"Why liest thou so on the green earth?
'Tis not the hour of slumber:--why so pale?"
CAIN.
Notwithstanding his apparent decision, the Duke of Sant' Agata was
completely at a loss in what manner to direct his future movements. That
he had been duped by one or more of the agents to whom he had been
compelled to confide his necessary preparations for the flight he had
meditated several days, was too certain to admit of his deceiving
himself with the hopes that some unaccountable mistake was the cause of
his loss. He saw at once that the Senate was master of the person of his
bride, and he too well knew its power and its utter disregard of human
obligations when any paramount interest of the state was to be
consulted, to doubt for an instant its willingness to use its advantage
in any manner that was most likely to contribute to its own views. By
the premature death of her uncle, Donna Violetta had become the heiress
of vast estates in the dominions of the church, and a compliance with
that jealous and arbitrary law of Venice, which commanded all of its
nobles to dispose of any foreign possessions they might acquire, was
only suspended on account of her sex, and, as has already been seen,
with the hope of disposing of her hand in a manner that would prove more
profitable to the Republic. With this object still before them, and with
the means of accomplishing it in their own hands, the bridegroom well
knew that his marriage would not only be denied, but he feared the
witnesses of the ceremony would be so disposed of, as to give little
reason ever to expect embarrassment from their testimony. For himself,
personally, he felt less apprehension, though he foresaw that he had
furnished his opponents with an argument that was likely to defer to an
indefinite period, if it did not entirely defeat, his claims to the
disputed succession. But he had already made up his mind to this result,
though it is probable that his passion for Violetta had not entirely
blinded him to the fact, that her Roman signories would be no unequal
offset for the loss. He believed that he might possibly return to his
palace with impunity, so far as any personal injury was concerned; for
the great consideration he enjoyed in his native land, and the high
interest he possessed at the court of Rome, were sufficient pledges that
no open violence would be done him. The chief reason why his claim had
been kept in suspense, was the wish to profit by his near connexion with
the favorite cardinal; and though he had never been able entirely to
satisfy the ever-increasing demands of the council in this respect, he
thought it probable that the power of the Vatican would not be spared,
to save him from any very imminent personal hazard. Still he had given
the state of Venice plausible reasons for severity; and liberty, just at
that moment, was of so much importance, that he dreaded falling into the
hands of the officials, as one of the greatest misfortunes which could
momentarily overtake him. He so well knew the crooked policy of those
with whom he had to deal, that he believed he might be arrested solely
that the government could make an especial merit of his future release,
under circumstances of so seeming gravity. His order to Gino, therefore,
had been to pull down the principal passage towards the port.
Before the gondola, which sprang at each united effort of its crew, like
some bounding animal, entered among the shipping, its master had time to
recover his self-possession, and to form some hasty plans for the
future. Making a signal for the crew to cease rowing, he came from
beneath the canopy. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, boats were
plying on the water within the town, and the song was still audible on
the canals. But among the mariners a general stillness prevailed, such
as befitted their toil during the day, and their ordinary habits.
"Call the first idle gondolier of thy acquaintance hither, Gino," said
Don Camillo, with assumed calmness; "I would question him."
In less than a minute he was gratified.
"Hast seen any strongly manned gondola plying, of late, in this part of
the canal?" demanded Don Camillo, of the man they had stopped.
"None, but this of your own, Signore; which is the fastest of all that
passed beneath the Rialto in this day's regatta."
"How knowest thou, friend, aught of the speed of my boat?"
"Signore, I have pulled an oar on the canals of Venice six-and-twenty
years, and I do not remember to have seen a gondola move more swiftly on
them than did this very boat but a few minutes ago, when it dashed among
the feluccas, further down in the port, as if it were again running for
the oar. Corpo di Bacco! There are rich wines in the palaces of the
nobles, that men can give such life to wood!"
"Whither did we steer?" eagerly asked Don Camillo.
"Blessed San Teodoro! I do not wonder, eccellenza, that you ask that
question, for though it is but a moment since, here I see you lying as
motionless on the water as a floating weed!"
"Friend, here is silver--addio."
The gondolier swept slowly onwards, singing a strain in honor of his
bark, while the boat of Don Camillo darted ahead. Mystic, felucca,
xebec, brigantine, and three-masted ship, were apparently floating past
them, as they shot through the maze of shipping, when Gino bent forward
and drew the attention of his master to a large gondola, which was
pulling with a lazy oar towards them, from the direction of the Lido.
Both boats were in a wide avenue in the midst of the vessels, the usual
track of those who went to sea, and there was no object whatever between
them. By changing the course of his own boat, Don Camillo soon found
himself within an oar's length of the other. He saw, at a glance, it was
the treacherous gondola by which he had been duped.
"Draw, men, and follow!" shouted the desperate Neapolitan, preparing to
leap into the midst of his enemies.
"You draw against St. Mark!" cried a warning voice from beneath the
canopy. "The chances are unequal, Signore; for the smallest signal would
bring twenty galleys to our succor."
Don Camillo might have disregarded this menace, had he not perceived
that it caused the half-drawn rapiers of his followers to return to
their scabbards.
"Robber!" he answered, "restore her whom you have spirited away."
"Signore, you young nobles are often pleased to play your extravagances
with the servants of the Republic. Here are none but the gondoliers and
myself." A movement of the boat permitted Don Camillo to look into the
covered part, and he saw that the other uttered no more than the truth.
Convinced of the uselessness of further parley, knowing the value of
every moment, and believing he was on a track which might still lead to
success, the young Neapolitan signed to his people to go on. The boats
parted in silence, that of Don Camillo proceeding in the direction from
which the other had just come.
In a short time the gondola of Don Camillo was in an open part of the
Giudecca, and entirely beyond the tiers of the shipping. It was so late
that the moon had begun to fall, and its light was cast obliquely on the
bay, throwing the eastern sides of the buildings and the other objects
into shadow. A dozen different vessels were seen, aided by the
land-breeze, steering towards the entrance of the port. The rays of the
moon fell upon the broad surface of those sides of their canvas which
were nearest to the town, and they resembled so many spotless clouds,
sweeping the water and floating seaward.
"They are sending my wife to Dalmatia!" cried Don Camillo, like a man
on whom the truth began to dawn.
"Signore mio!" exclaimed the astonished Gino.
"I tell thee, sirrah, that this accursed Senate hath plotted against my
happiness, and having robbed me of thy mistress, hath employed one of
the many feluccas that I see, to transport her to some of its
strongholds on the eastern coast of the Adriatic."
"Blessed Maria! Signor Duca, and my honored master; they say that the
very images of stone in Venice have ears, and that the horses of bronze
will kick, if an evil word is spoken against those up above."
"Is it not enough, varlet, to draw curses from the meek Job, to rob him
of a wife? Hast thou no feeling for thy mistres?'
"I did not dream, eccellenza, that you were so happy as to have the one,
or that I was so honored as to have the other."
"Thou remindest me of my folly, good Gino. In aiding me on this
occasion, thou wilt have thy own fortune in view, as thy efforts, like
those of thy fellows, will be made in behalf of the lady to whom I have
just plighted a husband's vows."
"San Theodoro help us all, and hint what is to be done! The lady is most
happy, Signor Don Camillo, and if I only knew by what name to mention
her she should never be forgotten in any prayer that so humble a sinner
might dare to offer."
"Thou hast not forgotten the beautiful lady I drew from the Giudecca?"
"Corpo di Bacco! Your eceellenza floated like a swan, and swam faster
than a gull. Forgotten! Signore, no,--I think of it every time I hear a
plash in the canals, and every time I think of it I curse the Ancona-man
in my heart. St. Theodore forgive me if it be unlike a Christian to do
so. But, though we all tell marvels of what our Lord did in the
Giudecca, the dip of its waters is not the marriage ceremony, nor can we
speak with much certainty of beauty that was seen to so great
disadvantage."
"Thou art right, Gino. But that lady, the illustrious Donna Violetta
Tiepolo, the daughter and heiress of a famed senator, is now thy
mistress. It remains for us to establish her in the Castle of Sant'
Agata, where I shall defy Venice and its agents."
Gino bowed his head in submission, though he cast a look behind to make
sure that none of those agents, whom his master set so openly at
defiance, were within ear-shot.
In the meantime the gondola proceeded, for the dialogue in no manner
interrupted the exertions of Gino, still holding the direction of the
Lido. As the land-breeze freshened, the different vessels in sight
glided away, and by the time Don Camillo reached the barrier of sand
which separates the Lagunes from the Adriatic, most of them had glided
through the passages, and were now shaping their courses, according to
their different destinations, across the open gulf. The young noble had
permitted his people to pursue the direction originally taken, in pure
indecision. He was certain that his bride was in one of the many barques
in sight, but he possessed no clue to lead him towards the right one,
nor any sufficient means of pursuit were he even master of that
important secret. When he landed, therefore, it was with the simple hope
of being able to form some general conjecture as to the portion of the
Republic's dominions in which he might search for her he had lost, by
observing to what part of the Adriatic the different feluccas held their
way. He had determined on immediate pursuit, however, and before he
quitted the gondola, he once more turned to his confidential gondolier
to give the necessary instructions.
"Thou knowest, Gino," he said, "that there is one born a vassal on my
estates, here in the port, with a felucca from the Sorrentine shore?"
"I know the man better than I know my own faults Signore, or even my own
virtues."
"Go to him at once, and make sure of his presence. I have imagined a
plan to decoy him into the service of his lord; but I would now know the
condition of his vessel."
Gino said a few words in commendation of the zeal of his friend Stefano,
and in praise of the Bella Sorrentina, as the gondola receded from the
shore; and then he dashed his oar into the water, like a man in earnest
to execute the commission.
There is a lonely spot on the Lido di Palestrina where Catholic
exclusion has decreed that the remains of all who die in Venice, without
the pale of the church of Rome, shall moulder into their kindred dust.
Though it is not distant from the ordinary landing and the few buildings
which line the shore, it is a place that, in itself, is no bad emblem of
a hopeless lot. Solitary, exposed equally to the hot airs of the south
and the bleak blasts of the Alps, frequently covered with the spray of
the Adriatic, and based on barren sands, the utmost that human art,
aided by a soil which has been fattened by human remains, can do, has
been to create around the modest graves a meagre vegetation, that is in
slight contrast to the sterility of most of the bank. This place of
interment is without the relief of trees: at the present day it is
uninclosed, and in the opinions of those who have set it apart for
heretic and Jew, it is unblessed. And yet, though condemned alike to
this, the last indignity which man can inflict on his fellow, the two
proscribed classes furnish a melancholy proof of the waywardness of
human passions and prejudice, by refusing to share in common the scanty
pittance of earth which bigotry has allowed for their everlasting
repose! While the Protestant sleeps by the side of the Protestant in
exclusive obloquy, the children of Israel moulder apart on the same
barren heath, sedulous to preserve, even in the grave, the outward
distinctions of faith. We shall not endeavor to seek that deeply-seated
principle which renders man so callous to the most eloquent and striking
appeals to liberality, but rest satisfied with being grateful that we
have been born in a land in which the interests of religion are as
little as possible sullied by the vicious contamination of those of
life; in which Christian humility is not exhibited beneath the purple,
nor Jewish adhesion by intolerance; in which man is left to care for the
welfare of his own soul, and in which, so far as the human eye can
penetrate, God is worshipped for himself.
Don Camillo Monforte landed near the retired graves of the proscribed.
As he wished to ascend the low sand-hills, which have been thrown up by
the waves and the winds of the gulf on the outer edge of the Lido, it
was necessary that he should pass directly across the contemned spot, or
make such a circuit as would have been inconvenient. Crossing himself,
with a superstition that was interwoven with all his habits and
opinions, and loosening his rapier, in order that he might not miss the
succor of that good weapon at need, he moved across the heath tenanted
by the despised dead, taking care to avoid the mouldering heaps of earth
which lay above the bones of heretic or Jew. He had not threaded more
than half the graves, however, when a human form arose from the grass,
and seemed to walk like one who mused on the moral that the piles at
his feet would be apt to excite. Again Don Camillo touched the handle of
his rapier; then moving aside, in a manner to give himself an equal
advantage from the light of the moon, he drew near the stranger. His
footstep was heard, for the other paused, regarded the approaching
cavalier, and folding his arms, as it might be in sign of neutrality,
awaited his nearer approach.
"Thou hast chosen a melancholy hour for thy walk, Signore," said the
young Neapolitan; "and a still more melancholy scene. I hope I do not
intrude on an Israelite, or a Lutheran, who mourns for his friend?"
"Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like yourself, a Christian."
"Ha! Thou knowest me--'tis Battista, the gondolier that I once
entertained in my household?"
"Signore, 'tis not Battista."
As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, in a manner that threw all of
its mild light upon his features.
"Jacopo!" exclaimed the duke, recoiling, as did all in Venice
habitually, when that speaking eye was unexpectedly met.
"Signore--Jacopo."
In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo glittered in the rays of the moon.
"Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain the motive that hath brought
thee thus across my solitude!"
The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained their fold.
"I might, with equal justice, call upon the Duke of Sant' Agata to
furnish reasons why he wanders at this hour among the Hebrew graves."
"Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not with men of thy reputation; if
any in Venice have thought fit to employ thee against my person, thou
wilt have need of all thy courage and skill ere thou earnest thy fee."
"Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo, here is none to do you harm. Think
you, if employed in the manner you name, I would be in this spot to seek
you? Ask yourself whether your visit here was known, or whether it was
more than the idle caprice of a young noble, who finds his bed less easy
than his gondola. We have met, Duke of Sant' Agata, when you distrusted
my honor less."
"Thou speakest true, Jacopo," returned the noble, suffering the point of
his rapier to fall from before the breast of the Bravo, though he still
hesitated to withdraw the weapon. "Thou sayest the truth. My visit to
this spot is indeed accidental, and thou could'st not have possibly
foreseen it. Why art thou here?"
"Why are these here?" demanded Jacopo, pointing to the graves at his
feet. "We are born, and we die--that much is known to us all; but the
when and the where are mysteries, until time reveals them."
"Thou art not a man to act without good motive. Though these Israelites
could not foresee their visit to the Lido, thine hath not been without
intention."
"I am here, Don Camillo Monforte, because my spirit hath need of room. I
want the air of the sea--the canals choke me--I can only breathe in
freedom on this bank of sand!"
"Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?"
"Aye, Signore--I loathe yon city of crimes!"
As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in the direction of the domes of
St. Mark, and the deep tones of his voice appeared to heave up from the
depths of his chest.
"This is extraordinary language for a----"
"Bravo; speak the word boldly, Signore--it is no stranger to my ears.
But even the stiletto of a Bravo is honorable, compared to that sword of
pretended justice which St. Mark wields! The commonest hireling of
Italy--he who will plant his dagger in the heart of his friend for two
sequins, is a man of open dealing, compared to the merciless treachery
of some in yonder town!"
"I understand thee, Jacopo; thou art, at length, proscribed. The public
voice, faint as it is in the Republic, has finally reached the ears of
thy employers, and they withdraw their protection."
Jacopo regarded the noble, for an instant, with an expression so
ambiguous, as to cause the latter insensibly to raise the point of his
rapier, but when he answered it was with his ordinary quiet.
"Signor Duca," he said, "I have been thought worthy to be retained by
Don Camillo Monforte!"
"I deny it not--and now that thou recallest the occasion, new light
breaks in upon me. Villain, to thy faithlessness I owe the loss of my
bride!"
Though the rapier was at the very throat of Jacopo, he did not flinch.
Gazing at his excited companion, he laughed in a smothered manner, but
bitterly.
"It would seem that the Lord of Sant' Agata wishes to rob me of my
trade," he said. "Arise, ye Israelites, and bear witness, lest men
doubt the fact! A common bravo of the canals is waylaid, among your
despised graves, by the proudest Signor of Calabria! You have chosen
your spot in mercy, Don Camillo, for sooner or later this crumbling and
sea-worn earth is to receive me. Were I to die at the altar itself, with
the most penitent prayer of holy church on my lips, the bigots would
send my body to rest among these hungry Hebrews and accursed heretics.
Yes, I am a man proscribed, and unfit to sleep with the faithful!"
His companion spoke with so strange a mixture of irony and melancholy,
that the purpose of Don Camillo wavered. But remembering his loss, he
shook the rapier's point, and continued:--
"Thy taunts and effrontery will not avail thee, knave," he cried. "Thou
knowest that I would have engaged thee as the leader of a chosen band,
to favor the flight of one dear from Venice."
"Nothing more true, Signore."
"And thou didst refuse the service?"
"Noble duke, I did."
"Not content with this, having learned the particulars of my project,
thou sold the secret to the Senate?"
"Don Camillo Monforte, I did not. My engagements with the council would
not permit me to serve you; else, by the brightest star of yonder vault!
it would have gladdened my heart to have witnessed the happiness of two
young and faithful lovers. No--no--no; they know me not, who think I
cannot find pleasure in the joy of another. I told you that I was the
Senate's, and there the matter ended."
"And I had the weakness to believe thee, Jacopo, for thou hast a
character so strangely compounded of good and evil, and bearest so fair
a name for observance of thy faith, that the seeming frankness of the
answer lulled me to security. Fellow, I have been betrayed, and that at
the moment when I thought success most sure."
Jacopo manifested interest, but, as he moved slowly on, accompanied by
the vigilant and zealous noble, he smiled coldly, like one who had pity
for the other's credulity.
"In bitterness of soul, I have cursed the whole race for its treachery,"
continued the Neapolitan.
"This is rather for the priore of St. Mark, than for the ear of one who
carries a public stiletto."
"My gondola has been imitated--the liveries of my people copied--my
bride stolen. Thou answerest not, Jacopo?"
"What answer would you have? You have been cozened, Signore, in a state,
whose very prince dare not trust his secrets to his wife. You would have
robbed Venice of an heiress, and Venice has robbed you of a bride. You
have played high, Don Camillo, and have lost a heavy stake. You have
thought of your own wishes and rights, while you have pretended to serve
Venice with the Spaniard."
Don Camillo started in surprise.
"Why this wonder, Signore? You forget that I have lived much among those
who weigh the chances of every political interest, and that your name is
often in their mouths. This marriage is doubly disagreeable to Venice,
who has nearly as much need of the bridegroom as of the bride. The
council hath long ago forbidden the banns."
"Aye--but the means?--explain the means by which I have been duped, lest
the treachery be ascribed to thee."
"Signore, the very marbles of the city give up their secrets to the
state. I have seen much, and understood much, when my superiors have
believed me merely a tool; but I have seen much that even those who
employed me could not comprehend. I could have foretold this
consummation of your nuptials, had I known of their celebration."
"This thou could'st not have done, without being an agent of their
treachery."
"The schemes of the selfish may be foretold; it is only the generous and
the honest that baffle calculation. He who can gain a knowledge of the
present interest of Venice is master of her dearest secrets of state;
for what she wishes she will do, unless the service cost too dear. As
for the means--how can they be wanting in a household like yours,
Signore?"
"I trusted none but those deepest in my confidence."
"Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in your palace, Gino alone
excepted, who is not a hireling of the Senate, or of its agents. The
very gondoliers who row you to your daily pleasures have had their hauds
crossed with the Republic's sequins. Nay, they are not only paid to
watch you, but to watch each other."
"Can this be true!"
"Have you ever doubted it, Signore?" asked Jacopo, looking up like one
who admired another's simplicity.
"I knew them to be false--pretenders to a faith that in secret they
mock; but I had not believed they dared to tamper with the very menials
of my person. This undermining of the security of families is to destroy
society at its core."
"You talk like one who hath not been long a bridegroom, Signore," said
the Bravo with a hollow laugh. "A year hence, you may know what it is to
have your own wife turning your secret thoughts into gold."
"And thou servest them, Jacopo?"
"Who does not, in some manner suited to his habits? We are not masters
of our fortune, Don Camillo, or the Duke of Sant' Agata would not be
turning his influence with a relative to the advantage of the Republic.
What I have done hath not been done without bitter penitence, and an
agony of soul that your own light servitude may have spared you,
Signore."
"Poor Jacopo!"
"If I have lived through it all, 'tis because one mightier than the
state hath not deserted me. But, Don Camillo Monforte, there are crimes
which pass beyond the powers of man to endure."
The Bravo shuddered, and he moved among the despised graves in silence.
"They have then proved too ruthless even for thee?" said Don Camillo,
who watched the contracting eye and heaving form of his companion, in
wonder.
"Signore, they have. I have witnessed, this night, a proof of their
heartlessness and bad faith, that hath caused me to look forward to my
own fate. The delusion is over; from this hour I serve them no longer."
The Bravo spoke with deep feeling, and his companion fancied, strange as
it was coming from such a man, with an air of wounded integrity. Don
Camillo knew that there was no condition of life, however degraded or
lost to the world, which had not its own particular opinions of the
faith due to its fellows; and he had seen enough of the sinuous course
of the oligarchy of Venice, to understand that it was quite possible its
shameless and irresponsible duplicity might offend the principles of
even an assassin. Less odium was attached to men of that class, in Italy
and at that day, than will be easily imagined in a country like this;
for the radical defects and the vicious administration of the laws,
caused an irritable and sensitive people too often to take into their
own hands the right of redressing their own wrongs. Custom had lessened
the odium of the crime; and though society denounced the assassin
himself, it is scarcely too much to say, that his employer was regarded
with little more disgust than the religious of our time regard the
survivor of a private combat. Still it was not usual for nobles like Don
Camillo to hold intercourse, beyond that which the required service
exacted, with men of Jacopo's cast; but the language and manner of the
Bravo so strongly attracted the curiosity, and even the sympathy of his
companion, that the latter unconsciously sheathed his rapier and drew
nearer.
"Thy penitence and regrets, Jacopo, may lead thee yet nearer to virtue,"
he said, "than mere abandonment of the Senate's service. Seek out some
godly priest, and ease thy soul by confession and prayer."
The Bravo trembled in every limb, and his eye turned wistfully to the
countenance of the other.
"Speak, Jacopo; even I will hear thee, if thou would'st remove the
mountain from thy breast."
"Thanks, noble Signore! a thousand thanks for this glimpse of sympathy
to which I have long been a stranger! None know how dear a word of
kindness is to one who has been condemned by all, as I have been. I have
prayed--I have craved--I have wept for some ear to listen to my tale,
and I thought I had found one who would have heard me without scorn,
when the cold policy of the Senate struck him. I came here to commune
with the hated dead, when chance brought us together. Could I--" the
Bravo paused and looked doubtfully again at his companion.
"Say on, Jacopo."
"I have not dared to trust my secrets even to the confessional, Signore,
and can I be so bold as to offer them to you."
"Truly, it is a strange behest!"
"Signore, it is. You are noble, I am of humble blood. Your ancestors
were senators and Doges of Venice, while mine have been, since the
fishermen first built their huts in the Lagunes, laborers on the canals,
and rowers of gondolas. You are powerful, and rich, and courted; while I
am denounced, and in secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are Don
Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo Frontoni!"
Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo spoke without bitterness, and in
deep sorrow.
"I would thou wert at the confessional, poor Jacopo!" he said; "I am
little able to give ease to such a burden."
"Signore, I have lived too long shut out from the good wishes of my
fellows, and I can bear with it no longer. The accursed Senate may cut
me off without warning, and then who will stop to look at my grave!
Signore, I must speak or die!"
"Thy case is piteous, Jacopo! Thou hast need of ghostly counsel."
"Here is no priest, Signore, and I carry a weight past bearing. The only
man who has shown interest in me, for three long and dreadful years, is
gone!"
"But he will return, poor Jacopo."
"Signore, he will never return. He is with the fishes of the Lagunes."
"By thy hand, monster!"
"By the justice of the illustrious Republic," said the Bravo, with a
smothered but bitter smile.
"Ha! they are then awake to the acts of thy class? Thy repentance is
the fruit of fear!"
Jacopo seemed choked. He had evidently counted on the awakened sympathy
of his companion, notwithstanding the difference in their situations,
and to be thus thrown off again, unmanned him. He shuddered, and every
muscle and nerve appeared about to yield its power. Touched by so
unequivocal signs of suffering, Don Camillo kept close at his side,
reluctant to enter more deeply into the feelings of one of his known
character, and yet unable to desert a fellow-creature in so grievous
agony.
"Signor Duca," said the Bravo, with a pathos in his voice that went to
the heart of his auditor, "leave me. If they ask for a proscribed man,
let them come here; in the morning they will find my body near the
graves of the heretics."
"Speak, I will hear thee."
Jacopo looked up with doubt expressed on his features.
"Unburden thyself; I will listen, though thou recounted the
assassination of my dearest friend."
The oppressed Bravo gazed at him, as if he still distrusted his
sincerity. His face worked, and his look became still more wistful; but
as Don Camillo faced the moon, and betrayed the extent of his sympathy,
the other burst into tears.
"Jacopo, I will hear thee--I will hear thee, poor Jacopo!" cried Don
Camillo, shocked at this exhibition of distress in one so stern by
nature. A wave from the hand of the Bravo silenced him, and Jacopo,
struggling with himself for a moment, spoke.
"You have saved a soul from perdition, Signore," he said, smothering his
emotion. "If the happy knew how much power belongs to a single word of
kindness--a glance of feeling, when given to the despised, they would
not look so coldly on the miserable. This night must have been my last,
had you cast me off without pity--but you will hear my tale,
Signore--you will not scorn the confession of a Bravo?"
"I have promised. Be brief, for at this moment I have great care of my
own."
"Signore, I know not the whole of your wrongs, but they will not be less
likely to be redressed for this grace."
Jacopo made an effort to command himself, when he commenced his tale.
The course of the narrative does not require that we should accompany
this extraordinary man though the relation of the secrets he imparted to
Don Camillo. It is enough for our present purposes to say, that, as he
proceeded, the young Calabrian noble drew nearer to his side, and
listened with growing interest. The Duke of Sant' Agata scarcely
breathed, while his companion, with that energy of language and feeling
which marks Italian character, recounted his secret sorrows, and the
scenes in which he had been an actor. Long before he was done, Don
Camillo had forgotten his own private causes of concern, and, by the
time the tale was finished, every shade of disgust had given place to an
ungovernable expression of pity. In short, so eloquent was the speaker,
and so interesting the facts with which he dealt, that he seemed to play
with the sympathies of the listener, as the improvisatore of that region
is known to lead captive the passions of the admiring crowd.
During the time Jacopo was speaking, he and his wondering auditor had
passed the limits of the despised cemetery; and as the voice of the
former ceased, they stood on the outer beach of the Lido. When the low
tones of the Bravo were no longer audible, they were succeeded by the
sullen wash of the Adriatic.
"This surpasseth belief!" Don Camillo exclaimed after a long pause,
which had only been disturbed by the rush and retreat of the waters.
"Signore, as holy Maria is kind! it is true."
"I doubt you not, Jacopo--poor Jacopo! I cannot distrust a tale thus
told! Thou hast, indeed, been a victim of their hellish duplicity, and
well mayest thou say, the load was past bearing. What is thy intention?"
"I serve them no longer, Don Camillo--I wait only for the last solemn
scene, which is now certain, and then I quit this city of deceit, to
seek my fortune in another region. They have blasted my youth, and
loaded my name with infamy--God may yet lighten the load!"
"Reproach not thyself beyond reason, Jacopo, for the happiest and most
fortunate of us all are not above the power of temptation. Thou knowest
that even my name and rank have not, altogether, protected me from their
arts."
"I know them capable, Signore, of deluding angels! Their arts are only
surpassed by their means, and their pretence of virtue by their
indifference to its practice."
"Thou sayest true, Jacopo: the truth is never in greater danger, than
when whole communities lend themselves to the vicious deception of
seemliness, and without truth there is no virtue. This it is to
substitute profession for practice--to use the altar for a worldly
purpose--and to bestow power without any other responsibility than that
which is exacted by the selfishness of caste! Jacopo--poor Jacopo! thou
shalt be my servitor--I am lord of my own seignories, and once rid of
this specious Republic, I charge myself with the care of thy safety and
fortunes. Be at peace as respects thy conscience: I have interest near
the Holy See, and thou shalt not want absolution!"
The gratitude of the Bravo was more vivid in feeling than in expression.
He kissed the hand of Don Camillo, but it was with a reservation of
self-respect that belonged to the character of the man.
"A system like this of Venice," continued the musing noble, "leaves none
of us masters of our own acts. The wiles of such a combination are
stronger than the will. It cloaks its offences against right in a
thousand specious forms, and it enlists the support of every man under
the pretence of a sacrifice for the common good. We often fancy
ourselves simple dealers in some justifiable state intrigue, when in
truth we are deep in sin. Falsehood is the parent of all crimes, and in
no case has it a progeny so numerous as that in which its own birth is
derived from the state. I fear I may have made sacrifices to this
treacherous influence, I could wish forgotten."
Though Don Camillo soliloquized, rather than addressed his companion, it
was evident, by the train of his thoughts, that the narrative of Jacopo
had awakened disagreeable reflections on the manner in which he had
pushed his own claims with the Senate. Perhaps he felt the necessity of
some apology to one who, though so much his inferior in rank, was so
competent to appreciate his conduct, and who had just denounced, in the
strongest language, his own fatal subserviency to the arts of that
irresponsible and meretricious body.
Jacopo uttered a few words of a general nature, but such as had a
tendency to quiet the uneasiness of his companion; after which, with a
readiness that proved him qualified for the many delicate missions with
which he had been charged, he ingeniously turned the discourse to the
recent abduction of Donna Violetta, with the offer of rendering his new
employer all the services in his power to regain his bride.
"That thou mayest know all thou hast undertaken," rejoined Don Camillo,
"listen, Jacopo, and I will conceal nothing from thy shrewdness."
The Duke of Sant' Agata now briefly, but explicitly, laid bare to his
companion all his own views and measures with respect to her he loved,
and all those events with which the reader has already become
acquainted.
The Bravo gave great attention to the minutest parts of the detail, and
more than once, as the other proceeded, he smiled to himself, like a man
who was able to trace the secret means by which this or that intrigue
had been effected. The whole was just related, when the sound of a
footstep announced the return of Gino.