THE OPINIONS OF DOCTOR PILLETTO.—THE STRANGER’S ACCOUNT OF
HIMSELF.—THE WELCOME OF THE SIGNORA.
At that moment the door opened, and a servant announced the arrival
of a leech, the famous Doctor Pilletto, who forthwith entered the
apartment, and advanced towards the couch on which the wounded man lay.
“Oh, doctor, do what you can for my father,” said Signora Isabella.
“I will, signora,” replied the doctor. “I will; but what are his hurts
or his disease? for I see he has been taken very badly; but why this
paleness? You appear to have lost blood.”
“I have bled, doctor, and I want you to dress my wound. I am hurt in
the side here, and but for my friend here I should have been hurt
mortally.”
“It was not a duel then?” said the doctor.
“No, no, doctor, no, no; it was an attempt at assassination, and I have
escaped the death some one with more enmity than courage had doomed
me to; but, at the same time, I am free, and one of his agents has
perished.”
“’Tis but just,” said the doctor; “but I must now see the wound; with
your good leave, we’ll strip the wounded part and apply bandages to it,
so as to secure it; after which something else must be done.”
The wounded Pollidori was stripped, and, after some exertion, the wound
was dressed, and all bleeding stopped.
“What is your candid opinion concerning my wound, doctor?” inquired the
count, “What do you think will be the result? I would be truly informed
of whatever probability of danger there may be, remote or immediate, as
the case may be; tell me, I beseech you, doctor?”
“I will, count.”
“I have those things to do which are important, and the execution of
them depends upon your answer; so do not mislead me.”
“I will not; I cannot form so clear a judgment of your case as I can
in a few days hence, when I may see the progress of the wound towards
healing; though at present I see no signs of danger, yet some may come.”
“You do not consider the wound dangerous of itself?” said the stranger.
“No, not of itself; but it is so close to a mortal part that it cannot
be considered free from danger; indeed, it may become so. A little more
on one side would have made it quickly fatal; but, as it is, if it heal
well, there will be no danger. You must keep your couch for some days.”
“That will be a lighter evil than any other,” replied the count.
“You have lost much blood, and that alone will make you very weak, and
it will take some time before you will be entirely recovered from your
present state, and then your wound will probably be healed.”
“And what you appear to think may be dangerous, is only any possible
interruption from the wound itself.”
“It does so happen sometimes from bodily infirmity, it shews itself
in healing, and the wound, which now appears healthy, may turn to
gangrene, and then the worst may be apprehended.”
“It may,” said the stranger; “but these things are only the worst that
may happen in extreme cases.”
“Exactly,” said the leech.
“And you have seen nothing in this case to induce you to anticipate any
such result as this—it is only what may happen.”
“That is all. It appears to me that all is well at present.”
“Then I think the count had better be left to himself in quiet, and he
may have a good mind upon his recovery.”
“It will be best,” said the doctor.
“I am fatigued and sleepy,” said the count; “I would be alone.
Daughter, you must entertain this gentleman as I would do were I able
to do so. Signor, the signora will do the office of hostess—excuse so
cold a welcome.”
“Name it not,” said the stranger. “I am well cared for. A welcome from
such a one is well worth the acceptance of a prince, much less that of
a stranger unknown in Venice. I thank you for it.”
“Say no more on that head,” said the count. “I came here almost a
refugee, and quite a stranger myself.”
“Will you come this way, signor,” said Signora Isabella; “we will leave
my poor father to himself, he will sleep.”
The stranger rose, and Doctor Pilletto also, both following the
signora, who led them into a separate, but splendid apartment, and
entreated them to sit down, and apologised for her own want of spirits
to entertain them suitably.
“For that matter,” said the doctor, “I am by no means surprised; for
such a mishap can never be heard of without producing lowness of
spirits.”
“And such a misfortune is always productive of grief,” said the
stranger. “Signora, say no more, I would not interfere with your grief.
I do not wish to stop it, and shall feel myself a bar to your own
feelings if you say any more. I am made welcome, and feel myself so.”
“You are, sir—-your kindness deserves no less; but I pray you tell me
how this affair occurred, in which you have been of such signal service
to my father, in saving his life?”
“To tell you that, signora, I must first tell you who and what I am.”
“I do not wish to be thought unduly curious,” replied signora.
“Not at all. I am bound to acknowledge you have a right to it, for
you have no introduction with me which usually supplies the place of
an account of who and what we are; therefore I’ll tell you, though I
cannot boast of being more than a simple chevalier of now no fortune,
having left my country because I raised my voice against the abuses of
state; therefore I am but a nameless and fortuneless stranger.”
“Many a worthy gentleman has been in such a plight before now,”
observed the doctor. “I have known many such.”
“And I am one. Not that I am without means,” added the stranger; “I
have been lucky enough to provide against such a calamity as that which
has befallen me, though not to the extent I could have wished.”
“You are fortunate, chevalier.”
“I am so far. I came but this morning to Venice; I landed here, and
agreed to meet the captain of the vessel, who promised to meet me on
the Rialto, to conduct me to some quiet and respectable change-house
where I could lodge.”
“And he met you not?”
“No. While I was waiting for him, I heard a cry for help, and found,
upon running up, the Count Pollidori beaten to the earth, beset by
three villains, who had already wounded him in the manner you have
seen; and I at that time stepped up, and, being unexpected, the men
were confused, and one of them fell, mortally wounded; and, after a
little further desperate fighting, they all fled.”
“It was fortunate you yourself were not beaten down too with such odds;
for these men are usually desperate.”
“True; but, you see, one was gone, and they could not tell how it might
be with the count—they did not know how far he might be able to join in
the fray again, and if he were to do so, there would immediately be an
equality between us, and such men do not seek such a fight.”
“Truly not, chevalier,” replied the signora—“truly not. When they are
safe and secure in their deeds of blood, they will perpetrate them; but
in fair contest such men never shine—their deeds are of darkness.”
“Most true—most true.”
“But they have a deal of ferocity,” said the stranger; “and, when they
can, will pour out blood like water; but what amazes me is, that one
like the count, your father, should have been beset by such villains.
They must have had some object to accomplish in getting rid of him by
such means.”
“Private enmity.”
“Indeed! It must be a bad state of things.”
“It is, chevalier. It is a sign of great degeneracy in the state; but
it is so. For gold you can procure the death of any man in Venice.”
“Horrible!” said the stranger. “I have heard of such things; but I
deemed them fabulous, or, at least, overrated.”
“No, no—I fear not; and yet, who could have an enmity so deep as only
to be healed by blood? and yet, the good and great have as many enemies
as the wicked, for they are always opposed to each other.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor; “good and bad are always antagonists.”
“Exactly. What, however, is the worst in these cases is, the bad very
often get the better of the good, which is the reverse of what ought to
be done; because, you see, if we are to suppose that there is a power
above that rules men’s actions, surely we might expect to see goodness
manifest in the majority of cases; whereas, we usually see, to a much
greater extent, the success of evil.”
“Not always.”
“Not always, certainly,” said the doctor; “but the exception proves
the rule. Goodness ought to be the great object of men’s lives; but
it is not; yet it ought to rule, and we must endeavour to be ruled by
it, despite the way of the world, which is often, as we daily see, the
reverse of what it ought to be.”
“But,” added the chevalier, “when ambition rules the minds of men, you
will find that all other principles give way.”
“It is so; but why, I cannot see.”
“Because ’tis the master emotion of the mind,” said the stranger.
“And ambition appears to possess the souls of those who govern, whether
for good or for evil,” said the signora. “Some are ambitious of being
rulers—some of being conquerors, and some of politicians; but they are
all moved to it by ambition.”
“Aye,” said the stranger, “the lover is ambitious of the smiles of his
mistress, though ill fortune will, now and then, deny him the good luck
to win them.”