 | CHAPTER XV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away.
Shelley.
The tale of Balthazar was simple but eloquent.
His union with Marguerite, in spite of the world's
obloquy and injustice, had been blest by the wise
and merciful Being who knew how to temper the
wind to the shorn lamb.
“We knew we were all to each other,” he continued,
after briefly alluding to the early history of
their births and love; “and we felt the necessity
of living for ourselves. Ye that are born to honors,
who meet with smiles and respectful looks in all ye
meet, can know little of the feeling which binds
together the unhappy. When God gave us our
first-born, as he lay a smiling babe in her lap,
looking up into her eye with the innocence that
most likens man to angels, Marguerite shed bitter
tears at the thought of such a creature's being condemned
by the laws to shed the blood of men. The
reflection that he was to live for ever an outcast
from his kind was bitter to a mother's heart. We
had made many offers to the canton to be released
ourselves, from this charge; we had prayed them
—Herr Melchior, you should know how earnestly
we have prayed the council, to be suffered to live
like others, and without this accursed doom—but
that change was dangerous, and that what God
willed must come to pass. We could not bear that
the burthen we found so hard to endure ourselves
should go down for ever as a curse upon our descendants,
Herr Doge,” he continued, raising his
meek face in the pride of honesty; “it is well for
those who are the possessors of honors to be proud
of their privileges; but when the inheritance is one
of wrongs and scorn, when the evil eyes of our
fellows are upon us, the heart sickens. Such was
our feeling when we looked upon our first-born.
The wish to save him from our own disgrace was
uppermost, and we bethought us of the means.”
“Ay!” sternly interrupted Marguerite, “I parted
with my child, and silenced a mother's longings,
proud nobles, that he might not become the tool
of your ruthless policy; I gave up a mother's joy
in nourishing and in cherishing her young, that the
little innocent might live among his fellows, as
God had created him, their equal and not their
victim!”
Balthazar paused, as was usual with him whenever
his energetic wife manifested any of her strong
and masculine qualities, and then, when deep silence
had followed her remark, he proceeded.
“We wanted not for wealth; all we asked was
to be like others in the world's respect. With our
money it was very easy to find those in another
canton, who were willing to take the little Sigismund
into their keeping. After which, a feigned
death, and a private burial, did the rest. The deceit
was easily practised, for as few cared for the griefs
as for the happiness of the headsman's family!
The child had drawn near the end of its first year,
when I was called upon to execute my office on a
stranger. The criminal had taken life in a drunken
brawl in one of the towns of the canton, and he
gifts of birth, it being suspected that he was
noble. I went with a heavy heart, for never did
I strike a blow without praying God it might be
the last; but it was heavier when I reached the
place where the culprit awaited his fate. The
tidings of my poor son's death reached me as I
put foot on the threshold of the desolate prison, and
I turned aside to weep for my own woes, before I
entered to see my victim. The condemned man
had great unwillingness to die; he had sent for me
many hours before the fatal moment, to make acquaintance,
as he said, with the hand that was to
dispatch him to the presence of his last and eternal
judge.”
Balthazar paused; he appeared to meditate on
a scene that had probably left indelible impressions
on his mind. Shuddering involuntarily, he raised
his eyes from the pavement of the chapel, and continued
the recital, always in the same subdued and
tranquil manner.
“I have been the unwilling instrument of many
a violent death—I have seen the most reckless sinners
in the agonies of sudden and compelled repentance,
but never have I witnessed so wild and
fearful a struggle between earth and heaven—the
world and the grave—passion and the rebuke of
Providence—as attended the last hours of that
unhappy man! There were moments in which the
mild spirit of Christ won upon his evil mood 'tis
true; but the picture was, in general, that of
revenge so fierce, that the powers of hell alone
could give it birth in a human heart. He had with
him an infant of an age just fitted to be taken from
the breast. This child appeared to awaken the
fiercest conflicting feelings; he both yearned over
it and detested its sight, though hatred seemed
most to prevail.”
“This was horrible!” murmured the Doge.
“It was the more horrible, Herr Doge, that it
should come from one who was justly condemned
to the axe. He rejected the priests; he would
have naught of any but me. My soul lothed the
wretch—yet so few ever showed an interest in
us—and it would have been cruel to desert a dying
man! At the end, he placed the child in my
care, furnishing more gold than was sufficient to
rear it frugally to the age of manhood, and leaving
other valuables which I have kept as proofs
that might some day be useful. All I could learn
of the infant's origin was simply this. It came
from Italy, and of Italian parents; its mother died
soon after its birth,”—a groan escaped the Doge
—“its father still lived, and was the object of the
criminal's implacable hatred, as its mother had
been of his ardent love; its birth was noble, and
it had been baptized in the bosom of the church by
the name of Gaetano.”
“It must be he!—it is—it must be my beloved
son!—” exclaimed the Doge, unable to control
himself any longer. He spread wide his arms,
and Sigismund threw himself upon his bosom,
though there still remained fearful apprehensions
that all he heard was a dream. “Go on—go on—
excellent Balthazar,” added the Signor Grimaldi,
drying his eyes, and struggling to command himself.
“I shall have no peace until all is revealed
to the last syllable of thy wonderful, thy glorious
tale!”
“There remains but little more to say, Herr
Doge. The fatal hour arrived, and the criminal
was transported to the place where he was to give
up his life. While seated in the chair in which
he received the fatal blow, his spirit underwent
infernal torments. I have reason to think that
there were moments when he would gladly have
he died in his sins! From the hour when
he committed the little Gaetano to my keeping, I
did not cease to entreat to be put in possession of
the secret of the child's birth, but the sole answer
I received was an order to appropriate the gold to
my own uses, and to adopt the boy as my own.
The sword was in my hand, and the signal to
strike was given, when, for the last time, I asked
the name of the infant's family and country, as a
duty I could not neglect. `He is thine—he is
thine—' was the answer; `tell me, Balthazar, is
thy office hereditary, as is wont in these regions?”
I was compelled, as ye know, to say it was. `Then
adopt the urchin; rear him to fatten on the blood
of his fellows!' It was mockery to trifle with such
a spirit. When his head fell, it still had on its fierce
features traces of the infernal triumph with which
his spirit departed!”
“The monster was a just sacrifice to the laws
of the canton!” exclaimed the single-minded bailiff.
“Thou seest, Herr Melchior, that we do well
in arming the hand of the executioner, in spite of
all the sentiment of the weak-minded. Such a
wretch was surely unworthy to live.”
This burst of official felicitation from Peterchen,
who rarely neglected an occasion to draw
a conclusion favorable to the existing order of
things, like most of those who reap their exclusive
advantage, and to the prejudice of innovation, produced
little attention; all present were too much
absorbed in the facts related by Balthazar, to turn
aside to speak, or think, of other matters.
“What became of the boy?” demanded the
worthy clavier, who had taken as deep an interest
as the rest, in the progress of the narrative.
“I could not desert him, father; nor did I wish
to. He came into my guardianship at a moment
he had chosen to impose, had taken our own little
Sigismund to heaven. I filled the place of the
dead infant with my living charge; I gave to him
the name of my own son, and I can say confidently,
that I transferred to him the love I had borne
my own issue; though time, and use, and a knowledge
of the child's character, were perhaps necessary
to complete the last. Marguerite never
knew the deception, though a mother's instinct and
tenderness took the alarm and raised suspicions.
We have never spoken freely on this together, and
like you, she now heareth the truth for the first
time.”
“'T was a fearful mystery between God and
my own heart!” murmured the woman; “I forbore
to trouble it—Sigismund, or Gaetano, or whatever
you will have his name, filled my affections,
and I strove to be satisfied. The boy is dear to
me, and ever will be, though you seat him on a
throne; but Christine—the poor stricken Christine
—is truly the child of my bosom!”
Sigismund went and knelt at the feet of her
whom he had ever believed his mother, and earnestly
begged her blessing and continued affection.
The tears streamed from Marguerite's eyes, as she
willingly bestowed the first, and promised never to
withhold the last.
“Hast thou any of the trinkets or garments
that were given thee with the child, or canst render
an account of the place where they are still
to be found?” demanded the Doge, whose whole
mind was too deeply set on appeasing his doubts
to listen to aught else.
“They are all here in the convent. The gold
has been fairly committed to Sigismund, to form
his equipment as a soldier. The child was kept
apart, receiving such education as a learned priest
him to bear arms in Italy, which I knew to be the
country of his birth, though I never knew to what
Prince his allegiance was due. The time had now
come when I thought it due to the youth to let him
know the real nature of the tie between us; but I
shrank from paining Marguerite and myself, and
I even did his heart the credit to believe that he
would rather belong to us, humble and despised
though we be, than find himself a nameless outcast,
without home, country, or parentage. It was
necessary, however, to speak, and it was my purpose
to reveal the truth, here at the convent, in
the presence of Christine. For this reason, and
to enable Sigismund to make inquiries for his
family, the effects received from the unhappy
criminal with the child were placed among his
baggage secretly. They are, at this moment, on
the mountain.”
The venerable old prince trembled violently;
for, with the intense feeling of one who dreaded
that his dearest hopes might yet be disappointed, he
feared, while he most wished, to consult these
mute but veracious witnesses.
“Let them be produced!—let them be instantly
produced and examined!” he whispered eagerly to
those around him. Then turning slowly to the immovable
Maso, he demanded—“And thou, man
of falsehood and of blood! what dost thou reply
to this clear and probable tale?”
Il Maledetto smiled, as if superior to a weakness
that had blinded the others. The expression of
his countenance was filled with that look of calm
superiority which certainty gives to the well-informed
over the doubting and deceived.”
“I have to reply, Signore, and honored father,”
he coolly answered, “that Balthazar hath right
cleverly related a tale that hath been ingeniously
be proved by a hundred living tongues in Italy.—
Thou best knowest who Bartolo Contini is, Doge
of Genoa.”
“He speaks the truth,” returned the prince,
dropping his head in disappointment. “Oh! Melchior,
I have had but too sure proofs of what he
intimates! I have long been certain that this
wretched Bartolo is my son, though never before
have I been cursed with his presence. Bad as I
was taught to think him, my worst fears had not
painted him as I now find the truth would warrant.”
“Has there not been some fraud—art thou not
the dupe of some conspiracy of which money has
been the object?”
The Doge shook his head, in a way to prove
that he could not possibly flatter himself with such
a hope.
“Never: my offers of money have always been
rejected.”
“Why should I take the gold of my father?”
added Il Maledetto; “my own skill and courage
more than suffice for my wants.”
The nature of the answer, and the composed
demeanor of Maso, produced an embarrassing
pause.
“Let the two stand forth and be confronted,”
said the puzzled clavier at length; “nature often
reveals the truth when the uttermost powers of
man are at fault—if either is the true child of the
prince, we should find some resemblance to the
father to support his claim.”
The test, though of doubtful virtue, was eagerly
adopted, for the truth had now become so involved,
as to excite a keen interest in all present. The
desire to explain the mystery was general, and the
slightest means of attaining such an end became of
the object. Sigismund and Maso were placed beneath
the lamp, where its light was strongest, and
every eye turned eagerly to their countenances, in
order to discover, or to fancy it discovered, some
of those secret signs by which the mysterious affinities
of nature are to be traced. A more puzzling
examination could not well have been essayed.
There was proof to give the victory to each of the
pretenders, if such a term may be used with propriety
as it concerns the passive Sigismund, and
much to defeat the claims of the latter. In the
olive-colored tint, the dark, rich, rolling eye, and
in stature, the advantage was altogether with
Maso, whose outline of countenance and penetrating
expression had also a resemblance to those of
the Doge, so marked as to render it quite apparent
to any who wished to find it. The habits of the
mariner had probably diminished the likeness, but
it was too obviously there to escape detection.
That hardened and rude appearance, the consequence
of exposure, which rendered it difficult to
pronounce within ten years of his real age, contributed
a little to conceal what might be termed the
latent character of his countenance, but the features
themselves were undeniably a rude copy of
the more polished lineaments of the Prince.
The case was less clear as respects Sigismund.
The advantage of ruddy and vigorous youth rendered
him such a resemblance of the Doge—in the
points where it existed—as we find between the
aged and those portraits which have been painted
in their younger and happier days. The bold outline
was not unlike that of the noble features of the
venerable Prince, but neither the eye, the hair, nor
the complexion, had the hues of Italy.
“Thou seest,” said Maso, tauntingly, when the
disappointed clavier admitted the differences in
will not pass. I swear to you, as there is faith in
man, and hope for the dying Christian, that so far
as any know their parentage, I am the child of
Gaetano Grimaldi, the present Doge of Genoa, and
of no other man! May the saints desert me!—
the blessed Mother of God be deaf to my prayers!—and
all men hunt me with their curses, if I
say aught in this but holy truth!”
The fearful energy with which Maso uttered
this solemn appeal, and a certain sincerity that
marked his manner, and perhaps we might even
say his character, in spite of the dissolute recklessness
of his principles, served greatly to weaken
the growing opinion in favor of his competitor.
“And this noble youth?” asked the sorrowing
Doge—“this generous and elevated boy, whom I
have already held next to my heart, with so much
of a father's joy—who and what is he?”
“Eccellenza, I wish to say nothing against the
Signor Sigismondo. He is a gallant swimmer,
and a staunch support in time of need. Be he
Swiss, or Genoese, either country may be proud
of him; but self-love teaches us all to take care of
our own interests before those of another. It
would be far pleasanter to dwell in the Palazzo
Grimaldi, on our warm and sunny gulf,
honored and esteemed as the heir of a noble name,
than to be cutting heads in Berne; and honest
Balthazar does but follow his instinct, in seeking
preferment for his son!”
Each eye now turned on the headsman, who
quailed not under the scrutiny, but maintained the
firm front of one conscious that he had done no
wrong.
“I have not said that Sigismund is the child of
any,” he answered in his meek manner, but with
a steadiness that won him credit with the listeners.
father need wish a worthier son, and heaven knows
that I yield my own claims with a sorrow that it
would be grievous to bear, did I not hope a better
fortune for him than any which can come from a
connexion with a race accursed. The likeness
which is seen in Maso, and which Sigismund is
thought to want, proves little, noble gentlemen and
reverend monks; for all who have looked closely
into these matters know that resemblances are as
often found between the distant branches of the
same family, as between those who are more nearly
united. Sigismund is not of us, and none can see
any trace of either my own or of Marguerite's
family in his person or features.”
Balthazar paused that there might be an examination
of this fact, and, in truth, the most ingenious
fancy could not have detected the least affinity in
looks, between either of those whom he had so long
thought his parents and the young soldier.
“Let the Doge of Genoa question his memory,
and look farther than himself. Can he find no
sleeping smile, no color of the hair, nor any other
common point of appearance, between the youth
and some of those whom he once knew and loved?”
The anxious prince turned eagerly towards Sigismund,
and a gleam of joy lighted his face again,
as he studied the young man's features.
“By San Francesco! Melchior, the honest Balthazar
is right. My grandmother was a Venetian,
and she had the fair hair of the boy—the eye too,
is hers—and—oh!” bending his head aside and
veiling his eyes with his hand, “I see the anxious
gaze that was so constant in the sainted and injured
Angiolina, after my greater wealth and power had
tempted her kinsmen to force her to yield an unwilling
hand!—Wretch! thou art not Bartolo;
thee from the punishment due to thy crime!”
“Admitting that I am not Bartolo, eccellenza,
does the Signor Sigismondo claim to be he? Have
you not assured yourself that a certain Bartolo
Contini, a man whose life is passed in open hostility
to the laws, is your child? Did you not employ
your confidant and secretary to learn the facts?
Did he not hear from the dying lips of a holy priest,
who knew all the circumstances, that `Bartolo
Contini is the son of Gaetano Grimaldi'? Did not
the confederate of your implacable enemy, Cristofero
Serrani, swear the same to you? Have you
not seen papers that were taken with your child
to confirm it all, and did you not send this signet
as a gage that Bartolo should not want your aid,
in any strait that might occur in his wild manner
of living, when you learned that he resolutely preferred
remaining what he was, to becoming an
image of sickly repentance and newly-assumed
nobility, in your gorgeous palace on the Strada
Balbi?”
The Doge again bowed his head in dismay, for
all this he knew to be true beyond a shadow of
hope.
“Here is some sad mistake,” he said with bitter
regret. “Thou hast received the child of some
other bereaved parent, Balthazar; but, though I
cannot hope to prove myself the natural father of
Sigismund, he shall at least find me one in affection
and good offices. If his life be not due to me, I
owe him mine; the debt shall form a tie between
us little short of that to which nature herself could
give birth.”
“Herr Doge,” returned the earnest headsman,
“let us not be too hasty. If there are strong facts
in favor of the claims of Maso, there are many
circumstances, also, in favor of those of Sigismund.
clear than it can be to any other. The time, the
country, the age of the child, the name, and the
fearful revelations of the criminal, are all strong
proofs in Sigismund's behalf. Here are the effects
that were given me with the child; it is possible
that they, too, may throw weight into his scale.”
Balthazar had taken means to procure the package
in question from among the luggage of Sigismund,
and he now proceeded to expose its contents,
while a breathless silence betrayed the interest
with which the result was expected. He first laid
upon the pavement of the chapel a collection of
child's clothing. The articles were rich, and according
to the fashions of the times; but they
contained no positive proofs that could go to substantiate
the origin of the wearer, except as they
raised the probability of his having come of an
elevated rank in life. As the different objects were
placed upon the stones, Adelheid and Christine
kneeled beside them, each too intently absorbed
with the progress of the inquiry to bethink themselves
of those forms which, in common, throw a
restraint upon the manners of their sex. The latter
appeared to forget her own sorrows, for a moment,
in a new-born interest in her brother's fortunes,
while the ears of the former drank in each syllable
that fell from the lips of the different speakers, with
an avidity that her strong sympathy with the youth
could alone give.
“Here is a case containing trinkets of value,”
added Balthazar. “The condemned man said they
were taken through ignorance, and he was accustomed
to suffer the child to amuse himself with
them in the prison.”
“These were my first offerings to my wife, in
return for the gift she had made me of the precious
babe!” said the Doge, in such a smothered voice
recall the presence of the dead—“Blessed Angiolina!
these jewels are so many tokens of thy pale
but happy countenance; thou felt a mother's joy
at that sacred moment, and could even smile on
me!”
“And here is a talisman in sapphire, with many
Eastern characters; I was told it had been an heirloom
in the family of the child, and was put about
his neck at the birth, by the hands of his own
father.”
“I ask no more—I ask no more! God be praised
for this, the last and best of all his mercies!” cried
the Prince, clasping his hands with devotion. “This
jewel was worn by myself in infancy, and I placed
it around the neck of the babe with my own hands,
as thou sayest—I ask no more.”
“And Bartolo Contini!” uttered Il Maledetto.
“Maso!” exclaimed a voice, which until then
had been mute in the chapel. It was Adelheid
who had spoken. Her hair had fallen in wild profusion
over her shoulders, as she still knelt over
the articles on the pavement, and her hands were
clasped entreatingly, as if she deprecated the rude
interruptions which had so often dashed the cup
from their lips, as they were about to yield to the
delight of believing Sigismund to be the child of
the Prince of Genoa.
“Thou art another of a fond and weak sex, to
swell the list of confiding spirits that have been
betrayed by the selfishness and falsehood of men,”
answered the mocking mariner. “Go to, girl!—
make thyself a nun; thy Sigismund is an impostor.”
Adelheid, by a quick but decided interposition
of her hand, prevented an impetuous movement of
the young soldier, who would have struck his au
dacious rival to his feet. Without changing her
kneeling attitude, she then spoke, modestly but with
to assume even more readily than the stronger sex,
when extraordinary occasions call for the sacrifice
of that reserve in which her feebleness is ordinarily
intrenched.
“I know not, Maso, in what manner thou hast
learned the tie which connects me with Sigismund,”
she said; “but I have no longer any wish
to conceal it. Be he the son of Balthazar, or be
he the son of a prince, he has received my troth
with the consent of my honored father, and our
fortunes will shortly be one. There might be forwardness
in a maiden thus openly avowing her
preference for a youth; but here, with none to
own him, oppressed with his long-endured wrongs,
and assailed in his most sacred affections, Sigismund
has a right to my voice. Let him belong
to whom else he may, I speak by my venerable
father's authority, when I say he belongs to us.”
“Melchior, is this true?” cried the Doge.
“The girl's words are but an echo of what my
heart feels,” answered the baron, looking about
him proudly, as if he would browbeat any who
should presume to think that he had consented to
corrupt the blood of Willading by the measure.
“I have watched thine eye, Maso, as one nearly
interested in the truth,” continued Adelheid, “and
I now appeal to thee, as thou lovest thine own soul,
to disburthen thyself! While thou may'st have
told some truth, the jealous affection of a woman
has revealed to me that thou hast kept back part.
Speak, then, and relieve the soul of this venerable
prince from torture,”
“And deliver my own body to the wheel! This
may be well to the warm imagination of a love-sick
girl, but we of the contraband have too much
practice in men uselessly to throw away an advantage.”
“Thou mayest have confidence in our faith.
I have seen much of thee within the last few
days, Maso, and I wish not to think thee capable
of the bloody deed that hath been committed on
the mountain, though I fear thy life is only too
ungoverned; still I will not believe that the hero
of the Leman can be the assassin of St. Bernard.”
“When thy young dreams are over, fair one,
and thou seest the world under its true colors, thou
wilt know that the hearts of men come partly of
Heaven and partly of Hell.”
Maso laughed in his most reckless manner as he
delivered this opinion.
“'T is useless to deny that thou hast sympathies,”
continued the maiden steadily; “thou hast in secret
more pleasure in serving than in injuring
thy race. Thou canst not have been in such
straits in company with the Signor Sigismondo,
without imbibing some touch of his noble generosity.
You have struggled together for our common
good, you come of the same God, have the
same manly courage, are equally stout of heart,
strong of hand, and willing to do for others. Such
a heart must have enough of noble and human
impulses to cause you to love justice. Speak,
then, and I pledge our sacred word, that thou shalt
fare better for thy candor than by taking refuge
in thy present fraud. Bethink thee, Maso, that
the happiness of this aged man, of Sigismund
himself, if thou wilt, for I blush not to say it—of
a weak and affectionate girl, is in thy keeping.
Give us truth holy; sacred truth, and we pardon
the past.”
Il Maledetto was moved by the beautiful earnestness
of the speaker. Her ingenuous interest in
the result, with the solemnity of her appeal, shook
his purpose.
“Thou know'st not what thou say'st, lady; thou
ask'st my life,” he answered, after pondering in a
way to give a new impulse to the dying hopes of
the Doge.
“Though there is no quality more sacred than
justice,” interposed the châtelain, who alone could
speak with authority in the Valais; “it is fairly
within the province of her servants to permit
her to go unexpiated, in order that greater good
may come of the sacrifice. If thou wilt prove
aught that is of grave importance to the interests
of the Prince of Genoa, Valais owes it to the love
it bears his republic to requite the service.”
Maso listened, at first, with a cold ear. He
felt the distrust of one who had sufficient knowledge
of the world to be acquainted with the thousand
expedients that were resorted to by men, in
order to justify their daily want of faith. He questioned
the châtelain closely as to his meaning, nor
was it until a late hour, and after long and weary
explanations on both sides, that the parties came
to an understanding.
On the part of those who, on this occasion, were
the representatives of that high attribute of the
Deity which among men is termed justice, it was
sufficiently apparent that they understood its exercise
with certain reservations that might be made
at pleasure in favor of their own views; and, on
the part of Maso, there was no attempt to conceal
the suspicions he entertained to the last, that
he might be a sufferer by lessening in any degree
the strength of the defences by which he was at
present shielded, as the son, real or fancied, of a
person so powerful as the Prince of Genoa.
As usually happens when there is a mutual wish
to avoid extremities, and when conflicting interests
are managed with equal address, the negotiation
will be shown in the regular course of the narrative,
the reader is referred to the closing chapter
for the explanation.
| CHAPTER XV. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |