All Rome was astir!--from St. Angelo to the Capitol, windows, balconies,
roofs, were crowded with animated thousands. Only here and there, in the
sullen quarters of the Colonna, the Orsini, and the Savelli, reigned a
death-like solitude and a dreary gloom. In those fortifications, rather
than streets, not even the accustomed tread of the barbarian sentinel
was heard. The gates closed--the casements barred--the grim silence
around--attested the absence of the Barons. They had left the city so
soon as they had learned the certain approach of Rienzi. In the villages
and castles of the Campagna, surrounded by their mercenaries, they
awaited the hour when the people, weary of their idol, should welcome
back even those ferocious Iconoclasts.
With these exceptions, all Rome was astir! Triumphal arches of drapery,
wrought with gold and silver, raised at every principal vista, were
inscribed with mottoes of welcome and rejoicing. At frequent intervals
stood youths and maidens, with baskets of flowers and laurels. High
above the assembled multitudes--from the proud tower of Hadrian--from
the turrets of the Capitol--from the spires of the sacred buildings
dedicated to Apostle and to Saint--floated banners as for a victory.
Rome once more opened her arms to receive her Tribune!
Mingled with the crowd--disguised by his large mantle--hidden by the
pressure of the throng--his person, indeed, forgotten by most--and, in
the confusion of the moment, heeded by none--stood Adrian Colonna! He
had not been able to conquer his interest for the brother of Irene.
Solitary amidst his fellow-citizens, he stood--the only one of the proud
race of Colonna who witnessed the triumph of the darling of the people.
“They say he has grown large in his prison,” said one of the bystanders;
“he was lean enough when he came by daybreak out of the Church of St.
Angelo!”
“Ay,” said another, a little man with a shrewd, restless eye, “they say
truly; I saw him take leave of the Legate.”
Every eye was turned to the last speaker; he became at once a personage
of importance. “Yes,” continued the little man with an elated and
pompous air, “as soon, d’ye see, as he had prevailed on Messere
Brettone, and Messere Arimbaldo, the brothers of Fra Moreale, to
accompany him from Perugia to Monte Fiascone, he went at once to the
Legate d’Albornoz, who was standing in the open air conversing with his
captains. A crowd followed. I was one of them; and the Tribune nodded
at me--ay, that did he!--and so, with his scarlet cloak, and his scarlet
cap, he faced the proud Cardinal with a pride greater than his own.
‘Monsignore,’ said he, ‘though you accord me neither money nor arms, to
meet the dangers of the road and brave the ambush of the Barons, I
am prepared to depart. Senator of Rome, his Holiness hath made me:
according to custom, I pray you, Monsignore, forthwith to confirm the
rank.’ I would you could have seen how the proud Spaniard stared, and
blushed, and frowned; but he bit his lip, and said little.”
“And confirmed Rienzi Senator?”
“Yes; and blessed him, and bade him depart.”
“Senator!” said a stalwart but grey-haired giant with folded arms; “I
like not a title that has been borne by a patrician. I fear me, in the
new title he will forget the old.”
“Fie, Cecco del Vecchio, you were always a grumbler!” said a merchant
of cloth, whose commodity the ceremonial had put in great request.
“Fie!--for my part, I think Senator a less new-fangled title than
Tribune. I hope there will be feasting enow, at last. Rome has been long
dull. A bad time for trade, I warrant me!”
The artisan grinned scornfully. He was one of those who distinguished
between the middle class and the working, and he loathed a merchant as
much as he did a noble. “The day wears,” said the little man; “he must
be here anon. The Senator’s lady, and all his train, have gone forth to
meet him these two hours.”
Scarce were these words uttered, when the crowd to the right swayed
restlessly; and presently a horseman rode rapidly through the street.
“Way there! Keep back! Way--make way for the Most Illustrious the
Senator of Rome!”
The crowd became hushed--then murmuring--then hushed again. From balcony
and casement stretched the neck of every gazer. The tramp of steeds was
heard at a distance--the sound of clarion and trumpet;--then, gleaming
through the distant curve of the streets, was seen the wave of the
gonfalons--then, the glitter of spears--and then from the whole
multitude, as from one voice, arose the shout,--“He comes! he comes!”
Adrian shrunk yet more backward amongst the throng; and, leaning against
the wall of one of the houses, contemplated the approaching pageant.
First came, six abreast, the procession of Roman horsemen who had gone
forth to meet the Senator, bearing boughs of olive in their hands; each
hundred preceded by banners, inscribed with the words, “Liberty and
Peace restored.” As these passed the group by Adrian, each more popular
citizen of the cavalcade was recognised, and received with loud shouts.
By the garb and equipment of the horsemen, Adrian saw that they belonged
chiefly to the traders of Rome; a race who, he well knew, unless
strangely altered, valued liberty only as a commercial speculation. “A
vain support these,” thought the Colonna;--“what next?” on, then, came
in glittering armour the German mercenaries, hired by the gold of the
Brothers of Provence, in number two hundred and fifty, and previously
in the pay of Malatesta of Rimini;--tall, stern, sedate,
disciplined,--eyeing the crowd with a look, half of barbarian wonder,
half of insolent disdain. No shout of gratulation welcomed these sturdy
strangers; it was evident that their aspect cast a chill over the
assembly.
“Shame!” growled Cecco del Vecchio, audibly. “Has the people’s friend
need of the swords which guard an Orsini or a Malatesta?--shame!”
No voice this time silenced the huge malcontent.
“His only real defence against the Barons,” thought Adrian, “if he pay
them well! But their number is not sufficient!”
Next came two hundred fantassins, or foot-soldiers, of Tuscany, with the
corselets and arms of the heavy-armed soldiery--a gallant company, and
whose cheerful looks and familiar bearing appeared to sympathise
with the crowd. And in truth they did so,--for they were Tuscans,
and therefore lovers of freedom. In them, too, the Romans seemed to
recognise natural and legitimate allies,--and there was a general cry of
“Vivano i bravi Toscani!”
“Poor defence!” thought the more sagacious Colonna; “the Barons can awe,
and the mob corrupt them.”
Next came a file of trumpeters and standard-bearers;--and now the sound
of the music was drowned by shouts, which seemed to rise simultaneously
as from every quarter of the city;--“Rienzi! Rienzi!--Welcome,
welcome!--Liberty and Rienzi! Rienzi and the Good Estate!” Flowers
dropped on his path, kerchiefs and banners waved from every
house;--tears might be seen coursing, unheeded, down bearded
cheeks;--youth and age were kneeling together, with uplifted hands,
invoking blessings on the head of the Restored. On he came the
Senator-Tribune--“the Phoenix to his pyre!”
Robed in scarlet, that literally blazed with gold, his proud head bared
in the sun, and bending to the saddle bow, Rienzi passed slowly through
the throng. Not in the flush of that hour were visible, on his glorious
countenance, the signs of disease and care: the very enlargement of his
proportions gave a greater majesty to his mien. Hope sparkled in his
eye--triumph and empire sat upon his brow. The crowd could not contain
themselves; they pressed forward, each upon each, anxious to catch the
glance of his eye, to touch the hem of his robe. He himself was deeply
affected by their joy. He halted; with faltering and broken words,
he attempted to address them. “I am repaid,” he said,--“repaid for
all;--may I live to make you happy!”
The crowd parted again--the Senator moved on--again the crowd closed
in. Behind the Tribune, to their excited imagination, seemed to move the
very goddess of ancient Rome.
Upon a steed, caparisoned with cloth of gold;--in snow-white robes,
studded with gems that flashed back the day,--came the beautiful and
regal Nina. The memory of her pride, her ostentation, all forgotten in
that moment, she was scarce less welcome, scarce less idolized, than her
lord. And her smile all radiant with joy--her lip quivering with proud
and elate emotion,--never had she seemed at once so born alike for love
and for command;--a Zenobia passing through the pomp of Rome,--not a
captive, but a queen.
But not upon that stately form riveted the gaze of Adrian--pale,
breathless, trembling, he clung to the walls against which he leaned.
Was it a dream? Had the dead revived? Or was it his own--his living
Irene--whose soft and melancholy loveliness shone sadly by the side of
Nina--a star beside the moon? The pageant faded from his eyes--all grew
dim and dark. For a moment he was insensible. When he recovered, the
crowd was hurrying along, confused and blent with the mighty stream
that followed the procession. Through the moving multitude he caught the
graceful form of Irene, again snatched by the closing standards of the
procession from his view. His blood rushed back from his heart through
every vein. He was as a man who for years had been in a fearful trance,
and who is suddenly awakened to the light of heaven.
One of that mighty throng remained motionless with Adrian. It was Cecco
del Vecchio.
“He did not see me,” muttered the smith to himself; “old friends are
forgotten now! Well, well, Cecco del Vecchio hates tyrants still--no
matter what their name, nor how smoothly they are disguised. He did not
see ME! Umph!”