 | THE BRAVO.
—
CHAPTER I. The bravo |  |
1. THE BRAVO.
—
CHAPTER I.
And I shall slumber well—but where?—no matter.
Adieu, my Angiolina.”
Marino Faliero.
When the Carmelite re-entered the apartment of
Donna Violetta, his face was covered with the hue
of death, and his limbs with difficulty supported him
to a chair. He scarcely observed that Don Camillo
Monforte was still present, nor did he note the brightness
and joy which glowed in the eyes of the ardent
Violetta. Indeed his appearance was at first unseen
by the happy lovers, for the Lord of St. Agata had
succeeded in wresting the secret from the breast of
his mistress, if that may be called a secret which
Italian character had scarcely struggled to retain,
and he had crossed the room before even the more
tranquil look of the Donna Florinda rested on his
person.
“Thou art ill!” exclaimed the governess. “Father
Anselmo hath not been absent without grave cause!”
The monk threw back his cowl for air, and the
act discovered the deadly paleness of his features.
But his eye, charged with a meaning of horror,
rolled over the faces of those who drew around
him, as if he struggled with memory to recall their
persons.
“Ferdinando! Father Anselmo!” cried the Donna
Florinda, correcting the unbidden familiarity, though
she could not command the anxiety of her rebel features;
“Speak to us—thou art suffering!”
“Ill at heart, Florinda.”
“Deceive us not—haply thou hast more evil
tidings—Venice—”
“Is a fearful state!”
“Why hast thou quitted us?—why, in a moment of
so much importance to our pupil—a moment that
may prove of the last influence on her happiness—
hast thou been absent for a long hour?”
Violetta turned a surprised and unconscious glance
towards the clock, but she spoke not.
“The servants of the state had need of me;”
returned the monk, easing the pain of his spirit by
a groan.
“I understand thee, father;—thou hast shrived
a penitent?”
“Daughter, I have: and fewer depart more at
peace with God and their fellows!”
Donna Florinda murmured a short prayer for the
soul of the dead, piously crossing herself as she concluded.
Her example was imitated by her pupil,
and even the lips of Don Camillo moved, while his
head was bowed by the side of his fair companion,
in seeming reverence.
“'Twas a just end, father?” demanded Donna
Florinda.
“It was an unmerited one!” cried the monk, with
fervor, “or there is no faith in man. I have witnessed
the death of one who was better fitted to
live, as happily he was better fitted to die, than
those who pronounced his doom. What a fearful
state is Venice!”
“And such are they who are masters of thy person,
Violetta,” said Don Camillo: “to those midnight
murderers will thy happiness be consigned! Tell us,
father, does thy sad tragedy touch in any manner
on the interests of this fair being? for we are encircled
here by mysteries that are as incomprehensible,
while they are nearly as fearful, as fate itself.”
The monk looked from one to the other, and a
more human expression began to appear in his
countenance.
“Thou art right,” he said; “such are the men
who mean to dispose of the person of our pupil.
Holy St. Mark, pardon the prostitution of his revered
name, and shield her with the virtue of his
prayers!”
“Father, are we worthy to know more of that
thou hast witnessed?”
“The secrets of the confessional are sacred, my
son; but this hath been a disclosure to cover the
living, and not the dead, with shame.”
“I see the hand of those up above in this!” for so
most spoke of the Council of Three. “They have
tampered with my right, for years, to suit their selfish
purposes, and, to my shame must I own it, they
have driven me to a submission, in order to obtain
justice, that as ill accords with my feelings as with
my character.”
“Nay, Camillo, thou art incapable of this injustice
to thyself!”
“'Tis a fearful government, dearest, and its fruits
are equally pernicious to the ruler and the subject.
It hath, of all other dangers the greatest, the curse
of secrecy on its intentions, its acts, and its responsibilities!”
“Thou sayest true, my son; there is no security
against oppression and wrong in a state, but the fear
of God, or the fear of man. Of the first, Venice
hath none, for too many souls share the odium of
her sins; and as for the last, her deeds are hid from
their knowledge.”
“We speak boldly, for those who live beneath her
laws,” observed Donna Florinda, glancing a look
timidly around her. “As we can neither change
nor amend the practices of the state, better that we
should be silent.”
“If we cannot alter the power of the council, we
may elude it,” hastily answered Don Camillo, though
he too dropped his voice, and assured himself of
their security, by closing the casement, and casting
his eyes towards the different doors of the room.
“Are you assured of the fidelity of the menials,
Donna Florinda?”
“Far from it, Signore; we have those who are
of ancient service and of tried character; but we
have those who are named by the senator, Gradenigo,
and who are doubtless no other than the agents
of the state.”
“In this manner do they pry into the privacy of
all! I am compelled to entertain, in my palace, varlets
that I know to be their hirelings; and yet do I
find it better to seem unconscious of their views, lest
they environ me in a manner that I cannot even suspect.
Think you, father, that my presence here hath
escaped the spies?”
“It would be to hazard much were we to rely on
such security. None saw us enter, as I think, for we
used the secret gate and the more private entrance;
but who is certain of being unobserved when every
fifth eye is that of a mercenary?”
The terrified Violetta laid her hand on the arm of
her lover.
“Even now, Camillo,” she said, “thou mayest be
observed, and secretly devoted to punishment!”
“If seen, doubt it not: St. Mark will never pardon
so bold an interference with his pleasure. And
yet, sweetest Violetta, to gain thy favor, this risk is
nothing; nor will a far greater hazard turn me from
my purpose.”
“These inexperienced and confiding spirits have
taken advantage of my absence to communicate more
freely than was discreet;” said the Carmelite, in the
manner of one who foresaw the answer.
“Father, nature is too strong for the weak preventives
of prudence.”
The brow of the monk became clouded. His companions
watched the workings of his mind, as they
appeared in a countenance that in common was so
benevolent, though always sad. For a few moments
none broke the silence.
The Carmelite at length demanded, raising his
troubled look to the countenance of Don Camillo—
“Hast thou duly reflected on the consequences of
this rashness, son? What dost thou purpose, in thus
braving the anger of the republic, and in setting at
defiance her arts, her secret means of intelligence,
and her terrors?”
“Father, I have reflected as all of my years reflect,
when in heart and soul they love. I have brought
myself to feel that any misery would be happiness
compared to the loss of Violetta, and that no risk
can exceed the reward of gaining her favor. Thus
much for the first of thy questions—for the last I can
only say that I am too much accustomed to the wiles
of the senate to be a novice in the means of counteracting
them.”
“There is but one language for youth, when seduced
by that pleasing delusion which paints the future
with hues of gold. Age and experience may
condemn it, but the weakness will continue to prevail
in all, until life shall appear in its true colors.
Duke of Sant' Agata, though a noble of high lineage
and illustrious name, and though lord of many vassals,
thou art not a power—thou canst not declare
thy palace in Venice a fortress, nor send a herald
to the doge with defiance.”
“True, reverend monk; I cannot do this; nor
would it be well for him who could, to trust his fortune
on so reckless a risk. But the states of St. Mark
do not cover the earth—we can fly.”
“The senate hath a long arm; and it hath a thousand
secret hands.”
“None know it better than I; still it does no violence
without motive; the faith of their ward irretrievably
mine, the evil, as respects them, becomes
irreparable.”
“Think'st thou so! Means would quickly be found
to separate you. Believe not that Venice would
be thwarted of its design so easily; the wealth of
a house like this would purchase many an unworthy
suitor, and thy right would be disregarded, or haply
denied.”
“But, father, the ceremony of the church may
not be despised!” exclaimed Violetta; “it comes from
heaven and is sacred.”
“Daughter, I say it with sorrow, but the great and
the powerful find means even to set aside that venerable
and holy sacrament. Thine own gold would
serve to seal thy misery.”
“This might arrive, father, were we to continue
within the grasp of St. Mark,” interrupted the Neapolitan;
“but once beyond his borders, 't would be
a bold interference with the right of a foreign state
to lay hand on our persons. More than this, I have
a castle, in St. Agata, that will defy their most secret
means, until events might happen which should
render it more prudent for them to desist than to persevere.”
“This reason hath force wert thou within the walls
of St. Agata, instead of being, as thou art, among
the canals.”
“Here is one of Calabria, a vassal born of mine,
a certain Stefano Milano, the padrone of a Sorrentine
felucca, now lying in the port; the man is in strict
amity with my own gondolier—he who was third
in this day's race. Art thou ill, father, that thou appearest
troubled?”
“Proceed with thy expedient,” answered the
monk, motioning that he wished not to be observed.
“My faithful Gino reports that this Stefano is on
the canals, on some errand of the republic, as he
thinks, for though the mariner is less disposed to familiarity
than is wont, he hath let drop hints that
lead to such a conclusion—the felucca is ready,
from hour to hour, to put upon the sea, and doubt
not the padrone would rather serve his natural lord
than these double-dealing miscreants of the senate.
I can pay as well as they, if served to my pleasure,
and I can punish too, when offended.”
“There is reason in this, Signore, wert thou beyond
the wiles of this mysterious city. But in what
manner canst thou embark, without drawing the
notice of those, who doubtless watch our movements,
on thy person?”
“There are maskers on the canals at all hours,
and if Venice be so impertinent in her system of
watchfulness, thou knowest, father, that, without extraordinary
motive, that disguise is sacred. Without
this narrow privilege, the town would not be
habitable a day.”
“I fear the result;” observed the hesitating monk,
while it was evident, from the thoughtfulness of his
countenance, that he calculated the chances of the
adventure. “If known and arrested, we are all
lost!”
“Trust me, father, that thy fortune shall not be
forgotten, even in that unhappy issue. I have an
uncle, as you know, high in the favor of the pontiff,
and who wears the scarlet hat. I pledge to you the
honor of a cavalier, all my interest with this relative,
to gain such intercession from the church as shall
weaken the blow to her servant.”
The features of the Carmelite flushed, and, for
the first time, the ardent young noble observed
pride.
“Thou hast unjustly rated my apprehensions,
Lord of St. Agata,” he said; “I fear not for myself,
but for others. This tender and lovely child hath
not been confided to my care, without creating a
parental solicitude in her behalf, and”—he paused,
and seemed to struggle with himself—“I have too
long known the mild and womanly virtues of Donna
Florinda, to witness, with indifference, her exposure
to a near and fearful danger. Abandon our charge,
we cannot; nor do I see in what manner, as prudent
and watchful guardians, we may in any manner
consent to this risk. Let us hope that they who
govern will yet consult the honor and happiness of
Donna Violetta.”
“That were to hope the winged lion would become
a lamb, or the dark and soulless senate a community
of self-mortifying and godly Carthusians!
No, reverend monk, we must seize the happy moment,
and none is likely to be more fortunate than
this, or trust our hopes to a cold and calculating
policy, that disregards all motives but its own object.
An hour, nay, half the time, would suffice to apprize
the mariner, and ere the morning light, we might
see the domes of Venice sinking into their own
hated Lagunes.”
“These are the plans of confident youth, quickened
by passion. Believe me, son, it is not easy as
thou imaginest, to mislead the agents of the police.
This palace could not be quitted, the felucca entered,
or any one of the many necessary steps hazarded,
without drawing upon us their eyes. Hark!—I
hear the wash of oars—a gondola is even now at
the water-gate!”
Donna Florinda went hastily to the balcony, and
as quickly returned to report that she had seen an
officer of the republic enter the palace. There was
to conceal himself in the little oratory. This necessary
caution had hardly been observed before the
door of the room opened, and the privileged messenger
of the senate announced his own appearance.
It was the very individual who had presided at the
fearful execution of the fisherman, and who had
already announced the cessation of the Signor Gradenigo's
powers. His eye glanced suspiciously
around the room, as he entered, and the Carmelite
trembled in every limb, at the look which encountered
his own. But all immediate apprehensions vanished,
when the usual artful smile, with which he
was wont to soften his disagreeable communications,
took place of the momentary expression of a vague
and an habitual suspicion.
“Noble lady,” he said, bowing with deference to
the rank of her he addressed, “you may learn by
this assiduity, on the part of their servant, the interest
which the senate takes in your welfare. Anxious
to do you pleasure, and ever attentive to the wishes
of one so young, it hath been decided to give you
the amusement and variety of another scene, at a
season when the canals of our city become disagreeable,
from their warmth and the crowds which
live in the air. I am sent to request you will make
such preparations, as may befit your convenience
during a few months' residence in a purer atmosphere,
and that this may be done speedily; as your
journey, always to prevent discomfort to yourself,
will commence before the rising of the sun.”
“This is short notice, Signore, for a female about
to quit the dwelling of her ancestors!”
“St. Mark suffers his love and parental care to
overlook the vain ceremonies of form. It is thus
the parent dealeth with the child. There is little
need of unusual notice, since it will be the business
of the government to see all that is necessary dispatched
with the presence of so illustrious a lady.”
“For myself, Signore, little preparation is needed.
But I fear the train of servitors, that befit my condition,
will require more leisure for their arrangements.”
“Lady, that embarrassment hath been foreseen,
and to remove it, the council hath decided to supply
you with the only attendant you will require, during
an absence from the city which will be so short.”
“How, Signore! am I to be separated from my
people?”
“From the hired menials of your palace, lady, to
be confided to those who will serve your person,
from a nobler motive.”
“And my maternal friend—my ghostly adviser?”
“They will be permitted to repose from their
trusts, during your absence.”
An exclamation from Donna Florinda, and an involuntary
movement of the monk, betrayed their
mutual concern. Donna Violetta suppressed the
exhibition of her own resentment, and of her wounded
affections, by a powerful effort, in which she was
greatly sustained by her pride; but she could not
entirely conceal the anguish of another sort, that
was seated in her eye.
“Do I understand that this prohibition extends to
her, who, in common, serves my person?”
“Signora, such are my instructions.”
“Is it expected that Violetta Tiepolo will do these
menial offices for herself?”
“Signora, no. A most excellent and agreeable
attendant has been provided for that duty. Annina,”
he continued, approaching the door, “thy noble mistress
is impatient to see thee.”
As he spoke, the daughter of the wine-seller appeared.
She wore an air of assumed humility, but
independence of the pleasure of her new mistress.
“And this damsel is to be my nearest confidant!”
exclaimed Donna Violetta, after studying the artful
and demure countenance of the girl, a moment, with
a dislike she did not care to conceal.
“Such hath been the solicitude of your illustrious
guardians, lady. As the damsel is instructed in all
that is necessary, I will intrude no longer, but take
my leave, recommending that you improve the hours,
which are now few, between this and the rising sun,
that you may profit by the morning breeze in quitting
the city.”
The officer glanced another look around the room,
more, however, through habitual caution than any
other reason, bowed, and departed.
A profound and sorrowful silence succeeded.
Then the apprehension that Don Camillo might mistake
their situation and appear, flashed upon the mind
of Violetta, and she hastened to apprize him of the
danger, by speaking to the new attendant.
“Thou hast served before this, Annina?” she
asked so loud as to permit the words to be heard in
the oratory.
“Never a lady so beautiful and illustrious, Signora.
But I hope to make myself agreeable to one that I
hear is kind to all around her.”
“Thou art not new to the flattery of thy class;
go then, and acquaint my ancient attendants with
this sudden resolution, that I may not disappoint the
council by tardiness. I commit all to thy care, Annina,
since thou knowest the pleasure of my guardians—those
without will furnish the means.”
The girl lingered, and her watchful observers
noted suspicion and hesitation in her reluctant manner
of compliance. She obeyed, however, leaving
the room with the domestic Donna Violetta summoned
from the antechamber. The instant the door
group, and the whole four stood regarding each
other in a common panic.
“Canst thou still hesitate, father?” demanded
the lover.
“Not a moment, my son, did I see the means of
accomplishing flight.”
“How! Thou wilt not then desert me!” exclaimed
Violetta, kissing his hands in joy. “Nor thou,
my second mother!”
“Neither,” answered the governess, who possessed
intuitive means of comprehending the resolutions
of the monk; “we will go with thee, love, to the
Castle of St. Agata, or to the dungeon of St. Mark.”
“Virtuous and sainted Florinda, receive my
thanks!” cried the reprieved Violetta, clasping her
hands on her bosom, with an emotion in which piety
and gratitude were mingled.—“Camillo, we await
thy guidance.”
“Refrain,” observed the monk,—“a footstep—thy
concealment.”
Don Camillo was scarce hid from view, when
Annina reappeared. She had the same suspicious
manner of glancing her eye around, as the official,
and it would seem, by the idle question she put, that
her entrance had some other object than the mere
pretence which she made of consulting her new mistress's
humor in the color of a robe.
“Do as thou wilt, girl,” said Violetta, with impatience;
“thou knowest the place of my intended retirement,
and canst judge of the fitness of my attire.
Hasten thy preparations, that I be not the cause of
delay. Enrico, attend my new maid to the wardrobe.”
Annina reluctantly withdrew, for she was far too
much practised in wiles not to distrust this unexpected
compliance with the will of the council, or not to
perceive that she was admitted with displeasure to
of Donna Violetta kept at her side, she was
fain, however, to submit, and suffered herself to be
led a few steps from the door. Suddenly pretending
to recollect a new question, she returned with so
much rapidity, as to be again in the room, before
Enrico could anticipate the intention.
“Daughter, complete thy errands, and forbear to
interrupt our privacy,” said the monk, sternly.—“I
am about to confess this penitent, who may pine long
for the consolations of the holy office, ere we meet
again. If thou hast not aught urgent, withdraw, ere
thou seriously givest offence to the church.”
The severity of the Carmelite's tone, and the commanding,
though subdued gleaming of his eye, had
the effect to awe the girl. Quailing before his look,
and in truth startled at the risk she ran in offending
against opinions so deeply seated in the minds of all,
and from which her own superstitious habits were
far from free, she muttered a few words of apology,
and finally withdrew. There was another uneasy
and suspicious glance thrown around her, however,
before the door was closed. When they were once
more alone, the monk motioned for silence to the
impetuous Don Camillo, who could scarce restrain
his impatience until the intruder departed.
“Son, be prudent,” he said; “we are in the midst
of treachery; in this unhappy city none know in
whom they can confide.”
“I think we are sure of Enrico,” said the Donna
Florinda, though the very doubts she affected not to
feel, lingered in the tones of her voice.
“It matters not, daughter.—He is ignorant of the
presence of Don Camillo, and in that we are safe.
Duke of Sant' Agata, if you can deliver us from these
toils, we will accompany you.”
A cry of joy was near bursting from the lips of
Violetta; but obedient to the eye of the monk, she
expression of Don Camillo's face was the pledge of
his assent. Without speaking, he wrote hastily, with
a pencil, a few words on the envelope of a letter,
and inclosing a piece of coin in its folds, he moved
with a cautious step to the balcony. A signal was
given, and all awaited in breathless silence the answer.
Presently they heard the wash of the water,
caused by the movement of a gondola beneath the
window. Stepping forward again, Don Camillo
dropped the paper with such precision, that he distinctly
heard the fall of the coin in the bottom of the
boat. The gondolier scarce raised his eyes to the
balcony, but commencing an air much used on the
canals, he swept onward, like one whose duty called
for no haste.
“That has succeeded!” said Don Camillo, when
he heard the song of Gino. “In an hour my agent
will have secured the felucca, and all now depends
on our own means of quitting the palace unobserved.
My people will await us, shortly, and perhaps
'twould be well to trust openly to our speed in gaining
the Adriatic.”
“There is a solemn and necessary duty to perform,”
observed the monk;—“daughters, withdraw
to your rooms, and occupy yourselves with the preparation
necessary for your flight, which may readily
be made to appear as intended to meet the
senate's pleasure. In a few minutes I shall summon
you hither, again.”
Wondering, but obedient, the females withdrew.
The Carmelite then made a brief but clear explanation
of his intention. Don Camillo listened eagerly,
and when the other had done speaking they retired
together into the oratory. Fifteen minutes had not
passed, before the monk reappeared, alone, and
touched the bell, which communicated with the
were quickly in the room.
“Prepare thy mind for the confessional,” said the
priest, placing himself, with grave dignity, in that
chair which he habitually used, when listening to
the self-accusations and failings of his spiritual child.
The brow of Violetta paled and flushed again, as
if there lay a heavy sin on her conscience. She
turned an imploring look on her maternal monitor,
in whose mild features she met an encouraging
smile, and then, with a beating heart, though ill-collected
for the solemn duty, but with a decision that
the occasion required, she knelt on the cushion at
the feet of the monk.
The murmured language of Donna Violetta was
audible to none but him for whose paternal ear it
was intended, and that dread Being whose just anger
it was hoped it might lessen. But Don Camillo
gazed, through the half-opened door of the chapel,
on the kneeling form, the clasped hands, and the uplifted
countenance of the beautiful penitent. As she
proceeded with the acknowledgment of her errors,
the flush on her cheek deepened, and a pious excitement
kindled in those eyes, which he had so
lately seen glowing with a very different passion.
The ingenuous and disciplined soul of Violetta was
not so quickly disburthened of its load of sin as that
of the more practised mind of the Lord of Sant'
Agata. The latter fancied that he could trace in
the movement of her lips the sound of his own name,
and a dozen times during the confession, he thought
he could even comprehend sentences of which he
himself was the subject. Twice the good father
smiled, involuntarily, and at each indiscretion, he
laid a hand in affection on the bared head of the
suppliant. But Violetta ceased to speak, and the
absolution was pronounced, with a fervor that the
did not fail to heighten.
When this portion of his duty was ended, the
Carmelite entered the oratory. With steady hands
he lighted the candles of the altar, and made the
other dispositions for the mass. During this interval
Don Camillo was at the side of his mistress, whispering
with the warmth of a triumphant and happy
lover. The governess stood near the door, watching
for the sound of footsteps in the antechamber.
The monk then advanced to the entrance of the little
chapel, and was about to speak, when a hurried
step from Donna Florinda arrested his words. Don
Camillo had just time to conceal his person within
the drapery of a window, before the door opened
and Annina entered.
When the preparations of the altar and the solemn
countenance of the priest first met her eye, the girl
recoiled, with the air of one rebuked. But rallying
her thoughts, with that readiness which had gained
her the employment she filled, she crossed herself,
reverently, and took a place apart, like one who,
while she knew her station, wished to participate in
the mysteries of the holy office.
“Daughter, none who commence this mass with
us, can quit the presence, ere it be completed;” observed
the monk.
“Father, it is my duty to be near the person of
my mistress, and it is a happiness to be near it on
the occasion of this early matin.”
The monk was embarrassed. He looked from one
to the other, in indecision, and was about to frame
some pretence to get rid of the intruder, when Don
Camillo appeared in the middle of the room.
“Reverend monk, proceed,” he said; “ 'tis but
another witness of my happiness.”
While speaking, the noble touched the handle of
his sword, significantly, with a finger, and cast a
controlled the exclamation that was about to escape
her. The monk appeared to understand the terms
of this silent compact; for with a deep voice he
commenced the offices of the mass. The singularity
of their situation, the important results of the act in
which they were engaged, the impressive dignity
of the Carmelite, and the imminent hazard which
they all ran of exposure, together with the certainty
of punishment for their daring to thwart the will of
Venice, if betrayed, caused a deeper feeling, than
that which usually pervades a marriage ceremony,
to preside at nuptials thus celebrated. The youthful
Violetta trembled at every intonation of the solemn
voice of the monk, and towards the close, she leaned
in helplessness on the arm of the man to whom
she had just plighted her vows. The eye of the
Carmelite kindled, as he proceeded with the office,
however; and, long ere he had done, he had obtained
such a command over the feelings of even
Annina, as to hold her mercenary spirit in awe.
The final union was pronounced, and the benediction
given.
“Maria, of pure memory, watch over thy happiness,
daughter!” said the monk, for the first time in
his life saluting the fair brow of the weeping bride.
—“Duke of Sant' Agata, may thy patron hear thy
prayers, as thou provest kind to this innocent and
confiding child!”
“Amen!—Ha!—we are not too soon united, my
Violetta; I hear the sound of oars.”
A glance from the balcony assured him of the truth
of his words, and rendered it apparent that it had
now become necessary to take the most decided step
of all. A six-oared gondola, of a size suited to endure
the waves of the Adriatic at that mild season,
and with a pavilion of fit dimensions, stopped at the
water-gate of the palace.
“I wonder at this boldness!” exclaimed Don
Camillo. “There must be no delay, lest some
spy of the republic apprize the police. Away,
dearest Violetta—away, Donna Florinda—Father,
away!”
The governess and her charge passed swiftly into
the inner rooms. In a minute, they returned bearing
the caskets of Donna Violetta, and a sufficient
supply of necessaries, for a short voyage. The instant
they reappeared, all was ready; for Don Camillo
had long held himself prepared for this decisive
moment, and the self-denying Carmelite had little
need of superfluities. It was no moment for unnecessary
explanation or trivial objections.
“Our hope is in celerity,” said Don Camillo; “secrecy
is impossible.”
He was still speaking, when the monk led the way
from the room. Donna Florinda and the half-breathless
Violetta followed; Don Camillo drew the arm
of Annina under his own, and in a low voice bid her,
at her peril, refuse to obey.
The long suite of outer rooms was passed, without
meeting a single observer of the extraordinary
movement. But when the fugitives entered the great
hall, that communicated with the principal stairs, they
found themselves in the centre of a dozen menials
of both sexes.
“Place,” cried the Duke of Sant' Agata, whose
person and voice were alike unknown to them.
“Your mistress will breathe the air of the canals.”
Wonder and curiosity were alive in every countenance,
but suspicion and eager attention were uppermost
in the features of many. The foot of Donna
Violetta had scarcely touched the pavement of
the lower hall, when several menials glided down
the flight, and quitted the palace, by its different outlets.
Each sought those who engaged him in the
service. One flew along the narrow streets of the
another sought his son; and one, ignorant of the
person of him he served, actually searched an agent
of Don Camillo, to impart a circumstance in which
that noble was himself so conspicuous an actor. To
such a pass of corruption had double-dealing and
mystery reduced the household of the fairest and
richest in Venice! The gondola lay at the marble
steps of the water-gate, held against the stones by
two of its crew. Don Camillo saw, at a glance,
that the masked gondoliers had neglected none of the
precautions he had prescribed, and he inwardly commended
their punctuality. Each wore a short rapier
at his girdle, and he fancied he could trace beneath
the folds of their garments, evidence of the
presence of the clumsy fire-arms, in use at that period.
These observations were made, while the Carmelite
and Violetta entered the boat. Donna Florinda
followed, and Annina was about to imitate her
example, when she was arrested by the arm of Don
Camillo.
“Thy service ends here,” whispered the bridegroom.
“Seek another mistress; in fault of a better,
thou mayest devote thyself to Venice.”
The little interruption caused Don Camillo to look
backward, and, for a single moment, he paused to
scrutinize the group of eyes that crowded the hall
of the palace, at a respectful distance.
“Adieu, my friends!” he added; “Those among
ye who love your mistress shall be remembered.”
He would have said more, but a rude seizure of
his arms caused him to turn hastily away. He was
firm in the grasp of the two gondoliers who had
landed. While he was yet in too much astonishment
to struggle, Annina, obedient to a signal, darted
past him and leaped into the boat. The oars fell
into the water; Don Camillo was repelled by a violent
shove backward into the hall, the gondoliers
swept away from the steps, beyond the power of him
they left to follow.
“Gino!—miscreant!—what means this treachery!”
The moving of the parting gondola was accompanied
by no other sound than the usual washing of
the water. In speechless agony, Don Camillo saw
the boat glide, swifter and swifter at each stroke of
the oars, along the canal, and then, whirling round
the angle of a palace, disappear.
Venice admitted not of pursuit like another city,
for there was no passage along the canal taken by
the gondola, but by water. Several of the boats
used by the family, lay within the piles on the great
canal, at the principal entrance, and Don Camillo
was about to rush into one, and to seize its oars,
with his own hands, when the usual sounds announced
the approach of a gondola from the direction of
the bridge, that had so long served as a place of
concealment to his own domestic. It soon issued
from the obscurity, cast by the shadows of the houses
and proved to be a large gondola pulled, like the one
which had just disappeared, by six masked gondoliers.
The resemblance between the equipments of
the two was so exact, that at first not only-the wondering
Camillo, but all the others present fancied the
latter, by some extraordinary speed, had already
made the four of the adjoining palaces, and was
once more approaching the private entrance of that
of Donna Violetta.
“Gino!” cried the bewildered bridegroom.
“Signore mio!” answered the faithful domestic.
“Draw nearer, varlet. What meaneth this idle
trifling, at a moment like this?”
Don Camillo leaped a fearful distance, and happily
he reached the gondola. To pass the men and rush
that it was empty was the work of a glance.
“Villains, have you dared to be false!” cried the
confounded noble.
At that instant the clock of the city began to tell
the hour of two, and it was only as that appointed
signal sounded heavy and melancholy on the nightair,
that the undeceived Camillo got a certain glimpse
of the truth.
“Gino,” he said, repressing his voice, like one
summoning a desperate resolution—“Are thy fellows
true?”
“As faithful as your own vassals, Signore.”
“And thou didst not fail to deliver the note to my
agent?”
“He had it before the ink was dry, eccellenza.”
“The mercenary villain!—He told thee where to
find the gondola, equipped as I see it?”
“Signore, he did; and I do the man the justice
to say that nothing is wanting, either to speed or
comfort.”
“Ay, he even deals in duplicates, so tender is his
care!” muttered Don Camillo, between his teeth.—
“Pull away, men; your own safety and my happiness
now depend on your arms. A thousand ducats
if you equal my hopes—my just anger if you
disappoint them!”
Don Camillo threw himself on the cushions as he
spoke, in bitterness of heart, though he seconded his
words by a gesture which bid the men proceed.
Gino, who occupied the stern and managed the directing
oar, opened a small window in the canopy,
which communicated with the interior, and bent to
take his master's directions as the boat sprang ahead.
Rising from his stooping posture, the practised gondolier
gave a sweep with his blade, which caused the
sluggish element of the narrow canal to whirl in eddies,
as if it obeyed an instinct.
| THE BRAVO.
—
CHAPTER I. The bravo | |