 | CHAPTER II. The bravo |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
'Tis not the hour of slumber:—why so pale?”
Cain.
Notwithstanding his apparent decision, the Duke
of Sant' Agata was completely at a loss in what
manner to direct his future movements. That he
had been duped, by one or more of the agents, to
whom he had been compelled to confide his necessary
preparations for the flight he had meditated
several days, was too certain to admit of his deceiving
himself with the hopes, that some unaccountable
mistake was the cause of his loss. He
saw, at once, that the senate was master of the person
of his bride, and he too well knew its power,
and its utter disregard of human obligations, when
any paramount interest of the state was to be consulted,
to doubt for an instant its willingness to use
its advantage, in any manner that was most likely to
contribute to its own views. By the premature
death of her uncle, Donna Violetta had become the
heiress of vast estates in the dominions of the church,
and a compliance with that jealous and arbitrary law
of Venice, which commanded all of its nobles to
dispose of any foreign possessions they might acquire,
was only suspended on account of her sex,
and, as has already been seen, with the hope of disposing
of her hand in a manner that would prove
more profitable to the republic. With this object
still before them, and with the means of accomplishing
that his marriage would not only be denied, but he
feared the witnesses of the ceremony would be so
disposed of, as to give little reason ever to expect
embarrassment from their testimony. For himself,
personally, he felt less apprehension, though he foresaw
that he had furnished his opponents with an argument
that was likely to defer to an indefinite period,
if it did not entirely defeat his claims to the
disputed succession. But he had already made up
his mind to this result, though it is probable that his
passion for Violetta had not entirely blinded him to
the fact, that her Roman signories would be no
unequal offset for the loss. He believed that he might
possibly return to his palace with impunity, so far as
any personal injury was concerned; for the great
consideration he enjoyed in his native land, and the
high interest he possessed at the court of Rome,
were sufficient pledges that no open violence would
be done him. The chief reason why his claim had
been kept in suspense, was the wish to profit by his
near connexion with the favorite cardinal, and though
he had never been able entirely to satisfy the ever-increasing
demands of the council, in this respect,
he thought it probable that the power of the Vatican
would not be spared, to save him from any very imminent
personal hazard. Still he had given the state
of Venice plausible reasons for severity, and liberty,
just at that moment, was of so much importance,
that he dreaded falling into the hands of the officials,
as one of the greatest misfortunes which could momentarily
overtake him. He so well knew the
crooked policy of those with whom he had to deal,
that he believed he might be arrested solely that the
government could make an especial merit of his future
release, under circumstances of so seeming gravity.
His order to Gino, therefore, had been to pull down
the principal passage toward the port.
Before the gondola, which sprung at each united
effort of its crew, like some bounding animal, entered
among the shipping, its master had time to recover
his self-possession, and to form some hasty
plans for the future. Making a signal for the crew
to cease rowing, he came from beneath the canopy.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, boats
were plying on the water within the town, and the
song was still audible on the canals. But among the
mariners a general stillness prevailed, such as befitted
their toil during the day, and their ordinary habits.
“Call the first idle gondolier of thy acquaintance
hither, Gino,” said Don Camillo, with assumed calmness;
“I would question him.”
In less than a minute he was gratified.
“Hast seen any strongly manned gondola plying,
of late, in this part of the canal?” demanded Don
Camillo, of the man they had stopped.
“None, but this of your own, Signore; which is
the fastest of all that passed beneath the Rialto, in
this day's regatta.”
“How knowest thou, friend, aught of the speed
of my boat?”
“Signore, I have pulled an oar on the canals of
Venice six-and-twenty years, and I do not remember
to have seen a gondola move more swiftly on
them than did this very boat but a few minutes ago,
when it dashed among the feluccas, further down in
the port, as if it were again running for the oar.
Corpo di Bacco! There are rich wines in the
palaces of the nobles, that men can give such life to
wood!”
“Whither did we steer?” eagerly asked Don
Camillo.
“Blessed San Teodoro! I do not wonder, eccellenza,
that you ask that question, for though it is but
a moment since, here I see you lying as motionless
on the water as a floating weed!”
“Friend, here is silver—addio.”
The gondolier swept slowly onward, singing a
strain in honor of his bark, while the boat of Don
Camillo darted ahead. Mistic, felucca, xebec, brigantine,
and three-masted ship, were apparently floating
past them, as they shot through the maze of
shipping, when Gino bent forward and drew the attention
of his master to a large gondola, which was
pulling with a lazy oar toward them, from the direction
of the Lido. Both boats were in a wide
avenue in the midst of the vessels, the usual track
of those who went to sea, and there was no object
whatever between them. By changing the course
of his own boat, Don Camillo soon found himself
within an oar's length of the other. He saw, at a
glance, it was the treacherous gondola by which he
had been duped.
“Draw, men, and follow!” shouted the desperate
Neapolitan, preparing to leap into the midst of his
enemies.
“You draw against St. Mark!” cried a warning
voice from beneath the canopy. “The chances are
unequal Signore; for the smallest signal would
bring twenty galleys to our succor.”
Don Camillo might have disregarded this menace,
had he not perceived that it caused the half-drawn
rapiers of his followers to return to their scabbards.
“Robber!” he answered, “restore her whom you
have spirited away.”
“Signore, you young nobles are often pleased to
play your extravagancies with the servants of the
republic. Here are none but the gondoliers and
myself.” A movement of the boat permitted Don
Camillo to look into the covered part, and he saw
that the other uttered no more than the truth. Convinced
of the uselessness of further parley, knowing
the value of every moment, and believing he
young Neapolitan signed to his people to go on.
The boats parted in silence, that of Don Camillo
proceeding in the direction from which the other
had just come.
In a short time the gondola of Don Camillo was
in an open part of the Guidecca, and entirely beyond
the tiers of the shipping. It was so late that
the moon had begun to fall, and its light was cast
obliquely on the bay, throwing the eastern sides of
the buildings and the other objects into shadow. A
dozen different vessels were seen, aided by the land-breeze,
steering towards the entrance of the port.
The rays of the moon fell upon the broad surface
of those sides of their canvas which were nearest
to the town, and they resembled so many spotless
clouds, sweeping the water and floating seaward.
“They are sending my wife to Dalmatia!” cried
Don Camillo, like a man on whom the truth began
to dawn.
“Signore mio!” exclaimed the astonished Gino.
“I tell thee, sirrah, that this accursed senate hath
plotted against my happiness, and having robbed
me of thy mistress, hath employed one of the many
feluccas that I see, to transport her to some of its
strong-holds, on the eastern coast of the Adriatic.”
“Blessed Maria! Signor Duca, and my honoured
master; they say that the very images of stone in
Venice have ears, and that the horses of bronze
will kick, if an evil word is spoken against those up
above.”
“Is it not enough, varlet, to draw curses from the
meek Job, to rob him of a wife? Hast thou no feeling
for thy mistress?”
“I did not dream, eccellenza, that you were so
happy as to have the one, or that I was so honored
as to have the other.”
“Thou remindest me of my folly, good Gino. In
fortune in view, as thy efforts, like those of thy fellows,
will be made in behalf of the lady to whom I
have just plighted a husband's vows.”
“San Teodoro help us all, and hint what is to be
done! The lady is most happy, Signor Don Camillo,
and if I only knew by what name to mention her,
she should never be forgotten in any prayer that so
humble a sinner might dare to offer.”
“Thou hast not forgotten the beautiful lady I
drew from the Guidecca?”
“Corpo di Bacco! Your eccellenza floated like
a swan, and swam faster than a gull. Forgotten!
Signore, no,—I think of it every time I hear a plash
in the canals, and every time I think of it I curse
the Ancona-man in my heart. St. Theodore forgive
me, if it be unlike a Christian to do so. But, though
we all tell marvels of what our Lord did in the
Guidecca, the dip of its waters is not the marriage-ceremony,
nor can we speak with much certainty
of beauty, that was seen to so great disadvantage.”
“Thou art right, Gino.—But that lady, the illustrious
Donna Violetta Tiepolo, the daughter and
heiress of a famed senator, is now thy mistress. It
remains for us to establish her in the Castle of Sant'
Agata, where I shall defy Venice and its agents.”
Gino bowed his head in submission, though he
cast a look behind, to make sure that none of those
agents, whom his master set so openly at defiance,
were within ear-shot.
In the mean time the gondola proceeded, for the
dialogue in no manner interrupted the exertions of
Gino, still holding the direction of the Lido. As the
land-breeze freshened, the different vessels in sight
glided away, and by the time Don Camillo reached
the barrier of sand, which separates the Lagunes
from the Adriatic, most of them had glided through
the passages, and were now shaping their courses,
open gulf. The young noble had permitted his people
to pursue the direction originally taken, in pure
indecision. He was certain that his bride was in
one of the many barks in sight, but he possessed no
clue to lead him towards the right one, nor any sufficient
means of pursuit, were he even master of
that important secret. When he landed, therefore,
it was with the simple hope of being able to form
some general conjecture as to the portion of the republic's
dominions, in which he might search for her
he had lost, by observing to what part of the Adriatic
the different feluccas held their way. He had
determined on immediate pursuit, however, and before
he quitted the gondola, he once more turned to
his confidential gondolier to give the necessary instructions.
“Thou knowest, Gino,” he said, “that there is
one born a vassal on my estates, here in the port,
with a felucca from the Sorrentine shore?”
“I know the man better than I know my own
faults, Signore, or even my own virtues.”
“Go to him, at once, and make sure of his presence.
I have imagined a plan to decoy him into
the service of his lord; but I would now know the
condition of his vessel.”
Gino said a few words in commendation of the
zeal of his friend Stefano, and in praise of the
Bella Sorrentina, as the gondola receded from the
shore; and then he dashed his oar into the water,
like a man in earnest to execute the commission.
There is a lonely spot on the Lido di Palestrina,
where Catholic exclusion has decreed that the remains
of all who die in Venice, without the pale of
the church of Rome, shall moulder into their kindred
dust. Though it is not distant from the ordinary
landing and the few buildings which line the
shore, it is a place that, in itself, is no bad emblem
hot airs of the south and the bleak blasts of the Alps,
frequently covered with the spray of the Adriatic,
and based on barren sands, the utmost that human
art, aided by a soil which has been fattened by human
remains, can do, has been to create around the
modest graves a meager vegetation, that is in slight
contrast to the sterility of most of the bank. This
place of interment is without the relief of trees, at
the present day it is uninclosed, and in the opinions
of those who have set it apart for heretic and Jew,
it is unblessed. And yet, though condemned alike
to this, the last indignity which man can inflict on
his fellow, the two proscribed classes furnish a melancholy
proof of the waywardness of human passions
and prejudice, by refusing to share in common the
scanty pittance of earth, which bigotry has allowed
for their everlasting repose! While the protestant
sleeps by the side of protestant in exclusive obloquy,
the children of Israel moulder apart on the same
barren heath, sedulous to preserve, even in the
grave, the outward distinctions of faith. We shall
not endeavor to seek that deeply-seated principle
which renders man so callous to the most eloquent
and striking appeals to liberality, but rest satisfied
with being grateful that we have been born in a
land, in which the interests of religion are as little
as possible sullied by the vicious contamination of
those of life; in which Christian humility is not exhibited
beneath the purple, nor Jewish adhesion by
intolerance; in which man is left to care for the
welfare of his own soul, and in which, so far as the
human eye can penetrate, God is worshipped for
himself.
Don Camillo Monforte landed near the retired
graves of the proscribed. As he wished to ascend
the low sand-hills, which have been thrown up by
the waves and the winds of the gulf, on the outer
pass directly across the contemned spot, or make
such a circuit as would have been inconvenient.
Crossing himself, with a superstition that was interwoven
with all his habits and opinions, and loosening
his rapier, in order that he might not miss the
succor of that good weapon, at need, he moved
across the heath tenanted by the despised dead,
taking care to avoid the mouldering heaps of earth
which lay above the bones of heretic or Jew. He
had not threaded more than half the graves, however,
when a human form arose from the grass, and
seemed to walk like one who mused on the moral
that the piles at his feet would be apt to excite.
Again Don Camillo touched the handle of his rapier;
then moving aside, in a manner to give himself an
equal advantage from the light of the moon, he
drew near the stranger. His footstep was heard,
for the other paused, regarded the approaching
cavalier, and folding his arms, as it might be in sign
of neutrality, awaited his nearer approach.
“Thou hast chosen a melancholy hour for thy
walk, Signore,” said the young Neapolitan; “and a
still more melancholy scene. I hope I do not intrude
on an Israelite, or a Lutheran, who mourns
for his friend?”
“Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like yourself, a
Christian.”
“Ha! Thou knowest me—'tis Battista, the gondolier
that I once entertained in my household?”
“Signore, 'tis not Battista.”
As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, in a
manner that threw all of its mild light upon his features.
“Jacopo!” exclaimed the duke, recoiling, as did
all in Venice habitually, when that speaking eye was
unexpectedly met.
“Signore—Jacopo.”
In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo glittered
in the rays of the moon.
“Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain the
motive that hath brought thee thus across my solitude!”
The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained their
fold.
“I might, with equal justice, call upon the Duke
of Sant' Agata to furnish reasons, why he wanders
at this hour among the Hebrew graves.”
“Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not with men
of thy reputation; if any in Venice have thought
fit to employ thee against my person, thou wilt have
need of all thy courage and skill, ere thou earnest
thy fee.”
“Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo; here is none to
do you harm. Think you, if employed in the manner
you name, I would be in this spot to seek you?
Ask yourself whether your visit here was known,
or whether it was more than the idle caprice of a
young noble, who finds his bed less easy than his
gondola. We have met, Duke of Sant' Agata, when
you distrusted my honor less.”
“Thou speakest true, Jacopo;” returned the noble,
suffering the point of his rapier to fall from before
the breast of the Bravo, though he still hesitated
to withdraw the point. “Thou sayest the truth.
My visit to this spot is indeed accidental, and thou
could'st not have possibly foreseen it. Why art thou
here?”
“Why are these here?” demanded Jacopo, pointing
to the graves at his feet. “We are born, and
we die—that much is known to us all; but the
when and the where are mysteries, until time reveals
them.”
“Thou art not a man to act without good motive.
Though these Israelites could not foresee their
“I am here, Don Camillo Monforte, because my
spirit hath need of room. I want the air of the sea
—the canals choke me—I can only breathe in freedom
on this bank of sand!”
“Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?”
“Ay, Signore—I lothe yon city of crimes!”
As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in the direction
of the domes of St. Mark, and the deep tones
of his voice appeared to heave up from the depths of
his chest.
“This is extraordinary language for a—”
“Bravo; speak the word boldly, Signore—it is no
stranger to my ears. But even the stiletto of a
Bravo is honorable, compared to that sword of pretended
justice which St. Mark wields! The commonest
hireling of Italy—he who will plant his dagger
in the heart of his friend for two sequins, is a man
of open dealing, compared to the merciless treachery
of some in yonder town!”
“I understand thee, Jacopo; thou art, at length,
proscribed. The public voice, faint as it is in the
republic, has finally reached the ears of thy employers,
and they withdraw their protection.”
Jacopo regarded the noble, for an instant, with an
expression so ambiguous, as to cause the latter insensibly
to raise the point of his rapier, but when he
answered, it was with his ordinary quiet.
“Signor Duca,” he said, “I have been thought
worthy to be retained by Don Camillo Monforte!”
“I deny it not—and now that thou recallest the
occasion, new light breaks in upon me. Villain, to
thy faithlessness I owe the loss of my bride!”
Though the rapier was at the very throat of
Jacopo, he did not flinch. Gazing at his excited
companion, he laughed in a smothered manner, but
bitterly.
“It would seem that the Lord of Sant' Agata
wishes to rob me of my trade,” he said. “Arise,
ye Israelites, and bear witness, lest men doubt the
fact! A common bravo of the canals is waylaid,
among your despised graves, by the proudest Signor
of Calabria! You have chosen your spot, in
mercy, Don Camillo, for sooner or later this crumbling
and sea-worn earth is to receive me. Were I
to die at the altar itself, with the most penitent prayer
of holy church on my lips, the bigots would send
my body to rest among those hungry Hebrews and
accursed heretics. Yes, I am a man proscribed, and
unfit to sleep with the faithful!”
His companion spoke with so strange a mixture
of irony and melancholy, that the purpose of Don
Camillo wavered. But remembering his loss, he
shook the rapier's point, and continued:—
“Thy taunts and effrontery will not avail thee,
knave;” he cried. “Thou knowest that I would
have engaged thee as the leader of a chosen band,
to favor the flight of one dear from Venice.”
“Nothing more true, Signore.”
“And thou didst refuse the service?”
“Noble duke, I did.”
“Not content with this, having learned the particulars
of my project, thou sold the secret to the
senate?”
“Don Camillo Monforte, I did not. My engagements
with the council would not permit me to
serve you; else, by the brightest star of yonder
vault! it would have gladdened my heart to have
witnessed the happiness of two young and faithful
lovers. No—no—no; they know me not, who
think I cannot find pleasure in the joy of another.
I told you that I was the senate's,—and there the
matter ended.”
“And I had the weakness to believe thee, Jacopo,
for thou hast a character so strangely compounded
of thy faith, that the seeming frankness
of the answer lulled me to security. Fellow, I
have been betrayed, and that at the moment when
I thought success most sure.”
Jacopo manifested interest, but, as he moved
slowly on, accompanied by the vigilant and zealous
noble, he smiled coldly, like one who had pity for
the other's credulity.
“In bitterness of soul, I have cursed the whole
race for its treachery;” continued the Neapolitan.
“This is rather for the priore of St. Mark, than
for the ear of one who carries a public stiletto.”
“My gondola has been imitated—the liveries of
my people copied—my bride stolen.—Thou answerest
not, Jacopo?”
“What answer would you have? You have been
cozened, Signore, in a state, whose very prince
dare not trust his secrets to his wife. You would
have robbed Venice of an heiress, and Venice
has robbed you of a bride. You have played
high, Don Camillo, and have lost a heavy stake.
You have thought of your own wishes and rights,
while you have pretended to serve Venice with the
Spaniard.”
Don Camillo started in surprise.
“Why this wonder, Signore?—You forget that I
have lived much among those who weigh the
chances of every political interest, and that your
name is often in their mouths. This marriage is
doubly disagreeable to Venice, who has nearly as
much need of the bridegroom as of the bride. The
council hath long ago forbidden the banns.”
“Ay—but the means?—explain the means by
which I have been duped, lest the treachery be
ascribed to thee.”
“Signore, the very marbles of the city give up
their secrets to the state. I have seen much, and
me merely a tool; but I have seen much that even
those who employed me could not comprehend. I
could have foretold this consummation of your nuptials,
had I known of their celebration.”
“This thou could'st not have done, without being
an agent of their treachery.”
“The schemes of the selfish may be foretold; it
is only the generous and the honest that baffle calculation.
He who can gain a knowledge of the
present interest of Venice is master of her dearest
secrets of state; for what she wishes she will do,
unless the service cost too dear. As for the means
—how can they be wanting in a household like
yours, Signore?”
“I trusted none but those deepest in my confidence.”
“Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in your
palace, Gino alone excepted, who is not a hireling
of the senate, or of its agents. The very gondoliers,
who row you to your daily pleasures, have had
their hands crossed with the republic's sequins.
Nay, they are not only paid to watch you, but to
watch each other.”
“Can this be true!”
“Have you ever doubted it, Signore?” asked
Jacopo, looking up like one who admired at
another's simplicity.
“I knew them to be false—pretenders to a faith
that in secret they mock; but I had not believed
they dared to tamper with the very menials of my
person. This undermining of the security of families
is to destroy society at its core!”
“You talk like one who hath not been long a
bridegroom, Signore;” said the Bravo with a hollow
laugh. “A year hence, you may know what
it is to have your own wife turning your secret
thoughts into gold.”
“And thou servest them, Jacopo?”
“Who does not, in some manner suited to his
habits? We are not masters of our fortune, Don
Camillo, or the Duke of Sant' Agata would not be
turning his influence with a relative, to the advantage
of the republic. What I have done hath not
been done without bitter penitence, and an agony
of soul, that your own light servitude may have
spared you, Signore.”
“Poor Jacopo!”
“If I have lived through it all, 'tis because one
mightier than the state hath not deserted me. But,
Don Camillo Monforte, there are crimes which pass
beyond the powers of man to endure.”
The Bravo shuddered, and he moved among the
despised graves, in silence.
“They have then proved too ruthless even for
thee?” said Don Camillo, who watched the contracting
eye and heaving form of his companion, in
wonder.
“Signore, they have. I have witnessed, this
night, a proof of their heartlessness and bad faith,
that hath caused me to look forward to my own
fate. The delusion is over; from this hour I serve
them no longer.”
The Bravo spoke with deep feeling, and his companion
fancied, strange as it was coming from such
a man, with an air of wounded integrity. Don
Camillo knew that there was no condition of life,
however degraded or lost to the world, which had
not its own particular opinions of the faith due to its
fellows; and he had seen enough of the sinuous
course of the oligarchy of Venice, to understand
that it was quite possible its shameless and irresponsible
duplicity might offend the principles of even
an assassin. Less odium was attached to men of
that class, in Italy and at that day, than will be
easily imagined in a country like this; for the radical
laws, caused an irritable and sensitive people too
often to take into their own hands, the right of redressing
their own wrongs. Custom had lessened
the odium of the crime, and though society denounced
the assassin himself, it is scarcely too
much to say, that his employer was regarded with
little more disgust than the religious of our time regard
the survivor of a private combat. Still it was
not usual for nobles like Don Camillo to hold inter-course,
beyond that which the required service exacted,
with men of Jacopo's east; but the language
and manner of the Bravo so strongly attracted the
curiosity, and even the sympathy of his companion,
that the latter unconsciously sheathed his rapier and
drew nearer.
“Thy penitence and regrets, Jacopo, may lead
thee yet nearer to virtue,” he said, “than mere abandonment
of the senate's service. Seek out some
godly priest, and ease thy soul, by confession and
prayer.”
The Bravo trembled in every limb, and his eye
turned wistfully to the countenance of the other.
“Speak, Jacopo; even I will hear thee, if thou
would'st remove the mountain from thy breast.”
“Thanks, noble Signore! a thousand thanks for
this glimpse of sympathy, to which I have long been
a stranger! None know how dear a word of kindness
is, as he who has been condemned by all, as I
have been. I have prayed—I have craved—I have
wept for some ear to listen to my tale, and I thought
I had found one who would have heard me without
scorn, when the cold policy of the senate struck him.
I came here to commune with the hated dead, when
chance brought us together. Could I—” the Bravo
paused and looked doubtfully, again, at his companion.
“Say on, Jacopo.”
“I have not dared to trust my secrets even to the
confessional, Signore, and can I be so bold as to
offer them to you?”
“Truly, it is a strange behest!”
“Signore, it is. You are noble, I am of humble
blood. Your ancestors were senators and doges of
Venice, while mine have been, since the fishermen
first built their huts in the Lagunes, laborers on the
canals, and rowers of gondolas. You are powerful,
and rich, and courted; while I am denounced, and,
in secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are Don
Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo Frontoni!”
Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo spoke
without bitterness, and in deep sorrow.
“I would thou wert at the confessional, poor Jacopo!”
he said; “I am little able to give ease to
such a burthen.”
“Signore, I have lived too long, shut out from the
good wishes of my fellows, and I can bear with it
no longer. The accursed senate may cut me off
without warning, and then who will stop to look at
my grave. Signore, I must speak, or die!”
“Thy case is piteous, Jacopo!—Thou hast need
of ghostly counsel.”
“Here is no priest, Signore, and I carry a weight
past bearing. The only man who has shown interest
in me, for three long and dreadful years, is
gone!”
“But he will return, poor Jacopo.”
“Signore, he will never return. He is with the
fishes of the Lagunes.”
“By thy hand, monster!”
“By the justice of the illustrious republic,” said
the Bravo, with a smothered but bitter smile.
“Ha! they are then awake to the acts of thy
class? Thy repentance is the fruit of fear!”
Jacopo seemed choked. He had evidently counted
on the awakened sympathy of his companion,
to be thus thrown off again, unmanned him. He
shuddered, and every muscle and nerve appeared
about to yield its power. Touched by so unequivocal
signs of suffering, Don Camillo kept close at his
side, reluctant to enter more deeply into the feelings
of one of his known character, and yet unable to
desert a fellow-creature in so grievous agony.
“Signor Duca,” said the Bravo, with a pathos in
his voice that went to the heart of his auditor, “leave
me. If they ask for a proscribed man, let them come
here; in the morning they will find my body near
the graves of the heretics.”
“Speak, I will hear thee.”
Jacopo looked up with doubt expressed on his
features.
“Unburthen thyself; I will listen, though thou
recounted the assassination of my dearest friend.”
The oppressed Bravo gazed at him, as if he still
distrusted his sincerity. His face worked, and his
look became still more wistful; but as Don Camillo
faced the moon, and betrayed the extent of his sympathy,
the other burst into tears.
“Jacopo, I will hear thee—I will hear thee, poor
Jacopo!” cried Don Camillo, shocked at this exhibition
of distress in one so stern by nature. A wave
from the hand of the Bravo silenced him, and Jacopo,
struggling with himself for a moment, spoke.
“You have saved a soul from perdition, Signore,”
he said, smothering his emotion. “If the happy
knew how much power belongs to a single word of
kindness—a glance of feeling, when given to the
despised, they would not look so coldly on the miserable.
This night must have been my last, had
you cast me off without pity—but you will hear
my tale, Signore—you will not scorn the confession
of a Bravo?”
“I have promised. Be brief, for at this moment
I have great care of my own.”
“Signore, I know not the whole of your wrongs,
but they will not be less likely to be redressed for
this grace.”
Jacopo made an effort to command himself, when
he commenced his tale.
The course of the narrative does not require that
we should accompany this extraordinary man,
through the relation of the secrets he imparted to
Don Camillo. It is enough, for our present purposes,
to say, that, as he proceeded, the young Calabrian
noble drew nearer to his side, and listened with
growing interest. The Duke of Sant' Agata scarcely
breathed, while his companion, with that energy
of language and feeling which marks Italian character,
recounted his secret sorrows, and the scenes
in which he had been an actor. Long before he
was done, Don Camillo had forgotten his own private
causes of concern, and, by the time the tale
was finished, every shade of disgust had given place
to an ungovernable expression of pity. In short, so
eloquent was the speaker, and so interesting the
facts with which he dealt, that he seemed to play
with the sympathies of the listener, as the improvisatore
of that region is known to lead captive the
passions of the admiring crowd.
During the time Jacopo was speaking, he and his
wondering auditor had passed the limits of the despised
cemetery; and as the voice of the former
ceased, they stood on the outer beach of the Lido.
When the low tones of the Bravo were no longer
audible, they were succeeded by the sullen wash of
the Adriatic.
“This surpasseth belief!” Don Camillo exclaimed,
after a long pause, which had only been disturbed
by the rush and retreat of the waters.
“Signore, as holy Maria is kind! it is true.”
“I doubt you not, Jacopo—poor Jacopo! I cannot
distrust a tale thus told! Thou hast, indeed, been
a victim of their hellish duplicity, and well mayest
thou say, the load was past bearing. What is thy
intention?”
“I serve them no longer, Don Camillo—I wait
only for the last solemn scene, which is now certain,
and then I quit this city of deceit, to seek my
fortune in another region. They have blasted my
youth, and loaded my name with infamy.—God may
yet lighten the load!”
“Reproach not thyself beyond reason, Jacopo,
for the happiest and most fortunate of us all are not
above the power of temptation. Thou knowest that
even my name and rank have not, altogether, protected
me from their arts.”
“I know them capable, Signore, of deluding angels!
Their arts are only surpassed by their means,
and their pretence of virtue by their indifference to
its practice.”
“Thou sayest true, Jacopo: the truth is never in
greater danger, than when whole communities lend
themselves to the vicious deception of seemliness,
and without truth there is no virtue. This it is to
substitute profession for practice—to use the altar
for a worldly purpose—and to bestow power without
any other responsibility than that which is exacted
by the selfishness of caste! Jacopo—poor
Jacopo! thou shalt be my servitor—I am lord of
my own seignories, and once rid of this specious
republic, I charge myself with the care of thy safety
and fortunes. Be at peace as respects thy conscience:
I have interest near the holy see, and thou
shalt not want absolution!”
The gratitude of the Bravo was more vivid in
feeling than in expression. He kissed the hand of
Don Camillo, but it was with a reservation of self-respect,
that belonged to the character of the man.
“A system like this of Venice,” continued the
musing noble, “leaves none of us masters of our
own acts. The wiles of such a combination are
stronger than the will. It clokes its offences against
right in a thousand specious forms, and it enlists the
support of every man, under the pretence of a sacrifice
for the common good. We often fancy ourselves
simple dealers in some justifiable state intrigue,
when in truth we are deep in sin. Falsehood
is the parent of all crimes, and in no case has it a
progeny so numerous, as that in which its own
birth is derived from the state. I fear I may have
made sacrifices, to this treacherous influence, I
could wish forgotten.”
Though Don Camillo soliloquized, rather than addressed
his companion, it was evident, by the train
of his thoughts, that the narrative of Jacopo had
awakened disagreeable reflections, on the manner
in which he had pushed his own claims, with the
senate. Perhaps he felt the necessity of some apology
to one who, though so much his inferior in rank,
was so competent to appreciate his conduct, and
who had just denounced in the strongest language,
his own fatal subserviency to the arts of that irresponsible
and meretricious body.
Jacopo uttered a few words of a general nature,
but such as had a tendency to quiet the uneasiness
of his companion; after which, with a readiness
that proved him qualified for the many delicate missions
with which he had been charged, he ingeniously
turned the discourse to the recent abduction
of Donna Violetta, with the offer of rendering his
new employer all the services in his power to regain
his bride.
“That thou mayest know all thou hast undertaken,”
rejoined Don Camillo, “listen, Jacopo, and
I will conceal nothing from thy shrewdness.”
The Duke of Sant' Agata now briefly, but explicitly,
and measures, with respect to her he loved, and all
those events, with which the reader has already become
acquainted.
The Bravo gave great attention to the minutest
parts of the detail, and more than once, as the other
proceeded, he smiled to himself, like a man who
was able to trace the secret means, by which this
or that intrigue had been effected. The whole was
just related, when the sound of a footstep announced
the return of Gino.
| CHAPTER II. The bravo | |