The Council was broken up--Rienzi hastened to his own apartments.
Meeting Villani by the way, he pressed the youth’s hand affectionately.
“You have saved Rome and me from great peril,” said he; “the saints
reward you!” Without tarrying for Villani’s answer, he hurried on. Nina,
anxious and perturbed, awaited him in their chamber.
“Not a-bed yet?” said he: “fie, Nina, even thy beauty will not stand
these vigils.”
“I could not rest till I had seen thee. I hear (all Rome has heard it
ere this) that thou hast seized Walter de Montreal, and that he will
perish by the headsman.”
“The first robber that ever died so brave a death,” returned Rienzi,
slowly unrobing himself.
“Cola, I have never crossed your schemes,--your policy, even by a
suggestion. Enough for me to triumph in their success, to mourn for
their failure. Now, I ask thee one request--spare me the life of this
man.”
“Nina--”
“Hear me,--for thee I speak! Despite his crimes, his valour and his
genius have gained him admirers, even amongst his foes. Many a prince,
many a state that secretly rejoices at his fall, will affect horror
against his judge. Hear me farther. His brothers aided your return;
the world will term you ungrateful. His brothers lent you monies, the
world--(out on it!)--will term you--”
“Hold!” interrupted the Senator. “All that thou sayest, my mind
forestalled. But thou knowest me--to thee I have no disguise. No compact
can bind Montreal’s faith--no mercy win his gratitude. Before his red
right hand truth and justice are swept away. If I condemn Montreal I
incur disgrace and risk danger--granted. If I release him, ere the first
showers of April, the chargers of the Northmen will neigh in the halls
of the Capitol. Which shall I hazard in this alternative, myself or
Rome? Ask me no more--to bed, to bed!”
“Couldst thou read my forebodings, Cola, mystic--gloomy--unaccountable?”
“Forebodings!--I have mine,” answered Rienzi, sadly, gazing on space,
as if his thoughts peopled it with spectres. Then, raising his eyes to
Heaven, he said with that fanatical energy which made much both of his
strength and weakness--“Lord, mine at least not the sin of Saul! the
Amalekite shall not be saved!”
While Rienzi enjoyed a short, troubled, and restless sleep, over which
Nina watched--unslumbering, anxious, tearful, and oppressed with dark
and terrible forewarnings--the accuser was more happy than the judge.
The last thoughts that floated before the young mind of Angelo Villani,
ere wrapped in sleep, were bright and sanguine. He felt no honourable
remorse that he had entrapped the confidence of another--he felt only
that his scheme had prospered, that his mission had been fulfilled.
The grateful words of Rienzi rang in his ear, and hopes of fortune and
power, beneath the sway of the Roman Senator, lulled him into slumber,
and coloured all his dreams.
Scarce, however, had he been two hours asleep, ere he was wakened by one
of the attendants of the palace, himself half awake. “Pardon me, Messere
Villani,” said he, “but there is a messenger below from the good Sister
Ursula; he bids thee haste instantly to the Convent--she is sick unto
death, and has tidings that crave thy immediate presence.”
Angelo, whose morbid susceptibility as to his parentage was ever excited
by vague but ambitious hopes--started up, dressed hurriedly, and joining
the messenger below, repaired to the Convent. In the Court of the
Capitol, and by the Staircase of the Lion, was already heard the noise
of the workmen, and looking back, Villani beheld the scaffold, hung with
black--sleeping cloudlike in the grey light of dawn--at the same time,
the bell of the Capitol tolled heavily. A pang shot athwart him. He
hurried on;--despite the immature earliness of the hour, he met groups
of either sex, hastening along the streets to witness the execution
of the redoubted Captain of the Grand Company. The Convent of the
Augustines was at the farthest extremity of that city, even then so
extensive, and the red light upon the hilltops already heralded the
rising sun, ere the young man reached the venerable porch. His name
obtained him instant admittance.
“Heaven grant,” said an old Nun, who conducted him through a long and
winding passage, “that thou mayst bring comfort to the sick sister: she
has pined for thee grievously since matins.”
In a cell set apart for the reception of visitors (from the
outward world), to such of the Sisterhood as received the necessary
dispensation, sate the aged Nun. Angelo had only seen her once since his
return to Rome, and since then disease had made rapid havoc on her form
and features. And now, in her shroudlike garments and attenuated frame,
she seemed by the morning light as a spectre whom day had surprised
above the earth. She approached the youth, however, with a motion more
elastic and rapid than seemed possible to her worn and ghastly form.
“Thou art come,” she said. “Well, well! This morning after matins, my
confessor, an Augustine, who alone knows the secrets of my life, took
me aside, and told me that Walter de Montreal had been seized by the
Senator--that he was adjudged to die, and that one of the Augustine
brotherhood had been sent for to attend his last hours--is it so?”
“Thou wert told aright,” said Angelo, wonderingly. “The man at whose
name thou wert wont to shudder--against whom thou hast so often warned
me--will die at sunrise.”
“So soon!--so soon!--Oh, Mother of Mercy!--fly! thou art about the
person of the Senator, thou hast high favour with him; fly! down on thy
knees, and as thou hopest for God’s grace, rise not till thou hast won
the Provencal’s life.”
“She raves,” muttered Angelo, with white lips.
“I do not rave,--boy!” screeched the Sister, wildly, “know that my
daughter was his leman. He disgraced our house,--a house haughtier than
his own. Sinner that I was, I vowed revenge. His boy--they had only
one!--was brought up in a robber’s camp;--a life of bloodshed--a death
of doom--a futurity of hell--were before him. I plucked the child from
such a fate--I bore him away--I told the father he was dead--I placed
him in the path to honourable fortunes. May my sin be forgiven me!
Angelo Villani, thou art that child;--Walter de Montreal is thy father.
But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shudder at the vindictive
thoughts I once nourished. Perhaps--”
“Sinner and accursed!” interrupted Villani, with a loud shout:--“sinner
and accursed thou art indeed! Know that it was I who betrayed thy
daughter’s lover!--by the son’s treason dies the father!”
Not a moment more did he tarry: he waited not to witness the effect
his words produced. As one frantic--as one whom a fiend possesses
or pursues--he rushed from the Convent--he flew through the desolate
streets. The death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon his ear.
Every sound seemed to him like the curse of God; on--on--he passed the
more deserted quarter--crowds swept before him--he was mingled with
the living stream, delayed, pushed back--thousands on thousands around,
before him. Breathless, gasping, he still pressed on--he forced his
way--he heard not--he saw not--all was like a dream. Up burst the sun
over the distant hills!--the bell ceased! From right to left he pushed
aside the crowd--his strength was as a giant’s. He neared the fatal
spot. A dead hush lay like a heavy air over the multitude. He heard
a voice, as he pressed along, deep and clear--it was the voice of his
father!--it ceased--the audience breathed heavily--they murmured--they
swayed to and fro. On, on, went Angelo Villani. The guards of the
Senator stopped his way;--he dashed aside their pikes--he eluded their
grasp--he pierced the armed barrier--he stood on the Place of the
Capitol. “Hold, hold!” he would have cried--but horror struck him dumb.
He beheld the gleaming axe--he saw the bended neck. Ere another breath
passed his lips, a ghastly and trunkless face was raised on high--Walter
de Montreal was no more!
Villani saw--swooned not--shrunk not--breathed not!--but he turned his
eyes from that lifted head, dropping gore, to the balcony, in which,
according to custom, sate, in solemn pomp, the Senator of Rome--and the
face of that young man was as the face of a demon!
“Ha!” said he, muttering to himself, and recalling the words of Rienzi
seven years before--“Blessed art thou who hast no blood of kindred to
avenge!”