As Adrian turned from the palace of his guardian, and bent his way in
the direction of the Forum, he came somewhat unexpectedly upon Raimond,
bishop of Orvietto, who, mounted upon a low palfrey, and accompanied
by some three or four of his waiting-men, halted abruptly when he
recognised the young noble.
“Ah, my son! it is seldom that I see thee: how fares it with
thee?--well? So, so! I rejoice to hear it. Alas! what a state of society
is ours, when compared to the tranquil pleasures of Avignon! There,
all men who, like us, are fond of the same pursuits, the same studies,
deliciae musarum, hum! hum! (the Bishop was proud of an occasional
quotation, right or wrong), are brought easily and naturally together.
But here we scarcely dare stir out of our houses, save upon great
occasions. But, talking of great occasions, and the Muses, reminds me of
our good Rienzi’s invitation to the Lateran: of course you will attend;
‘tis a mighty knotty piece of Latin he proposes to solve--so I hear, at
least; very interesting to us, my son,--very!”
“It is tomorrow,” answered Adrian. “Yes, assuredly; I will be there.”
“And, harkye, my son,” said the Bishop, resting his hand affectionately
on Adrian’s shoulder, “I have reason to hope that he will remind our
poor citizens of the Jubilee for the year Fifty, and stir them towards
clearing the road of the brigands: a necessary injunction, and one to be
heeded timeously; for who will come here for absolution when he stands
a chance of rushing unannealed upon purgatory by the way? You have heard
Rienzi,--ay? quite a Cicero--quite! Well, Heaven bless you, my son! You
will not fail?”
“Nay, not I.”
“Yet, stay--a word with you: just suggest to all whom you may meet
the advisability of a full meeting; it looks well for the city to show
respect to letters.”
“To say nothing of the Jubilee,” added Adrian, smiling.
“Ah, to say nothing of the Jubilee--very good! Adieu for the present!”
And the Bishop, resettling himself on his saddle, ambled solemnly on to
visit his various friends, and press them to the meeting.
Meanwhile, Adrian continued his course till he had passed the Capitol,
the Arch of Severus, the crumbling columns of the fane of Jupiter,
and found himself amidst the long grass, the whispering reeds, and the
neglected vines, that wave over the now-vanished pomp of the Golden
House of Nero. Seating himself on a fallen pillar--by that spot where
the traveller descends to the (so called) Baths of Livia--he looked
impatiently to the sun, as to blame it for the slowness of its march.
Not long, however, had he to wait before a light step was heard crushing
the fragrant grass; and presently through the arching vines gleamed a
face that might well have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.
“My beautiful! my Irene!--how shall I thank thee!”
It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself to observe upon
Irene’s face a sadness that did not usually cloud it in his presence.
Her voice, too, trembled; her words seemed constrained and cold.
“Have I offended thee?” he asked; “or what less misfortune hath
occurred?”
Irene raised her eyes to her lover’s, and said, looking at him
earnestly, “Tell me, my Lord, in sober and simple truth, tell me, would
it grieve thee much were this to be our last meeting?”
Paler than the marble at his feet grew the dark cheek of Adrian. It was
some moments ere he could reply, and he did so then with a forced smile
and a quivering lip.
“Jest not so, Irene! Last!--that is not a word for us!”
“But hear me, my Lord--”
“Why so cold?--call me Adrian!--friend!--lover! or be dumb!”
“Well, then, my soul’s soul! my all of hope! my life’s life!” exclaimed
Irene, passionately, “hear me! I fear that we stand at this moment upon
some gulf whose depth I see not, but which may divide us for ever! Thou
knowest the real nature of my brother, and dost not misread him as many
do. Long has he planned, and schemed, and communed with himself, and,
feeling his way amidst the people, prepared the path to some great
design. But now--(thou wilt not betray--thou wilt not injure him?--he is
thy friend!)”
“And thy brother! I would give my life for his! Say on!”
“But now, then,” resumed Irene, “the time for that enterprise, whatever
it be, is coming fast. I know not of its exact nature, but I know that
it is against the nobles--against thy order--against thy house itself!
If it succeed--oh, Adrian! thou thyself mayst not be free from danger;
and my name, at least, will be coupled with the name of thy foes. If it
fail,--my brother, my bold brother, is swept away! He will fall a victim
to revenge or justice, call it as you will. Your kinsman may be his
judge--his executioner; and I--even if I should yet live to mourn over
the boast and glory of my humble line--could I permit myself to love,
to see, one in whose veins flowed the blood of his destroyer? Oh! I am
wretched--wretched! these thoughts make me well-nigh mad!” and, wringing
her hands bitterly, Irene sobbed aloud.
Adrian himself was struck forcibly by the picture thus presented to
him, although the alternative it embraced had often before forced itself
dimly on his mind. It was true, however, that, not seeing the schemes of
Rienzi backed by any physical power, and never yet having witnessed the
mighty force of a moral revolution, he did not conceive that any rise
to which he might instigate the people could be permanently successful:
and, as for his punishment, in that city, where all justice was the
slave of interest, Adrian knew himself powerful enough to obtain
forgiveness even for the greatest of all crimes--armed insurrection
against the nobles. As these thoughts recurred to him, he gained the
courage to console and cheer Irene. But his efforts were only partially
successful. Awakened by her fears to that consideration of the future
which hitherto she had forgotten, Irene, for the first time, seemed deaf
to the charmer’s voice.
“Alas!” said she, sadly, “even at the best, what can this love, that we
have so blindly encouraged--what can it end in? Thou must not wed with
one like me; and I! how foolish I have been!”
“Recall thy senses then, Irene,” said Adrian, proudly, partly perhaps
in anger, partly in his experience of the sex. “Love another, and more
wisely, if thou wilt; cancel thy vows with me, and continue to think it
a crime to love, and a folly to be true!”
“Cruel!” said Irene, falteringly, and in her turn alarmed. “Dost thou
speak in earnest?”
“Tell me, ere I answer you, tell me this: come death, come anguish, come
a whole life of sorrow, as the end of this love, wouldst thou yet repent
that thou hast loved? If so, thou knowest not the love that I feel for
thee.”
“Never! never can I repent!” said Irene, falling upon Adrian’s neck;
“forgive me!”
“But is there, in truth,” said Adrian, a little while after this
lover-like quarrel and reconciliation, “is there, in truth, so marked
a difference between thy brother’s past and his present bearing? How
knowest thou that the time for action is so near?”
“Because now he sits closeted whole nights with all ranks of men; he
shuts up his books,--he reads no more,--but, when alone, walks to and
fro his chamber, muttering to himself. Sometimes he pauses before the
calendar, which of late he has fixed with his own hand against the wall,
and passes his finger over the letters, till he comes to some chosen
date, and then he plays with his sword and smiles. But two nights since,
arms, too, in great number were brought to the house; and I heard the
chief of the men who brought them, a grim giant, known well amongst the
people, say, as he wiped his brow,--‘These will see work soon!’”
“Arms! Are you sure of that?” said Adrian, anxiously. “Nay, then, there
is more in these schemes than I imagined! But (observing Irene’s gaze
bent fearfully on him as his voice changed, he added, more gaily)--but
come what may, believe me--my beautiful! my adored! that while I live,
thy brother shall not suffer from the wrath he may provoke,--nor I,
though he forget our ancient friendship, cease to love thee less.”
“Signora! Signora! child! it is time! we must go!” said the shrill voice
of Benedetta, now peering through the foliage. “The working men pass
home this way; I see them approaching.”
The lovers parted; for the first time the serpent had penetrated into
their Eden,--they had conversed, they had thought, of other things than
Love.