University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
BERTHOLD'S PLOT.

The Easter festival approached, and the snows
began to melt away from the hillsides and valleys
where the sun's heat was first more strongly
reflected. On the great precipices, and in the
darksome defiles that surrounded the mule-path,
the deep drifts remained. The osteria had resumed
its publicity, and still, under the sway of
Bacco and his wife Brigita, continued to entertain
the contrabandists, straggling goatherds of
the upper ranges, and wandering children of
Savoy, who chose to travel over these isolated
routes. The ostessa since the fatal disaster
which had made her childless, seemed to have
become, if possible, more acrid and saturnine in
her manners, and the oste himself had lapsed
into such a habit of drinking that he was
scarcely ever seen but in a state of inebriety
and was often so steeped in his potations as to
be unable to recognize the most ancient cronies
among his rude guests.

Neither Captain Tomaso nor his daughter remained
in the osteria. The sudden destruction
of his small band by the avalanche, with the
subsequent influence of Francesca, and the
timely visit of Padre Ambrosio had, as we have
said, awakened the brigand's conscience and operated
a powerful change in his character. He
began to regard his past evil courses with a horror
of mind which required all the skill and af
fection of his child to prevent merging into madness
or melancholy. But, happily, Francesca's
spirit was one of rare patience and discretion,
and on the very day succeeding her father's interview
with the priest, she formed the resolution
to take advantage of her parent's-apparently
renewed better nature, and persuade him
to accompany her at once from the scenes of his
late marauding life—whither she cared not, but
at least to a place of rest and safety, both for
himself and her.

Tomaso made no opposition to his daughter's
wish, but as speedily as the partial return of his
strength would admit, arose from his bed in the
osteria, and collecting what valuables he possessed,
informed the hostess, Brigita, that he
intended to depart upon a long journey. Then,
with his daughter clasping his arm, half sustaining
his form, and almost guiding his footsteps,
the old brigand took leave of the osteria, the
lonely mule-path, and the passes and defiles
whence he had often led his comrades on some
plundering expedition. Tomaso and Francesca
departed—none knew whither. There was no
one of the band remaining to inquire.

No one save Berthold, the vine-dresser; and
when, to his vexation, on the next visit which
he made to the osteria, after his repulse by
Francesca, he was still refused admittance; and

when, after repeated attempts to see the maiden,
he was informed by the ostessa that both she
and her father had disappeared, his astonishment
and anger knew no control. He accused Francesca
as bitterly as he once accused the innocent
Valentine, of a hundred wicked things, and,
with imprecations, threatened revenge on Tomaso,
Bacco, Brigita—to all which the vinegar-faced
hostess replied by vigorously thrusting
him from the porch where he stood, and closing
the hostel door in the face of his curses. So
Berthold returned to Val d'Orazio to plot mischief
in another quarter.

The spring and Easter, as we have said, approached,
and one evening of a Sabbath, when
the vine-dresser had been as usual to the chapel
of the hills, and there awoke the jealousy of a
dozen youths by the apparent good terms on
which he stood with the fair Bianca—she having
at the church door that morning accepted, with
a gracious smile, a few little tufts of wild mosses,
which Berthold had woven into a quaint bouquet,
with some early flowers—the latter took his
way to the hut which he still occupied with his
mother, and whither, at the close of a previous
chapter, we promised the reader to follow him.

The vine-dresser's return to his home was as
it seemed looked for by another besides the crone.
This was a man of about thirty years of age, of
noble form and features; but in whose look was
manifest the unrestrained indulgence of evil passion,
whilst the advancing lines of dissipation
marred in his countenance the finer work of nature.
He was richly dressed, and jewels sparkled
on his fingers, but he seemed ill at case, nevertheless,
nervously striding over the cottagefloor,
at the same time whipping the air with a
riding lash which he held in one hand.

“Thou hast come—at last,” exclaimed this
personage, in an impatient tone, as Berthold's
figure darkened the low entrance. “Well, man,
speak—what news hast brought?”

“Simply,” replied the vine dresser, apparently
not abashed at the other's rude greeting;
“simply that all will be according to your lordship's
wishes.”

“And when?—at once?” exclaimed the person,
addressed.

“Your lordship must be aware that time is
neces—”

“Time! I want no more delay! I have
waited long enough for this girl; and it appears
my worthy Berthold is playing some double
game with me. Enough of this trifling, my
good fellow.”

“Your lordship forgets—”

“I forget nothing—certainly not that I have
waited for six months for a shrewd villain to
serve me, and seem now to be as near the completion
of my desires as at the beginning. Hark
ye, sir, is this peasant girl to be mine?”

“Undoubtedly she shall be, my lord,” answered
the vine-dresser, laboring to preserve
calmness, for his evil temper was on the point
of being roused by the other's jeering words;
“but, perchance, it is not so easy as your lordship
may think, to carry her off in the face of a
hundred quick-handed blockheads, who would
think their lives lost cheaply in defending her.”

“How, then, secure our prize?”

“I have hitherto said, my lord, leave it to me
to make the task easy. Now, if your lordship
will let me explain—”

“I listen.”

“Your lordship would not that suspicion attach
to yourself or servants; but rather that the
business be so managed that it may seem the
girl is carried away by brigands—”

“We understand, good Berthold!”

“Therefore, my lord, to ensure the object,
Bianca will go herself to the mountains, and
there—”

“What!—Bianca!—the mountains!”

“There will be no difficulty. My lord must
know the girl had once a fancy for my brother
Valentine, who fled from the valley when accused
of her uncle's murder.”

“Which murder I am not so sure thou didst
not thyself commit, good Berthold!”

“Your lordship is pleased to be jocose,” muttered
the vine-dresser, sulkily. “Shall I explain,
further, or—”

“O, go on, my testy Berthold,” said the noble;
“let me understand the scheme at once.”

“Bianca, as I said, having a fancy for my unfortunate
brother, will gladly believe me when I
tell her that Valentine has returned, and is concealed
in the hills, for fear of the villagers—”

“Ah, I comprehend!”

“And wishes to see her but for one moment,
if she believes him innocent—”

“Proceed, worthy Berthold!”

“And implores her to come to a secret pass
above the lonesome mule-path—”

“And she will go? She will obey—”

“Most certainly, my lord, I doubt not. And

if she does not greet an old lover, she will find
a new one! So where's the difference?”

“Berthold, thou art a shrewd villain, and
shall be well rewarded for thy assistance.”

Berthold appeared to hesitate a moment, and
then looking at the noble scrutinizingly, said:

“I trust your lordship does not think I serve
for gold only?”

“Well, in truth, honest fellow, thou art never
loth to accept such payment.”

“Nevertheless, a man may have a tender regard—”

“What! hast thou a tender regard for me,
Berthold? That is more than I looked for,
truly.”

The noble spoke with a sneer similar to that
which was habitual to the vine-dresser himself.

“I may have a regard for your lordship, and
a tender regard for some one else! The fair
Bianca will not always be young, and—”

“Aha! methinks thou dost covet the reversion
of my pretty peasant! Surely, thou art a
serviceable scoundrel!”

“Bianca will not always please your lordship,
and if she weds—”

The vine-dresser paused.

“If she weds thee when I discard her, thou
wouldst say! Very well—we may discuss this
matter at another time. At present I would
know when this girl for whom you profess a
`tender regard' is to show the same to me?”

“Within twenty-four hours, my lord.”

“To-morrow, then?”

“At the Easter festival, when the villagers
lose their silly brains in sport, I can safely lure
Bianca from the old Agata's cottage, and send
her—”

“To meet her lover!”

“And leave the rest to your lordship.”

“Bravo, Berthold! The scheme cannot fail.
At the Easter feast, to-morrow! Fail me not,
good Berthold.”

“Your lordship will be satisfied.”

The noble bowed his head slightly, and turning
from the hut followed the vine-dresser, who
went to unfasten a fine horse that had been pawing
the ground at the rear of the house. A few
moments afterward, Lord Roberto, well-known
throughout the valley as a reckless libertine, who
divided his time betwixt the follies of Milan
and orgies of a wilder-description carried on at
a castle which he possessed, near Val d'Orazio,
passed up through the hamlet, riding furiously
through the groups of peasants on the road, returning
to their homes from Sabbath services,
and directing his course towards a small hunting
lodge not far from the castle, which latter crowned
a lofty eminence near the head of the valley,
at a point where the main road diverged into the
mountains.

Berthold, on his part, returned into the hut,
moodily grumbling as he thought of Monna Barbara
and her mysterious flight, and then set
himself about getting something to eat.