 | CHAPTER XIV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
Thy voice to us is wind among still woods.
Shelley
Notwithstanding the gravity of the facts which
were accumulating against him, Maso had maintained
throughout the foregoing scene much of
that steady self-possession and discernment which
were the fruits of adventure in scenes of danger,
long exposure, and multiplied hazards. To these
causes of coolness, might be added the iron-like
nerves inherited from nature. The latter were not
easily disturbed, however critical the state to which
he was reduced. Still he had changed color, and
his manner had that thoughtful and unsettled air
which denote the consciousness of being in circumstances
that require uncommon wariness and judgment.
But his final opinion appeared to be formed
when he made the appeal mentioned in the close
of the last chapter, and he now only waited for
the two or three officials who were present to retire,
before he pursued his purpose. When the door
was closed, leaving none but his examiners, Sigismund
Balthazar, and the group of females in the
side-chapel, he turned, with singular respect of
manner, and addressed himself exclusively to the
Signor Grimaldi, as if the judgment which was to
decide his fate depended solely on his will.
“Signore,” he said, “there has been much secret
for me to say, that you are known to me.”
“I have already recognized thee for a countryman,”
coldly returned the Genoese; “it is vain,
however, to imagine the circumstance can avail a
murderer. If any consideration could induce me
to forget the claims of justice, the recollection of
thy good service on the Leman would prove thy
best friend. As it is, I fear thou hast naught to
expect from me.”
Maso was silent. He looked the other steadily
in the face, as if he would study his character,
though he guardedly prevented his manner from
losing its appearance of profound respect.
“Signore, the chances of life were greatly with
you at the birth. You were born the heir of a
powerful house, in which gold is more plenty than
woes in a poor man's cabin, and you have not been
made to learn by experience how hard it is to keep
down the longings for those pleasures which the
base metal will purchase, when we see others
rolling in its luxuries.”
“This plea will not avail thee, unfortunate man;
else were there an end of human institutions. The
difference of which thou speakest is a simple consequence
of the rights of property; and even the
barbarian admits the sacred duty of respecting that
which is another's.”
“A word from one like you, illustrious Signore,
would open for me the road to Piedmont,” continued
Maso, unmoved: “once across the frontiers,
it shall be my care never to molest the rocks of
Valais again. I ask only what I have been the
means of saving, eccellenza,—life.'
The Signor Grimaldi shook his head, though it
was very evident that he declined the required intercession
with much reluctance. He and old
Melchior de Willading exchanged glances; and
to say, that each considered duty to God a higher
obligation than gratitude for a service rendered to
themselves.
“Ask gold, or what thou wilt else, but do not
ask me to aid in defeating justice. Gladly would
I have given for the asking, twenty times the value
of those miserable baubles for whose possession,
Maso, thou hast rashly taken life; but I cannot
become a sharer of thy crime, by refusing atonement
to his friends. It is too late: I cannot befriend
thee now, if I would.”
“Thou hearest the answer of this noble gentleman,”
interposed the châtelain; “it is wise and
seemly, and thou greatly overratest his influence
or that of any present, if thou fanciest the laws
can be set aside at pleasure. Wert thou a noble
thyself, or the son of a prince, judgment would
have its way in the Valais!”
Maso smiled wildly; and yet the expression of
his glittering eye was so ironical as to cause uneasiness
in his judge. The Signor Grimaldi, too,
observed the audacious confidence of his air with
distrust, for his spirit had taken secret alarm on
a subject that was rarely long absent from his
thoughts.
“If thou meanest more than has been said,” exclaimed
the latter, “for the sake of the blessed
Maria be explicit!”
“Signor Melchior,” continued Maso, turning to
the baron, “I did you and your daughter fair service
on the lake!”
“That thou didst, Maso, we are both willing to
admit, and were it in Berne,—but the laws are
made equally for all, the great and the humble,
they who have friends, and they who have none.”
“I have heard of this act on the lake,” put in
Peterchen; “and unless fame lieth—which, Heaven
their just dues to those who are in high trusts,—
thou didst conduct thyself in that affair, Maso, like
a loyal and well-taught mariner: but the honorable
châtelain has well remarked, that holy justice must
have way before all other things. Justice is represented
as blind, in order that it may be seen she is
no respecter of persons; and wert thou an Avoyer,
the decree must come. Reflect maturely, therefore,
on all the facts, and thou wilt come, in time,
to see the impossibility of thine own innocence.
First, thou left the path, being ahead of Jacques
Colis, to enter it at a moment suited to thy purposes:
then thou took'st his life for gold—”
“But this is believing that to be true, Signor
Bailiff, which is only yet supposed,” interrupted
Il Maledetto; “I left the path to give Nettuno his
charge apart from curious eyes; and, as for the
gold of which you speak, would the owner of a
necklace of that price be apt to barter his soul
against a booty like this which comes of Jacques
Colis!”
Maso spoke with a contempt which did not serve
his cause; for it left the impression among the auditors,
that he weighed the morality and immorality
of his acts simply by their result.
“It is time to bring this to an end,” said the
Signor Grimaldi, who had been thoughtful and
melancholy while the others spoke: “thou hast
something to address particularly to me, Maso;
but if thy claim is no better than that of our common
country, I grieve to say, it cannot be admitted.”
“Signore, the voice of a Doge of Genoa is not
often raised in vain, when he would use it in behalf
of another!”
At this sudden announcement of the traveller's
rank, the monks and the châtelain started in surprise,
the chapel. The smile of Peterchen, and the composure
of the Baron de Willading, however, showed
that they, at least, learned nothing new. The
bailiff whispered the prior significantly, and from
that moment his deportment towards the Genoese
took still more of the character of formal and
official respect. On the other hand, the Signor
Grimaldi remained composed, like one accustomed
to receive deference, though his manner lost the
slight degree of restraint that had been imposed by
the observance of the temporary character he had
assumed.
“The voice of a Doge of Genoa should not be
used in intercession, unless in behalf of the innocent,”
he replied, keeping his severe eye fastened
on the countenance of the accused.
Again Il Maledetto seemed laboring with some
secret that struggled on his tongue.
“Speak,” continued the Prince of Genoa; for it
was, in truth, that high functionary, who had journeyed
incognito, in the hope of meeting his ancient
friend at the sports of Vévey. “Speak, Maso, if
thou hast aught serious to urge in favor of thyself;
time presses, and the sight of one to whom I owe
so much in this great jeopardy, without the power
to aid him, grows painful.”
“Signor Doge, though deaf to pity, you cannot
be deaf to nature.”
The countenance of the Doge became livid; his
lips trembled even to the appearance of convulsions.
“Deal no longer in mystery, man of blood!” he
said with energy. “What is thy meaning?”
“I entreat your eccellenza to be calm. Necessity
forces me to speak; for, as you see, I stand
between this revelation and the block—I am Bartolo
Contini!”
The groan that escaped the compressed lips of
the Doge, the manner in which he sank into a seat,
and the hue of death that settled over his aged
countenance, until it was more ghastly even than
that of the unhappy victim of violence, drew all
present, in wonder and alarm, around his chair.
Signing for those who pressed upon him to give
way, the Prince sat gazing at Maso, with eyes
that appeared ready to burst from their sockets.
“Thou Bartolomeo!” he uttered huskily, as if
horror had frozen his voice.
“I am Bartolo, Signore, and no other. He who
goes through many scenes hath occasion for many
names. Even your Highness travels at times
under a cloud.”
The Doge continued to stare on the speaker with
the fixedness of regard that one might be supposed
to fasten on a creature of unearthly existence.
“Melchior,” he said slowly, turning his eyes
from one to the other of the forms that filled them,
for Sigismund had advanced to the side of Maso,
in kind concern for the old man's condition,—
“Melchior, we are but feeble and miserable creatures
in the hand of one who looks upon the proudest
and happiest of us, as we look upon the worm
that crawls the earth! What are hope, and honor,
and our fondest love, in the great train of events
that time heaves from its womb, bringing forth to
our confusion? Are we proud? fortune revenges
itself for our want of humility by its scorn. Are
we happy? it is but the calm that precedes the
storm. Are we great? it is but to lead us into
abuses that will justify our fall. Are we honored?
stains tarnish our good names, in spite of all our
care!”
“He who puts his trust in the Son of Maria need
never despair!” whispered the worthy clavier,
one whom he had learned to respect. “Let the
fortunes of the world pass away, or change as
they will, his chastening love outliveth time!”
The Signor Grimaldi, for, though the elected of
Genoa, such was in truth the family name of the
Doge, turned his vacant gaze for an instant on the
Augustine, but it soon reverted to the forms and
faces of Maso and Sigismund, who still stood before
him, filling his thoughts even more than his
sight.
“Yes, there is a power—” he resumed, “a great
and beneficent Being to equalize our fortunes here,
and when we pass into another state of being,
loaded with the wrongs of this, we shall have justice!
Tell me, Melchior, thou who knew my
youth, who read my heart when it was open as
day, what was there in it to deserve this punishment?
Here is Balthazar, come of a race of executioners—a
man condemned of opinion—that prejudice
besets with a hedge of hatred—that men
point at with their fingers, and whom the dogs are
ready to bay—this Balthazar is the father of that
gallant youth, whose form is so perfect, whose
spirit is so noble, and whose life so pure; while I,
the last of a line that is lost in the obscurity of
time, the wealthiest of my land, and the chosen of
my peers, am accursed with an outcast, a common
brigand, a murderer, for the sole prop of my decaying
house—with this Il Maledetto—this man
accursed—for a son!”
A movement of astonishment escaped the listeners,
even the Baron de Willading not suspecting the
real cause of his friend's distress. Maso alone was
unmoved; for while the aged father betrayed the
keenness of his anguish, the son discovered none
of that sympathy of which even a life like his might
be supposed to have left some remains in the heart
master of his smallest action.
“I will not believe this,” exclaimed the Doge,
whose very soul revolted at this unfeeling apathy,
even more than at the disgrace of being the father
of such a child; “thou art not he thou pretendest to
be; this foul lie is uttered that my natural feelings
may interpose between thee and the block! Prove
thy truth, or I abandon thee to thy fate.”
“Signore, I would have saved this unhappy exhibition,
but you would not. That I am Bartolo
this signet, your own gift sent to be my protection
in a strait like this, will show. It is, moreover,
easy for me to prove what I say, by a hundred
witnesses who are living in Genoa.”
The Signor Grimaldi stretched forth a hand
that trembled like an aspen to receive the ring, a
jewel of little price, but a signet that he had, in
truth, sent to be an instrument of recognition between
him and his child, in the event of any sudden
calamity befalling the latter. He groaned as
he gazed at its well-remembered emblems, for its
identity was only too plain.
“Maso—Bartolo—Gaetano—for such, miserable
boy, is thy real appellation—thou canst not
know how bitter is the pang that an unworthy
child brings to the parent, else would thy life have
been different. Oh! Gaetano! Gaetano! what a
foundation art thou for a father's hopes! What
a subject for a father's love! I saw thee last a
smiling innocent cherub, in thy nurse's arms, and I
find thee with a blighted soul, the pure fountain of
thy mind corrupted, a form sealed with the stamp
of vice, and with hands dyed in blood; prematurely
old in body, and with a spirit that hath already
the hellish taint of the damned!
“Signore, you find me as the chances of a wild
life have willed. The world and I have been at
its laws, I take my revenge of its abuse—” warmly
returned Il Maledetto, for his spirit began to be
aroused. “Thou bear'st hard upon me, Doge—
father—or what thou wilt—and I should be little
worthy of my lineage, did I not meet thy charges
as they are made. Compare thine own career
with mine, and let it be proclaimed by sound of
trumpet if thou wilt, which hath most reason to be
proud, and which to exult. Thou wert reared in
the hopes and honors of our name; thou passed
thy youth in the pursuit of arms according to thy
fancy, and when tired of change, and willing to
narrow thy pleasures, thou looked about thee for a
maiden to become the mother of thy successor;
thou turned a wishing eye on one young, fair, and
noble, but whose affections, as her faith, were
solemnly, irretrievably plighted to another.”
The Doge shuddered and veiled his eye; but he
eagerly interrupted Maso.
“Her kinsman was unworthy of her love,” he
cried; “he was an outcast, and little better than
thyself, unhappy boy, except in the chances of
condition.”
“It matters not, Signore; God had not made
you the arbiter of her fate. In tempting her family
by your greater riches, you crushed two hearts,
and destroyed the hopes of your fellow-creatures.
In her was sacrificed an angel, mild and pure as
this fair creature who is now listening so breathlessly
to my words; in him a fierce untamed spirit,
that had only the greater need of management,
since it was as likely to go wrong as right. Before
your son was born, this unhappy rival, poor
in hopes as in wealth, had become desperate; and
the mother of your child sank a victim to her
ceaseless regrets, at her own want of faith as much
as for his follies.”
“Thy mother was deluded, Gaetano; she never
knew the real qualities of her cousin, or a soul
like hers would have lothed the wretch.”
“Signore, it matters not,” continued Il Maledetto,
with a ruthless perseverance of intention,
and a coolness of manner that would seem to
merit the description which had just been given
his spirit, that of possessing a hellish taint; “she
loved him with a woman's heart; and with a woman's
ingenuity and confidence, she ascribed his
fall to despair for her loss.”
“Oh, Melchior! Melchior! this is fearfully true!”
groaned the Doge.
“It is so true, Signore, that it should be written
on my mother's tomb. We are children of a fiery
climate; the passions burn in our Italy like the hot
sun that glows there. When despair drove the
disappointed lover to acts that rendered him an
outlaw, the passage to revenge was short. Your
child was stolen, hid from your view, and cast
upon the world under circumstances that left little
doubt of his living in bitterness, and dying under
the contempt, if not the curses, of his fellows. All
this, Signor Grimaldi, is the fruit of your own
errors. Had you respected the affections of an
innocent girl, the sad consequences to yourself and
me might have been avoided.”
“Is this man's history to be believed, Gaetano?”
demanded the baron, who had more than once
betrayed a wish to check the rude tongue of the
speaker.
“I do not—I cannot deny it; I never saw my
own conduct in this criminal light before, and yet
now it all seems frightfully true!”
Il Maledetto laughed. Those around him thought
his untimely merriment resembled the mockery of
a devil.
“This is the manner in which men continue to
he added. “Let the great of the earth give but
half the care to prevent, that they show to punish,
offences against themselves, and what is now called
justice will no longer be a stalking-horse to enable
a few to live at the cost of the rest. As for
me, I am proof of what noble blood and illustrious
ancestry can do for themselves! Stolen when a
child, Nature has had fair play in my temperament,
which I own is more disposed to wild adventure
and manly risks than to the pleasures of marble
halls. Noble father of mine, were this spirit dressed
up in the guise of a senator, or a doge, it might
fare badly with Genoa!”
“Unfortunate man,” exclaimed the indignant
prior, “is this language for a child to use to his
father? Dost thou forget that the blood of Jacques
Colis is on thy soul?”
“Holy Augustine, the candor with which my
general frailties are allowed, should gain me credit
when I speak of particular accusations. By the
hopes and piety of the reverend canon of Aoste,
thy patron saint and founder! I am guiltless of this
crime. Question Nettuno as you will, or turn the
affair in every way that usage warrants, and let
appearances take what shape they may, I swear
to you my innocence. If ye think that fear of
punishment tempts me to utter a lie, under these
holy appeals, (he crossed himself with reverence,)
ye do injustice both to my courage and to my love
of the saints. The only son of the reigning Doge of
Genoa hath little to fear from the headsman's blow!”
Again Maso laughed. It was the confidence of
one who knew the world, and who was too audacious
even to consult appearances unless it suited
his humor, breaking out in very wantonness. A
man who had led his life, was not to learn at this
late day, that the want of eyes in Justice oftener
the impartiality that is assumed by the pretending
emblem. The châtelain, the prior, the bailiff, the
clavier, and the Baron de Willading, looked at each
other like men bewildered. The mental agony of
the Doge formed a contrast so frightful with the
heartless and cruel insensibility of the son, that the
sight chilled their blood. The sentiment was only
the more common, from the silent but general conviction,
that the unfeeling criminal must be permitted
to escape. There was, indeed, no precedent
for leading the child of a prince to the block, unless
it were for an offence which touched the preservation
of the father's interests. Much was said
in maxims and apophthegms of the purity and necessity
of rigid impartiality in administering the
affairs of life, but neither had attained his years
and experience without obtaining glimpses of practical
things, that taught them to foresee the impunity
of Maso. Too much violence would be done to a
factitous and tottering edifice, were it known that
a prince's son was no better than one of the vilest,
and the lingering feelings of paternity were certain
at last to cast a shield before the offender.
The embarrassment and doubt attending such a
state of things was happily, but quite unexpectedly,
relieved by the interference of Balthazar. The
headsman, until this moment, had been a silent and
attentive listener to all that passed; but now he
pressed himself into the circle, and looking, in his
quiet manner, from one to the other, he spoke with
the assurance that the certainty of having important
intelligence to impart, is apt to give even to
the meekest, in the presence of those whom they
habitually respect.
“This broken tale of Maso,” he said, “is removing
a cloud that has lain, for near thirty years,
before my eyes. Is it true, illustrious Doge, for
of your noble stock was stolen and kept in secret
from your love, through the vindictive enmity of a
rival?”
“True!—alas, too true! Would it had pleased
the blessed Maria, who so cherished his mother, to
call his spirit to Heaven, ere the curse befell him
and me!”
“Your pardon, great Prince, if I press you
with questions at a moment so painful. But it is
in your own interest. Suffer that I ask in what
year this calamity befell your family?”
The Signor Grimaldi signed for his friend to
assume the office of answering these extraordinary
interrogatories, while he buried his own venerable
face in his cloak, to conceal his anguish from curious
eyes. Melchior de Willading regarded the
headsman in surprise, and for an instant he was
disposed to repel questions that seemed importunate;
but the earnest countenance and mild, decent
demeanor of Balthazar, overcame his repugnance
to pursue the subject.
“The child was seized in the autumn of the year
1693,” he answered, his previous conferences with
his friend having put him in possession of all the
leading facts of the history.
“And his age?”
“Was near a twelvemonth.”
“Can you inform me what became of the profligate
noble who committed this foul robbery?”
“The fate of the Signore Pantaleone Serrani has
never been truly known; though there is a dark
rumor that he died in a brawl in our own Switzerland.
That he is dead, there is no cause to doubt.”
“And his person, noble Freiherr—a description
of his person is now wanting to throw the
light of a noon-day sun, on what has so long been
night!”
“I knew the unlucky Signore Pantaleone well
in early youth. At the time mentioned his years
might have been thirty, his form was seemly and
of middle height, his features bore the Italian outline,
with the dark eye, swarthy skin and glossy
hair of the climate. More than this, with the exception
of a finger lost in one of our affairs in
Lombardy, I cannot say.”
“This is enough,” returned the attentive Balthazar.
“Dismiss your grief, princely Doge, and
prepare your heart for a new-found joy. Instead
of being the parent of this reckless freebooter, God
at length pities and returns your real son in Sigismund,
a child that might gladden the heart of any
parent, though he were an emperor!”
This extraordinary declaration was made to
stunned and confounded listeners. A cry of alarm
bust from the lips of Marguerite, who approached
the group in the centre of the chapel, trembling
and anxious as if the grave were about to rob her
of a treasure.
“What is this I hear!” exclaimed the mother,
whose sensitiveness was the first to take alarm.
“Are my half-formed suspicions then too true, Balthazar?
Am I, indeed, without a son? I know thou
wouldst not trifle with a mother, or mislead this
stricken noble in a thing like this! Speak, again,
that I may know the truth—Sigismund!—”
“Is not our child,” answered the headsman,
with an impress of truth in his manner that went
far to bring conviction; “our own boy died in the
blessed state of infancy, and, to save thy feelings,
this youth was substituted in his place by me without
thy knowledge.”
Marguerite moved nearer to the young man.
She gazed wistfully at his flushed, excited features,
in which pain at being so unexpectedly torn from
the bosom of a family he had always deemed his
delight at finding himself suddenly relieved
from a load he had long found so grievous to be
borne. Interpreting the latter expression with
jealous affection, she bent her face to her bosom,
and retreated in silence among her companions to
weep.
In the mean time a sudden and tumultuous surprise
took possession of the different listeners, which
was modified and exhibited according to their respective
characters, or to the amount of interest
that each had in the truth or falsehood of what
had just been announced. The Doge clung to the
hope, improbable as it seemed, with a tenacity proportioned
to his recent anguish, while Sigismund
stood like one beside himself. His eye wandered
from the simple and benevolent, but degraded, man,
whom he had believed to be his father, to the venerable
and imposing-looking noble who was now
so unexpectedly presented in that sacred character.
The sobs of Marguerite reached his ears, and
first recalled him to recollection. They came
blended with the fresh grief of Christine, who felt
as if ruthless death had now robbed her of a brother.
There was also the struggling emotion of
one whose interest in him had a still more tender
and engrossing claim.
“This is so wonderful!” said the trembling Doge,
who dreaded lest the next syllable that was uttered
might destroy the blessed illusion, “so wildly improbable,
that, though my soul yearns to believe it,
my reason refuses credence. It is not enough to
utter this sudden intelligence, Balthazar; it must
be proved. Furnish but a moiety of the evidence
that is necessary to establish a legal fact, and I
will render thee the richest of thy class in Christendom!
And thou, Sigismund, come close to my heart,
noble boy,” he added, with outstretched arms, “that
feel one beat of a father's pulses—one instant of
a father's joy!”
Sigismund knelt at the venerable Prince's feet,
and receiving his head on his shoulder, their tears
mingled. But even at that precious moment both
felt a sense of insecurity, as if the exquisite pleasure
of so pure a happiness were too intense to last.
Maso looked upon this scene with cold displeasure.
His averted face denoting a stronger feeling than
disappointment, though the power of natural sympathy
was so strong as to draw evidences of its
force from the eyes of all the others present.
“Bless thee, bless thee, my child, my dearly beloved
son!” murmured the Doge, lending himself
to the improbable tale of Balthazar for a delicious
instant, and kissing the cheeks of Sigismund as
one would embrace a smiling infant; “may the
God of heaven and earth, his only Son, and the
holy Virgin undefiled, unite to bless thee, here and
hereafter, be thou whom thou mayest! I owe thee one
precious instant of happiness, such as I have never
tasted before. To find a child would not be enough
to give it birth; but to believe thee to be that son
touches on the joys of paradise!”
Sigismund fervently kissed the hand that had
rested affectionately on his head during this diction;
then, feeling the necessity of having some
guarantee for the existence of emotions so sweet,
he arose and made a warm and strong appeal to
him who had so long passed for his father to be
more explicit, and to justify his new-born hopes
by some evidence better than his simple asseveration;
for solemnly as the latter had been made,
and profound as he knew to be the reverence for
truth which the despised headsman not only
entertained himself but inculcated in all in
whom he had any interest, the revelation he had
doubts of one who knew his happiness to be the
fruit or the forfeiture of its veracity.
| CHAPTER XIV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |