 | CHAPTER III. The bravo |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Yet cheerful; though methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming.”
Rogers.
The hours passed as if naught had occurred,
within the barriers of the city, to disturb their progress.
On the following morning men proceeded to
their several pursuits, of business or of pleasure, as
had been done for ages, and none stopped to question
his neighbor of the scene which might have
taken place during the night. Some were gay, and
others sorrowing; some idle, and others occupied;
here one toiled, there another sported; and Venice
presented, as of wont, its noiseless, suspicious, busy,
mysterious, and yet stirring throngs, as it had before
done at a thousand similar risings of the sun.
The menials lingered around the water-gate of
Donna Violetta's palace, with distrustful but cautious
faces, scarce whispering among themselves their
secret suspicions of the fate of their mistress. The
usual gloomy magnificence, while the abode of Don
Camillo Monforte betrayed no sign of the heavy
disappointment which its master had sustained.
The Bella Sorrentina still lay in the port, with a
yard on deck, while the crew repaired its sail in the
lazy manner of mariners, who work without excitement.
The Lagunes were dotted with the boats of fishermen,
and travellers arrived and departed from the
city, by the well-known channels of Fusina and Mestre.
Here, some adventurer from the north quitted
the canals, on his return towards the Alps, carrying
with him a pleasing picture of the ceremonies he
had witnessed, mingled with some crude conjectures
of that power which predominated in the suspected
state; and there, a countryman of the Main sought
his little farm, satisfied with the pageants and regatta
of the previous day. In short, all seemed as
usual, and the events we have related remained a secret
with the actors, and that mysterious council
which had so large a share in their existence.
As the day advanced, many a sail was spread for
the pillars of Hercules, or the genial Levant, and
feluccas, mystics and golettas, went and came as the
land or sea-breeze prevailed. Still the mariner of
Calabria lounged beneath the awning which sheltered
his deck, or took his siesta on a pile of old sails,
which were ragged with the force of many a hot
sirocco. As the sun fell, the gondolas of the great
and idle began to glide over the water; and when
the two squares were cooled by the air of the Adriatic,
the Broglio began to fill with those privileged
to pace its vaulted passage. Among these came the
Duke of Sant' Agata, who, though an alien to the
laws of the republic, being of so illustrious descent,
and of claims so equitable, was received among the
senators, in their moments of ease, as a welcome
Broglio at the wonted hour, and with his usual composure,
for he trusted to his secret influence at Rome,
and something to the success of his rivals, for impunity.
Reflection had shown Don Camillo that, as
his plans were known to the council, they would
long since have arrested him, had such been their
intention; and it had also led him to believe, that
the most efficient manner of avoiding the personal
consequences of his adventure, was to show confidence
in his own power to withstand them. When
he appeared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a high
officer of the papal embassy, and with an eye that
spoke assurance in himself, he was greeted, as usual,
by all who knew him, as was due to his rank and
expectations. Still Don Camillo walked among the
patricians of the republic with novel sensations.
More than once he thought he detected, in the wandering
glances of those with whom he conversed,
signs of their knowledge of his frustrated attempt,
and more than once, when he least suspected such
scrutiny, his countenance was watched, as if the
observer sought some evidence of his future intentions.
Beyond this, none might have discovered that
an heiress of so much importance had been so near
being lost to the state, or, on the other hand, that a
bridegroom had been robbed of his bride. Habitual
art, on the part of the state, and resolute but wary
intention, on the part of the young noble, concealed
all else from observation.
In this manner the day passed, not a tongue in
Venice, beyond those which whispered in secret,
making any allusion to the incidents of our tale.
Just as the sun was setting, a gondola swept slowly
up to the water-gate of the ducal palace. The gondolier
landed, fastened his boat in the usual manner
to the stepping-stones, and entered the court. He
wore a mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and
of his class, as to defeat recognition by its simplicity.
Glancing an eye about him, he entered the building
by a private door.
The edifice in which the Doges of Venice dwelt
still stands a gloomy monument of the policy of the
republic, furnishing evidence, in itself, of the specious
character of the prince whom it held. It is
built around a vast but gloomy court, as is usual with
nearly all of the principal edifices of Europe. One
of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta, so often
mentioned, and another lines the quay next the port.
The architecture of these two exterior faces of the
palace renders the structure remarkable. A low
portico, which forms the Broglio, sustains a row of
massive oriental windows, and above these again
lies a pile of masonry, slightly relieved by apertures,
which reverses the ordinary uses of the arts. A
third front is nearly concealed by the cathedral of
St. Mark, and the fourth is washed by its canal.
The public prison of the city forms the other side
of this canal, eloquently proclaiming the nature of
the government by the close approximation of the
powers of legislation and of punishment. The famous
Bridge of Sighs is the material, and we might
add the metaphorical, link between the two. The
latter edifice stands on the quay, also, and though
less lofty and spacious, in point of architectural beauty
it is the superior structure, though the quaintness
and unusual style of the palace is most apt to attract
attention.
The masked gondolier soon reappeared beneath
the arch of the water-gate, and with a hurried step
he sought his boat. It required but a minute to
cross the canal, to land on the opposite quay, and to
enter the public door of the prison. It would seem
that he had some secret means of satisfying the vigilance
of the different keepers, for bolts were drawn,
presented himself. In this manner he quickly passed
all the outer barriers of the palace, and reached a
part of the building, which had the appearance of
being fitted for the accommodation of a family.
Judging from the air of all around him, those who
dwelt there took the luxury of their abode but little
into the account, though neither the furniture nor the
rooms were wanting in most of the necessaries,
suited to people of their class and the climate, and
in that age.
The gondolier had ascended a private stairway,
and he was now before a door, which had none of
those signs of a prison, that so freely abounded in
other parts of the building. He paused to listen,
and then tapped, with singular caution.
“Who is without?” asked a gentle female voice,
at the same instant that the latch moved and fell
again, as if she within waited to be assured of the
character of her visitor, before she opened the door
“A friend to thee, Gelsomina;” was the answer.
“Nay, here all are friends to the keepers, if words
can be believed. You must name yourself, or go
elsewhere for your answer.”
The gondolier removed the mask a little, which
had altered his voice as well as concealed his face.
“It is I, Gessina,” he said, using the diminutive of
her name.
The bolts grated, and the door was hurriedly
opened.
“It is wonderful that I did not know thee, Carlo!”
said the female, with eager simplicity; “but thou
takest so many disguises of late, and so counterfeitest
strange voices, that thine own mother might have
distrusted her ear.”
The gondolier paused to make certain they were
alone; then, laying aside the mask altogether, he
exposed the features of the Bravo.
“Thou knowest the need of caution,” he added,
“and wilt not judge me harshly.”
“I said not that, Carlo—but thy voice is so familiar,
that I thought it wonderful thou could'st speak
as a stranger.”
“Hast thou aught for me?”
The gentle girl, for she was both young and gentle,
hesitated.
“Hast thou aught new, Gelsomina?” repeated the
Bravo, reading her innocent face with his searching
glance.
“Thou art fortunate in not being sooner in the
prison. I have just had a visitor. Thou would'st
not have liked to be seen, Carlo?”
“Thou knowest I have good reasons for coming
masked. I might, or I might not have disliked thy
acquaintance, as he should have proved.”
“Nay, now thou judgest wrong;” returned the
female, hastily, “I had no other, here, but my cousin,
Annina.”
“Dost thou think me jealous?” said the Bravo,
smiling in kindness, as he took her hand. “Had it
been thy cousin Pietro, or Michele, or Roberto, or
any other youth of Venice, I should have no other
dread than that of being known.”
“But it was only Annina—my cousin, Annina,
whom thou hast never seen—and I have no cousins
Pietro, and Michele, and Roberto. We are not
many, Carlo. Annina has a brother, but he never
comes hither. Indeed it is long since she has found
it convenient to quit her trade to come to this dreary
place. Few children of sisters see each other so
seldom as Annina and I!”
“Thou art a good girl, Gessina, and art always
to be found near thy mother. Hast thou naught in
particular, for my ear?”
Again the soft eyes of Gelsomina, or Gessina, as
she was familiarly called, dropped to the floor—but
hurriedly continued the discourse.
“I fear Annina will return, or I would go with
thee, at once.”
“Is this cousin of thine still here, then?” asked
the Bravo, with uneasiness.—“Thou knowest I
would not be seen.”
“Fear not. She cannot enter without touching
that bell, for she is above with my poor bed-ridden
mother. Thou canst go into the inner room, as
usual, when she comes, and listen to her idle discourse,
if thou wilt—or—but we have not time—for
Annina comes seldom, and I know not why, but she
seems to love a sick room little, as she never stays
many minutes with her aunt.”
“Thou would'st have said, or I might go on my
errand, Gessina?”
“I would, Carlo—but I am certain we should be
recalled by my impatient cousin.”
“I can wait; I am patient when with thee, dearest
Gessina.”
“Hist!—'Tis my cousin's step.—Thou canst
go in.”
While she spoke, a small bell rang, and the Bravo
withdrew into the inner room, like one accustomed
to that place of retreat. He left the door ajar, for
the darkness of the closet sufficiently concealed his
person. In the mean time, Gelsomina opened the
outer door for the admission of her visitor. At the
first sound of the latter's voice, Jacopo, who had
little suspected the fact from a name which was so
common, recognized the artful daughter of the
wine-seller.
“Thou art at thy ease, here, Gelsomina,” cried
the latter, entering and throwing herself into a seat,
like one fatigued. “Thy mother is better, and thou
art truly mistress of the house.”
“I would I were not, Annina, for I am young to
have this trust, with this affliction.”
“It is not so insupportable, Gessina, to be mistress
within doors, at seventeen! Authority is sweet, and
obedience is odious.”
“I have found neither so, and I will give up the
first with joy, whenever my poor mother shall be
able to take command of her own family, again.”
“This is well, Gessina, and does credit to the
good father confessor. But authority is dear to
woman, and so is liberty. Thou wast not with the
maskers yesterday, in the square?”
“I seldom wear a disguise, and I could not quit
my mother.”
“Which means that thou would'st have been glad
to do it. Thou hast good reason for thy regrets,
since a gayer marriage of the sea, or a braver
regatta, has not been witnessed in Venice, since
thou wast born. But the first was to be seen from
thy window?”
“I saw the galley of state sweeping toward the
Lido, and the train of patricians on its deck; but
little else.”
“No matter. Thou shalt have as good an idea
of the pageant as if thou had'st played the part of
the doge himself. First came the men of the guard,
with their ancient dresses—”
“Nay, this I remember to have often seen; for
the same show is kept from year to year.”
“Thou art right; but Venice never witnessed
such a brave regatta! Thou knowest that the first
trial is always between gondolas of many oars,
steered by the best esteemed of the canals. Luigi
was there, and though he did not win, he more than
merited success, by the manner in which he directed
his boat. Thou knowest Luigi?”
“I scarce know any in Venice, Annina, for the
long illness of my mother, and this unhappy office
the canals.”
“True. Thou art not well placed to make acquaintances.
But Luigi is second to no gondolier,
in skill or reputation, and he is much the merriest
rogue of them all, that put foot on the Lido.”
“He was foremost, then, in the grand race?”
“He should have been, but the awkwardness of
his fellows, and some unfairness in the crossing,
threw him back to be second. 'Twas a sight to
behold, that of many noble watermen struggling to
maintain or to get a name on the canals. Santa
Maria! I would thou could'st have seen it, girl!”
“I should not have been glad to see a friend
defeated.”
“We must take fortune as it offers. But the most
wonderful sight of the day, after all, though Luigi
and his fellows did so well, was to see a poor fisherman,
named Antonio, in his bare head and naked
legs, a man of seventy years, and with a boat no
better than that I use to carry liquors to the Lido,
entering on the second race, and carrying off the
prize!”
“He could not have met with powerful rivals?”
“The best of Venice; though Luigi, having
strived for the first, could not enter for the second
trial. 'Tis said, too,” continued Annina, looking
about her with habitual caution, “that one, who may
scarce be named in Venice, had the boldness to appear
in that regatta masked; and yet the fisherman
won! Thou hast heard of Jacopo?”
“The name is common.”
“There is but one who bears it now, in Venice.
—All mean the same when they say Jacopo.”
“I have heard of a monster of that name. Surely
he hath not dared to show himself among the nobles,
on such a festa!”
“Gessina, we live in an unaccountable country!
the doge, at his pleasure, and yet none say aught to
him! I have seen him, at noonday, leaning against
the triumphal mast, or the column of San Teodoro,
with as proud an air as if he were put there to
celebrate a victory of the republic!”
“Perhaps he is master of some terrible secret,
which they fear he will reveal?”
“Thou knowest little of Venice, child! Holy
Maria! a secret of that kind is a death-warrant of
itself. It is as dangerous to know too much, as it
is to know too little, when one deals with St. Mark.
But they say Jacopo was there, standing eye to eye
with the doge, and scaring the senators as if he had
been an uncalled spectre from the vaults of their
fathers. Nor is this all; as I crossed the Lagunes
this morning, I saw the body of a young cavalier
drawn from the water, and those who were near it,
said it had the mark of his fatal hand!”
The timid Gelsomina shuddered.
“They who rule,” she said, “will have to answer
for this negligence to God, if they let the wretch
longer go at large.”
“Blessed St. Mark protect his children! They
say there is much of this sort of sin to answer for—
but see the body I did, with my own eyes, in entering
the canals this morning.”
“And didst thou sleep on the Lido, that thou
wert abroad so early?”
“The Lido—yes—nay—I slept not, but thou
knowest my father had a busy day during the
revels, and I am not like thee, Gessina, mistress of
the household, to do as I would. But I tarry here
to chat with thee, when there is great need of industry
at home. Hast thou the package, child,
which I trusted to thy keeping, at my last visit?”
“It is here,” answered Gelsomina, opening a
drawer, and handing to her cousin a small but
contained some articles of forbidden commerce,
and which the other, in her indefatigable activity,
had been obliged to secrete for a time. “I had begun
to think that thou hadst forgotten it, and was
about to send it to thee.”
“Gelsomina, if thou lovest me, never do so rash
an act! My brother Guiseppe—thou scarce knowest
Guiseppe?”
“We have little acquaintance, for cousins.”
“Thou art fortunate in thy ignorance. I cannot
say what I might of the child of the same parents,
but had Guiseppe seen this package, by any accident,
it might have brought thee into great trouble!”
“Nay, I fear not thy brother, nor any else,” said
the daughter of the prison-keeper, with the firmness
of innocence; “he could do me no harm for dealing
kindly by a relative.”
“Thou art right; but he might have caused me
great vexation. Sainted Maria! if thou knewest
the pain that unthinking and misguided boy gives
his family! He is my brother, after all, and you
will fancy the rest. Addio, good Gessina; I hope
thy father will permit thee to come and visit, at last,
those who so much love thee.”
“Addio, Annina; thou knowest I would come
gladly, but that I scarce quit the side of my poor
mother.”
The wily daughter of the wine-seller gave her
guileless and unsuspecting friend a kiss, and then
she was let out and departed.
“Carlo,” said the soft voice of Gessina; “thou
canst come forth, for we have no further fear of
visits.”
The Bravo appeared, but with a paleness deeper
than common on his cheek. He looked mournfully
at the gentle and affectionate being who awaited his
return, and when he struggled to answer her ingenuous
expression of ghastliness.
“Annina has wearied thee with her idle discourse
of the regatta, and of murders on the canals. Thou
wilt not judge her harshly, for the manner in which
she spoke of Giuseppe, who may deserve this, and
more. But, I know thy impatience, and I will not
increase thy weariness.”
“Hold, Gessina—this girl is thy cousin?”
“Have I not told thee so? our mothers are sisters.”
“And she is here often?”
“Not as often as she could wish, I am certain,
for her aunt has not quitted her room for many,
many months.”
“Thou art an excellent daughter, kind Gessina,
and would make all others as virtuous as thyself.—
And thou hast been to return these visits?”
“Never. My father forbids it, for they are dealers
in wines, and entertain the gondoliers in revelry.
But Annina is blameless for the trade of her parents.”
“No doubt—and that package? it hath been long
in thy keeping.”
“A month; Annina left it at her last visit, for
she was hurried to cross to the Lido. But why
these questions? You do not like my cousin, who
is giddy, and given to idle conversation, but who, I
think, must have a good heart. Thou heard'st the
manner in which she spoke of the wretched bravo,
Jacopo, and of this late murder?”
“I did.”
“Thou could'st not have shown more horror at
the monster's crime thyself, Carlo. Nay, Annina is
thoughtless, and she might be less worldly; but she
hath, like all of us, a holy aversion to sin. Shall I
lead thee to the cell?”
“Go on.”
“Thy honest nature revolts, Carlo, at the cold
villany of the assassin. I have heard much of his
murders, and of the manner in which those up above
bear with him. They say, in common, that his art
surpasseth theirs, and that the officers wait for
proof, that they may not do injustice.”
“Is the senate so tender, think you?” asked the
Bravo, huskily, but motioning for his companion to
proceed.
The girl looked sad, like one who felt the force
of this question; and she turned away to open a
private door, whence she brought forth a little box.
“This is the key, Carlo,” she said, showing him
one of a massive bunch, “and I am now the sole
warder. This much, at least, we have effected; the
day may still come when we shall do more.”
The Bravo endeavored to smile, as if he appreciated
her kindness; but he only succeeded in making
her understand his desire to go on. The eye of
the gentle-hearted girl lost its gleam of hope in an
expression of sorrow, and she obeyed.
| CHAPTER III. The bravo | |