto?”
“Signore, I am.”
“For several years, the rumors of thy bloody
deeds have been growing in Venice, until, of late,
none have met with an untimely fate, that the blow
has not been attributed to thy hand?”
“This is too true, Signor Segretario—I would it
were not!”
“The ears of his highness, and of the Councils,
have not been closed to these reports, but they have
long attended to the rumors with the earnestness
which becomes a paternal and careful government.
If they have suffered thee to go at large, it hath
only been that there might be no hazard of sullying
supported judgment.”
Jacopo bent his head, but without speaking. A
smile so wild and meaning, however, gleamed on
his face at this declaration, that the permanent officer
of the secret tribunal, he who served as its organ
of communication, bowed nearly to the paper
he held, as it might be to look deeper into his documents.
Let not the reader turn back to this page
in surprise, when he shall have reached the explanation
of the tale, for mysticisms quite as palpable,
if not of so ruthless a character, have been publicly
acted by political bodies in his own times.
“There is now a specific and a frightful charge
brought against thee, Jacopo Frontoni,” continued
the secretary; “and, in tenderness of the citizen's
life, the dreaded council itself hath taken the matter
in hand. Didst thou know a certain Antonio Vecchio,
a fisherman here in our Lagunes?”
“Signore, I knew him well of late, and much regret
that it was only of late.”
“Thou knowest, too, that his body hath been
found, drowned in the bay?”
Jacopo shuddered, signifying his assent merely
by a sign. The effect of this tacit acknowledgment
on the youngest of the three was apparent,
for he turned to his companions, like one struck by
the confession it implied. His colleagues made dignified
inclinations in return, and the silent communication
ceased.
“His death has excited discontent among his fellows,
and its cause has become a serious subject of
inquiry for the illustrious Council.”
“The death of the meanest man in Venice should
call forth the care of the patricians, Signore.”
“Dost thou know, Jacopo, that thou art accused
of being his murderer?”
“Signore, I do.”
“It is said that thou camest among the gondoliers
in the late regatta, and that, but for this aged
fisherman, thou would'st have been winner of the
prize?”
“In that, rumor hath not lied, Signore.”
“Thou dost not, then, deny the charge!” said the
examiner, in evident surprise.
“It is certain that but for the fisherman, I should
have been the winner.
“And thou wished it, Jacopo?”
“Signore, greatly;” returned the accused, with a
show of emotion, that had not hitherto escaped
him. “I was a man condemned of his fellows, and
the oar had been my pride, from childhood to that
hour.”
Another movement of the third inquisitor betrayed,
equally, his interest and his surprise.
“Dost thou confess the crime?”
Jacopo smiled, but more in derision than with any
other feeling.
“If the illustrious senators here present will unmask,
I may answer that question, haply, with greater
confidence;” he said.
“Thy request is bold and out of rule. None
know the persons of the patricians who preside over
the destinies of the state. Dost thou confess the
crime?”
The entrance of an officer, in some haste, prevented
a reply. The man placed a written report
in the hands of the inquisitor in red, and withdrew.
After a short pause, the guards were ordered to retire
with their prisoner.
“Great senators!” said Jacopo, advancing earnestly
towards the table, as if he would seize the
moment to urge what he was about to say;—
“Mercy! grant me your authority to visit one in
the prisons, beneath the leads!—I have weighty reasons
to grant it!”
The interest of the two, who were consulting
apart on the new intelligence, prevented them from
listening to what he urged. The other inquisitor,
who was the Signor Soranzo, had drawn near the
lamp, anxious to read the lineaments of one so notorious,
and was gazing at his striking countenance.
Touched by the pathos of his voice, and agreeably
disappointed in the lineaments he studied, he took
upon himself the power to grant the request.
“Humor his wish,” he said to the halberdiers;
“but have him in readiness to reappear.”
Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful that the
others might still interfere to prevent his wish, he
hurried from the room.
The march of the little procession, which proceeded
from the chamber of the inquisition to the
summer cells of its victims, was sadly characteristic
of the place and the government.
It went through gloomy and secret corridors,
that were hid from the vulgar eye, while thin partitions
only separated it from the apartments of
the doge, which, like the specious aspect of the
state, concealed the nakedness and misery within,
by their gorgeousness and splendor! On reaching
the attic, Jacopo stopped, and turned to his conductors.
“If you are beings of God's forming,” he said,
“take off these clanking chains, though it be but for
a moment.”
The keepers regarded each other in surprise, neither
offering to do the charitable office.
“I go to visit, probably for the last time,” continued
the prisoner, “a bed-ridden—I may say—a
dying father, who knows nothing of my situation,—
will ye that he should see me thus?”
The appeal which was made, more with the voice
keeper removed the chains, and bade him proceed.
With a cautious tread, Jacopo advanced, and when
the door was opened he entered the room alone,
for none there had sufficient interest in an interview
between a common Bravo and his father, to
endure the glowing warmth of the place, the while.
The door was closed after him, and the room became
dark.
Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, Jacopo
hesitated, when he found himself so suddenly introduced
to the silent misery of the forlorn captive.
A hard breathing told him the situation of the
pallet, but the walls, which were solid on the side
of the corridor, effectually prevented the admission
of light.
“Father!” said Jacopo, with gentleness.
He got no answer.
“Father!” he repeated in a stronger voice.
The breathing became more audible, and then the
captive spoke.
“Holy Maria hears my prayers!” he said feebly.
“God hath sent thee, son, to close my eyes!”
“Doth thy strength fail thee, father?”
“Greatly—my time is come—I had hoped to see
the light of the day again; to bless thy dear mother
and sister—God's will be done!”
“They pray for us both, father. They are beyond
the power of the senate.”
“Jacopo,—I do not understand thee!”
“My mother and sister are dead; they are saints
in Heaven, father.”
The old man groaned, for the tie of earth had
not yet been entirely severed. Jacopo heard him
murmuring a prayer, and he knelt by the side of his
pallet.
“This is a sudden blow!” whispered the old
man. “We depart together.”
“They are long dead, father.”
“Why hast thou not told me this before, Jacopo?”
“Hadst thou not sorrows enough without this!
—now that thou art about to join them, it will be
pleasant to know, that they have so long been
happy.”
“And thou?—thou wilt be alone—give me thy
hand,—poor Jacopo!”
The Bravo reached forth, and took the feeble
member of his parent; it was clammy and cold.
“Jacopo,” continued the captive, whose mind still
sustained the body, “I have prayed thrice within
the hour—once for my own soul—once for the
peace of thy mother—lastly, for thee!”
“Bless thee, father!—bless thee!—I have need
of prayer!”
“I have asked of God—favor in thy behalf. I
have bethought me—of all thy love and care—of
all thy devotion to my age and sufferings. When
thou wert a child, Jacopo—tenderness for thee—
tempted me to acts of weakness,—I trembled lest
thy manhood might bring upon me—pain and repentance.
Thou hast not known the yearnings—of
a parent for his offspring—but thou hast well requited
them. Kneel, Jacopo—that I may ask of God
—once more, to remember thee.”
“I am at thy side, father.”
The old man raised his feeble arms, and with a
voice, whose force appeared reviving, he pronounced
a fervent and solemn benediction.
“The blessing of a dying parent will sweeten
thy life—Jacopo,” he added, after a pause, “and
give peace to thy last moments.”
“It will do the latter, father.”
A rude summons at the door interrupted them.
“Come forth Jacopo,” said a keeper;—”the
Council seeks thee!”
Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his father, but
he did not answer.
“Will they not leave thee—a few minutes longer?”
whispered the old man—“I shall not keep
thee long!”
The door opened, and a gleam from the lamp fell
on the group in the cell. The keeper had the humanity
to shut it again, leaving all in obscurity.
The glance which Jacopo obtained, by that passing
light, was the last look he had of his father's countenance.
Death was fearfully on it, but the eyes
were turned in unutterable affection on his own.
“The man is merciful—he will not shut thee
out!” murmured the parent.
“They cannot leave thee to die alone, father!”
“Son, I am with my God—yet I would gladly
have thee by my side!—Didst thou say—thy mother
and thy sister were dead?”
“Dead!”
“Thy young sister, too?”
“Father, both. They are saints in Heaven.”
The old man breathed thick, and there was silence.
Jacopo felt a hand moving in the darkness,
as if in quest of him. He aided the effort, and laid
the member in reverence on his own head.
“Maria undefiled, and her son, who is God!—
bless thee, Jacopo!” whispered a voice, that to the
excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo, appeared
to hover in the air. The solemn words were followed
by a quivering sigh. Jacopo hid his face in
the blanket, and prayed. After which there was
deep quiet.
“Father!” he asked, trembling at his own
smothered voice.
He was unanswered. Stretching out a hand, it
touched the features of a corpse. With a firmness,
that had the quality of desperation, he again bowed
dead.
When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo appeared
to the keepers, with a dignity of air that
belongs only to character, and which was heightened
by the scene, in which he had just been an
actor. He raised his hands, and stood immovable,
while the manacles were replaced. This office
done, they walked away together, in the direction
of the secret chamber. It was not long ere all
were again in their places, before the Council of
Three.
“Jacopo Frontoni,” resumed the secretary,
“thou art suspected of being privy to another dark
deed, that hath had place of late, within our city.
Hast thou any knowledge of a noble Calabrian,
who hath high claim to the senate's honors, and
who hath long had his abode in Venice?”
“Signore, I have.”
“Hast thou had aught of concern with him?”
“Signore, yes.”
A movement of common interest made itself apparent
among the auditors.
“Dost thou know where the Don Camillo Monforte
is, at present?”
Jacopo hesitated. He so well understood the
means of intelligence possessed by the Council, that
he doubted how far it might be prudent to deny his
connexion with the flight of the lovers. Besides,
at that moment his mind was deeply impressed with
a holy sentiment of truth.
“Canst thou say, why the young duca is not to
be found in his palace?” repeated the secretary.
“Illustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for ever.”
“How canst thou know this?—Would he make
a confidant of a common Bravo?”
The smile which crossed the features of Jacopo
was full of superiority; it caused the conscious
papers, like one who felt its power.
“Art thou his confidant—I ask again?”
“Signore, in this, I am.—I have the assurance
from the mouth of Don Camillo Monforte himself,
that he will not return.”
“This is impossible, since it would involve a loss
of all his fair hopes and illustrious fortunes.”
“He consoled himself, Signore, with the possession
of the heiress of Tiepolo's love, and with her
riches.”
Again there was a movement among the Three,
which all their practised restraint, and the conventional
dignity of their mysterious functions, could
not prevent.
“Let the keepers withdraw;” said the inquisitor
of the scarlet robe. So soon as the prisoner was
alone with the Three, and their permanent officer,
the examination continued; the senators themselves,
trusting to the effect produced by their masks, and
some feints, speaking as occasion offered.
“This is important intelligence that thou hast
communicated, Jacopo,” continued he of the robe
of flame. “It may yet redeem thy life, wert thou
wise enough to turn it to account.”
“What would your eccellenza, at my hands? It
is plain that the Council know of the flight of Don
Camillo, nor will I believe, that eyes, which so seldom
are closed, have not yet missed the daughter
of the Tiepolo.”
“Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast thou to
say of the means?” Remember, that as thou findest
favor with the Council, thine own fate will be
decided.”
The prisoner suffered another of those freezing
gleams to cross his face, which invariably caused
his examiners to bend their looks aside.
“The means of escape cannot be wanting to a
rich, and might employ a thousand agents, had he
need of them.”
“Thou art equivocating; 't will be the worse for
thee, that thou triflest with the Council—who are
these agents?”
“He had a generous household, eccellenza;—
many hardy gondoliers, and servitors of all conditions.”
“Of these we have nothing to learn. He hath
escaped by other means—or art thou sure he hath
escaped at all?”
“Signore, is he in Venice?”
“Nay, that we ask of thee. Here is an accusation,
found in the lion's mouth, which charges thee
with his assassination.”
“And the Donna Violetta's too, eccellenza?”
“Of her, we have heard nothing. What answer
dost make to the charge?”
“Signore, why should I betray my own secrets?”
“Ha! art thou equivocating and faithless? Remember
that we have a prisoner beneath the leads,
who can extract the truth from thee.”
Jacopo raised his form to such an altitude, as one
might fancy to express the mounting of a liberated
spirit. Still his eye was sad, and spite of an effort
to the contrary, his voice melancholy.
“Senators,” he said, “your prisoner beneath the
leads, is free.”
“How! thou art trifling, in thy despair!”
“I speak truth. The liberation, so long delayed,
hath come at last!”
“Thy father—”
“Is dead; interrupted Jacopo, solemnly.
The two elder members of the Council looked at
each other, in surprise, while their junior colleague
listened with the interest of one, who was just entering
on a noviciate of secret and embarrassing
they communicated as much of their opinions to the
Signor Soranzo, as they deemed necessary to the
occasion.
“Wilt thou consult thine own safety, Jacopo, and
reveal all thou knowest of this affair of the Neapolitan?”
continued the inquisitor, when this by-play
was ended.
Jacopo betrayed no weakness at the menace implied
by the words of the senator; but, after a moment's
reflection, he answered with as much frankness
as he could have used at the confessional.
“It is known to you, illustrious senator,” he said,
“that the state had a desire to match the heiress of
Tiepolo, to its own advantage; that she was beloved
of the Neapolitan noble; and that, as is wont,
between young and virtuous hearts, she returned
his love, as became a maiden of her high condition,
and tender years. Is there any thing extraordinary
in the circumstance, that two of so illustrious hopes
should struggle to prevent their own misery? Signori,
the night that old Antonio died, I was alone,
among the graves of the Lido, with many melancholy
and bitter thoughts, and life had become a
burthen to me. Had the evil spirit which was then
uppermost maintained its mastery, I might have
died the death of a hopeless suicide. God sent Don
Camillo Monforte, to my succor—praised be the
immaculate Maria, and her blessed Son, for the
mercy! it was there, I learned the wishes of the
Neapolitan, and enlisted myself in his service. I
swore to him, senators of Venice, to be true; to die
in his cause, should it be necessary; and to help
him to his bride. This pledge have I redeemed.
The happy lovers are now in the states of the
Church, and under the puissant protection of the
cardinal secretary, Don Camillo's mother's brother.”
“Fool! why didst thou this? Hadst thou no
thought for thyself?”
“Eccellenza, but little; I thought more of finding
a human bosom to pour out my sufferings to,
than of your high displeasure. I have not known
so sweet a moment in years, as that in which I saw
the lord of Sant' Agata fold his beautiful and weeping
bride to his heart!”
The inquisitors were struck with the quiet enthusiasm
of the Bravo, and surprise once more held
them in suspense. At length, the elder of the three
resumed the examination.
“Wilt thou impart the manner of this escape,
Jacopo?” he demanded. “Remember thou hast
still a life to redeem!”
“Signore, it is scarce worth the trouble. But to
do you pleasure, nothing shall be concealed.”
Jacopo then recounted, in simple, and undisguised
terms, the entire means employed by Don Camillo,
in effecting his escape; his hopes, his disappointments,
and his final success. In this narrative nothing
was concealed, but the place in which the
ladies had temporarily taken refuge, and the name
of Gelsomina. Even the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo
on the life of the Neapolitan, and the agency
of the Hebrew, were fully exposed. None listened
to this explanation so intently as the young husband.
Notwithstanding his public duties, his pulses quickened
as the prisoner dwelt on the different chances
of the lovers, and when their final union was proclaimed,
he felt his heart bound with delight. On
the other hand, his more practised colleagues heard
the detail of the Bravo, with politic coolness. The
effect of all factitious systems is to render the feelings
subservient to expediency. Convention and
fiction take place of passion and truth, and like the
Mussulman with his doctrine of predestination, there
is no one more acquiescent in defeat, than he who
justice; his resignation being, in common, as perfect
as his previous arrogance was insupportable.
The two old senators perceived at once, that Don
Camillo, and his fair companion, were completely
beyond the reach of their power, and they instantly
admitted the wisdom of making a merit of necessity.
Having no farther occasion for Jacopo, they summoned
the keepers, and dismissed him to his cell.
“It will be seemly to send letters of congratulation,
to the cardinal secretary, on the union of his
nephew, with so rich an heiress of our city,” said
the Inquisitor of the Ten, as the door closed on the
retiring group. “So great an interest as that of the
Neapolitan, should be propitiated.”
“But should he urge the state's resistance to his
hopes?” returned the Signor Soranzo, in feeble objection
to so bold a scheme.
“We will excuse it as the act of a former council.
These misconceptions are the unavoidable consequences
of the caprices of liberty, Signore. The
steed that ranges the plains, in the freedom of nature,
cannot be held to perfect command, like the dull
beast that draws the car. This is the first of your
sittings, in the Three, but experience will show you,
that excellent as we are in system, we are not quite
perfect in practice. This is grave matter of the
young Gradenigo, Signori!”
“I have long known his unworthiness,” returned
his more aged colleague. “It is a thousand pities
that so honorable and so noble a patrician should
have produced so ignoble a child. But neither the
state, nor the city, can tolerate assassination.”
“Would it were less frequent!” exclaimed the
Signore Soranzo, in perfect sincerity.
“Would it were, indeed! There are hints in our
secret information, which tend to confirm the charge
to put full faith in his reports.”
“How—is Jacopo, then, an agent of the police?”
“Of that more at our leisure, Signor Soranzo. At
present we must look to this attempt on the life of
one protected by our laws.”
The Three then entered into a serious discussion
of the case of the two delinquents. Venice, like all
despotic governments, had the merit of great efficiency
in its criminal police, when it was disposed
to exert it. Justice was sure enough in those instances,
in which the interests of the government
itself were not involved, or in which bribery could
not well be used. As to the latter, through the
jealousy of the state, and the constant agency of
those who were removed from temptation, by being
already in possession of a monopoly of benefits, it
was by no means as frequent, as in some other communities,
in which the affluent were less interested.
The Signor Soranzo had now a fair occasion for the
exercise of his generous feelings. Though related
to the house of Gradenigo, he was not backward in
decrying the conduct of its heir. His first impulses
were to make a terrible example of the accused, and
to show the world that no station brought with it, in
Venice, impunity for crime. From this view of the
case, however, he was gradually enticed by his companions,
who reminded him that the law commonly
made a distinction, between the intention and the
execution of an offence. Driven from his first determination
by the cooler heads of his colleagues,
the young inquisitor next proposed that the case
should be sent to the ordinary tribunals, for judgment.
Instances had not been wanting, in which the aristocracy
of Venice sacrificed one of its body to the
seemliness of Justice; for when such cases were
managed with discretion, they rather strengthened,
than weakened their ascendency. But the present
lavish an expenditure of their immunities, and the
old inquisitors opposed the wish of their younger
colleague, with great plausibility, and with some
show of reason. It was finally resolved that they
should themselves decide on the case.
The next question was the degree of punishment.
The wily senior of the council began by proposing
a banishment for a few months, for Giacomo Gradenigo
was already obnoxious to the anger of the
state, on more accounts than one. But this punishment
was resisted, by the Signor Soranzo, with the
ardor of an uncorrupted and generous mind. The
latter gradually prevailed, his companions taking
care that their compliance should have the air of a
concession to his arguments. The result of all this
management was, that the heir of Gradenigo was
condemned to ten years' retirement in the provinces,
and Hosea to banishment for life. Should the reader
be of opinion that strict justice was not meted out to
the offenders, he should remember, that the Hebrew
ought to be glad to have escaped as he did.
“We must not conceal this judgment, nor its
motive,” observed the Inquisitor of the Ten, when
the affair was concluded. “The state is never a
loser for letting its justice be known.”
“Nor for its exercise, I should hope;” returned
the Signor Soranzo. “As our affairs are ended for
the night, is it your pleasures, Signori, that we return
to our palaces?”
“Nay, we have this matter of Jacopo.”
“Him may we, now, surely, turn over to the ordinary
tribunals!”
“As you may decide, Signori; is this your pleasure?”
Both the others bowed assent, and the usual preparations
were made for departure.
Ere the two seniors of the Council left the palace,
together. The result was a private order to the
criminal judge, and then they returned, each to his
own abode, like men who had the approbation of
their own consciences.
On the other hand, the Signor Soranzo hastened
to his own luxurious and happy dwelling. For the
first time, in his life, he entered it with a distrust of
himself. Without being conscious of the reason,
he felt sad, for he had taken the first step in that
tortuous and corrupting path, which eventually
leads to the destruction of all those generous and
noble sentiments, which can only flourish apart
from the sophistry and fictions of selfishness. He
would have rejoiced to have been as light of heart
as at the moment he handed his fair-haired partner
into the gondola that night; but his head had pressed
the pillow for many hours, before sleep drew a
veil over the solemn trifling with the most serious
of our duties, in which he had been an actor.
| CHAPTER XII. The bravo | |