 | CHAPTER II. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Ys for a nobile knyghte,
Who, tho' mayhap he has done wronge,
Hee thoughte ytt stylle was righte.”
Chatterton.
While this impudent evasion of vigilance was
successfully practised by so old an offender, the
trio of sentinels, with their volunteer assistant the
pilgrim, manifested the greatest anxiety to prevent
the contamination of admitting the highest executioner
of the law to form one of the strangely assorted
company. No sooner did the Genevese
permit a traveller to pass, than they commenced
their private and particular examination, which
was sufficiently fierce, for more than once had they
threatened to turn back the trembling, ignorant
applicant on mere suspicion. The cunning Baptiste
lent himself to their feelings with the skill of
a demagogue, affecting a zeal equal to their own,
while, at the same time, he took care most to excite
their suspicions where there was the smallest
danger of their being rewarded with success.
Through this fiery ordeal one passed after another,
until most of the nameless vagabonds had been
found innocent, and the throng around the gate
was so far lessened as to allow a freer circulation
in the thoroughfare. The opening permitted the
venerable noble, who has already been presented
to the reader, to advance to the gate, accompanied
by the female, and closely followed by the menials.
The servitor of the police saluted the stranger
with deference, for his calm exterior and imposing
presence were in singular contrast with the noisy
that had preceded.
“I am Melchior de Willading, of Berne,” said
the traveller, quietly offering the proofs of what
he said, with the ease of one sure of his impunity;
“this is my child—my only child,” the old
man repeated the latter words with melancholy
emphasis, “and these, that wear my livery, are
old and faithful followers of my house. We go
by the St. Bernard, to change the ruder side of
our Alps for that which is more grateful to the
weak—to see if there be a sun in Italy that hath
warmth enough to revive this drooping flower,
and to cause it once more to raise its head joyously,
as until lately, it did ever in its native halls.”
The officer smiled and repeated his reverences,
always declining to receive the offered papers;
for the aged father indulged the overflowing of
his feelings in a manner that would have awakened
even duller sympathies.
“The lady has youth and a tender parent of her
side,” he said; “these are much when health fails
us.”
“She is indeed too young to sink so early!”
returned the father, who had apparently forgotten
his immediate business, and was gazing with a
tearful eye at the faded but still eminently attractive
features of the young female, who rewarded
his solicitude with a look of love; “but thou hast
not seen I am the man I represent myself to be.”
“It is not necessary, noble baron; the city knows
of your presence, and I have it, in especial charge,
to do all that may be grateful to render the passage
through Geneva, of one so honored among
our allies, agreeable to his recollections.”
“Thy city's courtesy is of known repute,” said
the Baron de Willading, replacing his papers in
their usual envelope, and receiving the grace like
a father?”
“Heaven has not been niggardly of gifts of this
nature: my table feeds eleven, besides those who
gave them being.”
“Eleven!—The will of God is a fearful mystery!
And this thou seest is the sole hope of my
line;—the only heir that is left to the name and
lands of Willading! Art thou at ease in thy condition?”
“There are those in our town who are less so,
with many thanks for the friendliness of the question.”
A slight color suffused the face of Adelheid de
Willading, for so was the daughter of the Bernese
called, and she advanced a step nearer to the
officer.
“They who have so few at their own board,
need think of those who have so many,” she said,
dropping a piece of gold into the hand of the Genevese:
then she added, in a voice scarce louder
than a whisper—“If the young and innocent of
thy household can offer a prayer in the behalf of
a poor girl who has much need of aid, 'twill be
remembered of God, and it may serve to lighten
the grief of one who has the dread of being childless.”
“God bless thee, lady!” said the officer, little
used to deal with such spirits, and touched by the
mild resignation and piety of the speaker, whose
simple but winning manner moved him nearly to
tears; “all of my family, old as well as young,
shall bethink them of thee and thine.”
Adelheid's cheek resumed its paleness, and she
quietly accompanied her father, as he slowly proceeded
towards the bark. A scene of this nature
did not fail to shake the pertinacity of those who
stood at watch near the gate. Of course they had
Willading, who went into the bark without a question.
The influence of beauty and station united
to so much simple grace as that shown by the fair
actor in the little incident we have just related,
was much too strong for the ill-trained feelings of
the Neapolitan and his companions. They not only
let all the menials pass unquestioned also, but it
was some little time before their vigilance resumed
its former truculence. The two or three travellers
that succeeded had the benefit of this fortunate
change of disposition.
The next who came to the gate was the young
soldier, whom the Baron de Willading had so often
addressed as Monsieur Sigismund. His papers
were regular, and no obstacle was offered to his
departure. It may be doubted how far this young
man would have been disposed to submit to these
extra-official inquiries of the three deputies of the
crowd, had there been a desire to urge them, for
he went towards the quay, with an eye that expressed
any other sensation than that of amity or
compliance. Respect, or a more equivocal feeling,
proved his protection; for none but the pilgrim,
who displayed ultra-zeal in the pursuit of
his object, ventured so far as to hazard even a
smothered remark as he passed.
“There goes an arm and a sword that might
well shorten a Christian's days,” said the dissolute
and shameless dealer in the church's abuses, “and
yet no one asks his name or calling!”
“Thou hadst better put the question thyself,”
returned the sneering Pippo, “since penitence is
thy trade. For myself, I am content with whirling
round at my own bidding, without taking a
hint from that young giant's arm.”
The poor scholar and the burgher of Berne appeared
to acquiesce in this opinion, and no more
was another at the gate. The new applicant had
little in his exterior to renew the vigilance of the
superstitious trio. A quiet, meek-looking man,
seemingly of a middle condition in life, and of an
air altogether calm and unpretending, had submitted
his passport to the faithful guardian of the
city. The latter read the document, cast a quick
and inquiring glance at its owner, and returned
the paper in a way to show haste, and a desire to
be rid of him.
“It is well,” he said; “thou canst go thy way.”
“How now!” cried the Neapolitan, to whom
buffoonery was a congenial employment, as much
by natural disposition as by practice; “How now!
—have we Balthazar at last, in this bloody-minded
and fierce-looking traveller?” As the speaker had
expected, this sally was rewarded by a general
laugh, and he was accordingly encouraged to proceed.
“Thou knowest our office, friend,” added
the unfeeling mountebank, “and must show us thy
hands. None pass who bear the stain of blood!”
The traveller appeared staggered, for he was
plainly a man of retired and peaceable habits, who
had been thrown, by the chances of the road, in
contact with one only too practised in this unfeeling
species of wit. He showed his open palm,
however, with a direct and confiding simplicity,
that drew a shout of merriment from all the bystanders.
“This will not do; soap, and ashes, and the tears
of victims, may have washed out the marks of
his work from Balthazar himself. The spots we
seek are on the soul, man, and we must look into
that, ere thou art permitted to make one in this
goodly company.”
“Thou didst not question yonder young soldier
thus,” returned the stranger, whose eye kindled,
his frame trembled violently at being subject to
open insults from men so rude and unprincipled;
“thou didst not dare to question yonder young soldier
thus!”
“By the prayers of San Gennaro! which are
known to stop running and melted lava, I would
rather thou should'st undertake that office than I.
Yonder young soldier is an honorable decapitator,
and it is a pleasure to be his companion on a journey;
for, no doubt, some six or eight of the saints
are speaking in his behalf daily. But he we seek
is the outcast of all, good or bad, whether in heaven
or on earth, or in that other hot abode to which
he will surely be sent when his time shall come.”
“And yet he does no more than execute the
law!”
“What is law to opinion, friend? But go thy
way; none suspect thee to be the redoubtable enemy
of our heads. Go thy way, for Heaven's sake,
and mutter thy prayers to be delivered from Balthazar's
axe.”
The countenance of the stranger worked, as if
he would have answered; then suddenly changing
his purpose, he passed on, and instantly disappeared
in the bark. The monk of St. Bernard came next.
Both the Augustine and his dog were old acquaintances
of the officer, who did not require any evidence
of his character or errand from the former.
“We are the protectors of life and not its foes,”
observed the monk, as, leaving the more regular
watchman of the place, he drew near to those
whose claims to the office would have admitted of
dispute: “we live among the snows, that Christians
may not die without the church's comfort.”
“Honor, holy Augustine, to thee and thy office!”
said the Neapolitan, who, reckless and abandoned
as he was, possessed that instinct of respect for
which is common to all, however tainted by cupidity
themselves. “Thou and thy dog, old Uberto,
can freely pass, with our best good wishes for
both.”
There no longer remained any to examine, and,
after a short consultation among the more superstitious
of the travellers, they came to the very
natural opinion that, intimidated by their just remonstrances,
the offensive headsman had shrunk, unperceived,
from the crowd, and that they were at
length happily relieved from his presence. The
annunciation of the welcome tidings drew much
self-felicitation from the different members of the
motley company, and all eagerly embarked, for
Baptiste now loudly and vehemently declared that
a single moment of further delay was entirely out
of the question.
“Of what are you thinking, men!” he exclaimed
with well-acted heat; “are the Leman winds
liveried lackeys, to come and go as may suit your
fancies; now to blow west, and now east, as shall
be most wanted, to help you on your journeys?
Take example of the noble Melchior de Willading,
who has long been in his place, and pray the saints,
if you will, in your several fashions, that this fair
western wind do not quit us in punishment of our
neglect.”
“Yonder come others, in haste, to be of the
party!” interrupted the cunning Italian; “loosen
thy fasts quickly, Master Baptiste, or, by San Gennaro!
we shall still be detained!”
The Patron suddenly checked himself, and hurried
back to the gate, in order to ascertain what
he might expect from this unlooked-for turn of fortune.
Two travellers, in the attire of men familiar
with the road, accompanied by a menial, and followed
their luggage, were fast approaching the water-gate,
as if conscious the least delay might cause
their being left. This party was led by one considerably
past the meridian of life, and who evidently
was enabled to maintain his post more by
the deference of his companions than by his physcal
force. A cloak was thrown across one arm,
while in the hand of the other he carried the rapier,
which all of gentle blood then considered a necessary
appendage of their rank.
“You were near losing the last bark that sails
for the Abbaye des Vignerons, Signori,” said the
Genevese, recognizing the country of the strangers
at a glance, “if, as I judge from your direction
and haste, these festivities are in your minds.”
“Such is our aim,” returned the elder of the
travellers, “and, as thou sayest, we are, of a certainty,
tardy. A hasty departure and bad roads
have been the cause—but as, happily, we are yet
in time to profit by this bark, wilt do us the favor
to look into our authority to pass?”
The officer perused the offered document with
the customary care, turning it from side to side,
as if all were not right, though in a way to show
that he regretted the informality.
“Signore, your pass is quite in rule as touches
Savoy and the country of Nice, but it wants the
city's forms.”
“By San Francesco! more's the pity. We are
honest gentlemen of Genoa, hurrying to witness
the revels at Vévey, of which rumor gives an
enticing report, and our sole desire is to come and
go peaceably. As thou seest, we are late; for
hearing at the post, on alighting, that a bark was
about to spread its sails for the other extremity of
the lake, we had no time to consult all the observances
that thy city's rules may deem necessary.
these ancient games, that we had not thought our
quick passage through the town of sufficient importance
to give thy authorities the trouble to look
into our proofs.”
“Therein, Signore, you have judged amiss. It
is my sworn duty to stay all who want the republic's
permission to proceed.”
“This is unfortunate, to say no more. Art thou
the patron of the bark, friend?”
“And her owner, Signore,” answered Baptiste,
who listened to the discourse with longings equal
to his doubts. “I should be a great deal too happy
to count such honorable travellers among my
passengers.”
“Thou wilt then delay thy departure until this
gentleman shall see the authorities of the town,
and obtain the required permission to quit it? Thy
compliance shall not go unrewarded.”
As the Genoese concluded, he dropped into a
palm that was well practised in bribes a sequin of
the celebrated republic of which he was a citizen.
Baptiste had long cultivated an aptitude to suffer
himself to be influenced by gold, and it was with
unfeigned reluctance that he admitted the necessity
of refusing, in this instance, to profit by his own
good dispositions. Still retaining the money, however,
for he did not well know how to overcome
his reluctance to part with it, he answered in a
manner sufficiently embarrassed, to show the other
that he had at least gained a material advantage
by his liberality.
“His Excellency knows not what he asks,” said
the patron, fumbling the coin between a finger and
thumb; “our Genevese citizens love to keep house
till the sun is up, lest they should break their necks
by walking about the uneven streets in the dark, and
it will be two long hours before a single bureau will
of the police is not like us of the lake, happy to get
a morsel when the weather and occasion permit;
but he is a regular feeder, that must have his grapes
and his wine before he will use his wits for the
benefit of his employers. The Winkelried would
weary of doing nothing, with this fresh western
breeze humming between her masts, while the poor
gentleman was swearing before the town-house
gate at the laziness of the officers. I know the
rogues better than your Excellency, and would advise
some other expedient.”
Baptiste looked, with a certain expression, at the
guardian of the water-gate, and in a manner to
make his meaning sufficiently clear to the travellers.
The latter studied the countenance of the
Genevese a moment, and, better practised than the
patron, or a more enlightened judge of character,
he fortunately refused to commit himself by offering
to purchase the officer's good-will. If there
are too many who love to be tempted to forget
their trusts, by a well-managed venality, there are a
few who find a greater satisfaction in being thought
beyond its influence. The watchman of the gate
happened to be one of the latter class, and, by one
of the many unaccountable workings of human feeling,
the very vanity which had induced him to suffer
Il Maledetto to go through unquestioned, rather
than expose his own ignorance, now led him to
wish he might make some return for the stranger's
good opinion of his honesty.
“Will you let me look again at the pass, Signore?”
asked the Genevese, as if he thought a sufficient
legal warranty for that which he now strongly
desired to do might yet be found in the instrument
itself.
The inquiry was useless, unless it was to show
that the elder Genoese was called the Signor Grimaldi
Marcelli. Shaking his head he returned the paper
in the manner of a disappointed man.
“Thou canst not have read half of what the paper
contains,” said Baptiste peevishly; “your reading
and writing are not such easy matters, that a
squint of the eye is all-sufficient. Look at it again,
and thou mayest yet find all in rule. It is unreasonable
to suppose Signori of their rank would
journey like vagabonds, with papers to be suspected.”
“Nothing is wanting but our city signatures,
without which my duty will let none go by, that
are truly travellers.”
“This comes, Signore, of the accursed art of
writing, which is much pushed and greatly abused
of late. I have heard the aged watermen of the
Leman praise the good old time, when boxes and
bales went and came, and no ink touched paper
between him that sent and him that carried; and
yet it has now reached the pass that a christian
may not transport himself on his own legs without
calling on the scriveners for permission!”
“We lose the moments in words, when it were
far better to be doing,” returned the Signore Grimaldi.
“The pass is luckily in the language of the
country, and needs but a glance to get the approval
of the authorities. Thou wilt do well to say
thou canst remain the time necessary to see this
little done.”
“Were your excellency to offer me the Doge's
crown as a bribe, this could not be. Our Leman
winds will not wait for king or noble, bishop or
priest, and duty to those I have in the bark commands
me to quit the port as soon as possible.”
“Thou art truly well charged with living freight
already,” said the Genoese, regarding the deeply
loaded bark with a half-distrustful eye. “I hope
so many?”
“I could gladly reduce the number a little, excellent
Signore, for all that you see piled among
the boxes and tubs are no better than so many
knaves, fit only to give trouble and raise questions
touching the embarkation of those who are willing
to pay better than themselves. The noble Swiss,
whom you see seated near the stern, with his daughter
and people, the worthy Melchior de Willading,
gives a more liberal reward for his passage to
Vévey than all those nameless rogues together.”
The Genoese made a hasty movement towards
the patron, with an earnestness of eye and air that
betrayed a sudden and singular interest in what he
heard.
“Did'st thou say de Willading?” he exclaimed,
eager as one of much fewer years would have been
at the unexpected announcement of some pleasurable
event. “Melchior, too, of that honorable
name?”
“Signore, the same. None other bears the title
now, for the old line, they say, is drawing to an
end. I remember this same baron, when he was
as ready to launch his boat into a troubled lake, as
any in Switzerland—”
“Fortune hath truly favored me, good Marcelli!”
interrupted the other, grasping the hand of his companion,
with strong feeling. “Go thou to the bark,
master patron, and advise thy passenger that—
what shall we say to Melchior? Shall we tell
him at once, who waits him here, or shall we practise
a little on his failing memory? By San Francesco!
we will do this, Enrico, that we may try
his powers! 'Twill be pleasant to see him wonder
and guess—my life on it, however, that he
knows me at a glance. I am truly little changed,
for one that hath seen so much.”
The Signor Marcelli lowered his eyes respectfully
at this opinion of his friend, but he did not
see fit to discourage a belief which was merely a
sudden ebullition, produced by the recollection of
younger days. Baptiste was instantly dispatched
with a request that the baron would do a stranger
of rank the favor to come to the water-gate.
“Tell him 'tis a traveller disappointed in the
wish to be of his company,” repeated the Genoese.
That will suffice. I know him courteous,
and he is not my Melchior, honest Marcelli, if he
delay an instant:—thou seest! he is already quitting
the bark, for never did I know him refuse an
act of friendliness—dear, dear Melchior—thou
art the same at seventy as thou wast at thirty!”
Here the agitation of the Genoese got the better
of him, and he walked aside, under a sense of
shame, lest he might betray unmanly weakness.
In the mean time, the Baron de Willading advanced
from the water-side, without suspecting
that his presence was required for more than an
act of simple courtesy.
“Baptiste tells me that gentlemen of Genoa are
here, who are desirous of hastening to the games
of Vévey,” said the latter, raising his beaver,
“and that my presence may be of use in obtaining
the pleasure of their company.”
“I will not unmask till we are fairly and decently
embarked, Enrico,” whispered the Signor
Grimaldi; “nay—by the mass! not till we are
fairly disembarked! The laugh against him will
never be forgotten. Signore,” addressing the
Bernese with affected composure, endeavoring to
assume the manner of a stranger, though his voice
trembled with eagerness at each syllable, “we are
indeed of Genoa, and most anxious to be of the
party in your bark—but—he little suspects who
speaks to him, Marcelli!—but, Signore, there has
and we have need of friendly assistance,
either to pass the gate, or to detain the bark until
the forms of the place shall have been respected.”
“Signore, the city of Geneva hath need to be
watchful, for it is an exposed and weak state, and
I have little hope that my influence can cause this
trusty watchman to dispense with his duty.
Touching the bark, a small gratuity will do much
with honest Baptiste, should there not be a question
of the stability of the breeze, in which case
he might be somewhat of a loser.”
“You say the truth, noble Melchior,” put in the
patron; “were the wind ahead, or were it two
hours earlier in the morning, the little delay should
not cost the strangers a batz—that is to say,
nothing unreasonable; but as it is, I have not
twenty minutes more to lose, even were all the
city magistrates cloaking to be of the party, in
their proper and worshipful persons.”
“I greatly regret, Signore, it should be so,”
resumed the baron, turning to the applicant with
the consideration of one accustomed to season his
refusals by a gracious manner; “but these water-men
have their secret signs, by which, it would
seem, they know the latest moment they may with
prudence delay.”
“By the mass! Marcelli, I will try him a little—
I should have known him in a carnival dress.
Signor Barone, we are but poor Italian gentlemen,
it is true, of Genoa. You have heard of our republic,
beyond question—the poor state of Genoa?”
“Though of no great pretensions to letters, Signore,”
answered Melchior, smiling, “I am not
quite ignorant that such a state exists. You could
not have named a city on the shores of your Mediterranean
that would sooner warm my heart than
this very town of which you speak. Many of
and often, even at this late day, do I live over
again my life to recall the pleasures of that merry
period. Were there leisure, I could repeat a list
of honorable and much esteemed names that are
familiar to your ears, in proof of what I say.”
“Name them, Signor Barone;—for the love of
the saints, and the blessed virgin, name them, I
beseech you!”
A little amazed at the eagerness of the other,
Melchior de Willading earnestly regarded his furrowed
face; and, for an instant, an expression
like incertitude crossed his own features.
“Nothing would be easier, Signore, than to
name many. The first in my memory, as he has
always been the first in my love, is Gaetano Grimaldi,
of whom, I doubt not, both of you have
often heard?”
“We have, we have! That is—yes, I think we
may say, Marcelli, that we have often heard of
him, and not unfavorably. Well, what of this
Grimaldi?”
“Signore, the desire to converse of your noble
townsman is natural, but were I to yield to my
wishes to speak of Gaetano, I fear the honest
Baptiste might have reason to complain.”
“To the devil with Baptiste and his bark! Melchior,—my
good Melchior!—dearest, dearest Melchior!
hast thou indeed forgotten me?”
Here the Genoese opened wide his arms, and
stood ready to receive the embrace of his friend.
The Baron de Willading was troubled, but he was
still so far from suspecting the real fact, that he
could not have easily told the reason why. He gazed
wistfully at the working features of the fine old
man who stood before him, and though memory
seemed to flit around the truth, it was in gleams
so transient as completely to baffle his wishes.
“Dost thou deny me, de Willading?—dost thou
refuse to own the friend of thy youth—the companion
of thy pleasures—the sharer of thy sorrows—thy
comrade in the wars—nay, more—thy
confidant in a dearer tie?”
“None but Gaetano Grimaldi himself can claim
these titles!” burst from the lips of the trembling
baron.
“Am I aught else?—am I not this Gaetano?—
that Gaetano—thy Gaetano,—old and very dear
friend?”
“Thou Gaetano!” exclaimed the Bernois, recoiling
a step, instead of advancing to meet the
eager embrace of the Genoese, whose impetuous
feelings were little cooled by time—“thou, the
gallant, active, daring, blooming Grimaldi! Signore,
you trifle with an old man's affections.”
“By the holy mass, I do not deceive thee! Ha,
Marcelli, he is slow to believe as ever, but fast and
certain as the vow of a churchman when convinced.
If we are to distrust each other for a few
wrinkles, thou wilt find objections rising against
thine own identity as well as against mine, friend
Melchior. I am none other than Gaetano—the
Gaetano of thy youth—the friend thou hast not
seen these many long and weary years.”
Recognition was slow in making its way in the
mind of the Bernese. Lineament after lineament,
however, became successively known to him, and
most of all, the voice served to awaken long dormant
recollections. But, as heavy natures are
said to have the least self-command when fairly
excited, so did the baron betray the most ungovernable
emotion of the two, when conviction came
at last to confirm the words of his friend. He
throw himself on the neck of the Genoese, and the
old man wept in a manner that caused him to
which had so suddenly and profusely broken from
fountains that he had long thought nearly dried.
| CHAPTER II. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |