Plus que vous ne pensez ce moment est terrible.
La Harpe, “Le Comte de Warwick,” Act 3, sc. 5.
(The moment is more terrible than you think.)
For the first time since their union, Zanoni and Viola were
separated,--Zanoni went to Rome on important business. “It was,” he
said, “but for a few days;” and he went so suddenly that there was
little time either for surprise or sorrow. But first parting is always
more melancholy than it need be: it seems an interruption to the
existence which Love shares with Love; it makes the heart feel what a
void life will be when the last parting shall succeed, as succeed it
must, the first. But Viola had a new companion; she was enjoying that
most delicious novelty which ever renews the youth and dazzles the eyes
of woman. As the mistress--the wife--she leans on another; from another
are reflected her happiness, her being,--as an orb that takes light from
its sun. But now, in turn, as the mother, she is raised from dependence
into power; it is another that leans on her,--a star has sprung into
space, to which she herself has become the sun!
A few days,--but they will be sweet through the sorrow! A few
days,--every hour of which seems an era to the infant, over whom bend
watchful the eyes and the heart. From its waking to its sleep, from
its sleep to its waking, is a revolution in Time. Every gesture to be
noted,--every smile to seem a new progress into the world it has come
to bless! Zanoni has gone,--the last dash of the oar is lost, the last
speck of the gondola has vanished from the ocean-streets of Venice! Her
infant is sleeping in the cradle at the mother’s feet; and she thinks
through her tears what tales of the fairy-land, that spreads far and
wide, with a thousand wonders, in that narrow bed, she shall have to
tell the father! Smile on, weep on, young mother! Already the fairest
leaf in the wild volume is closed for thee, and the invisible finger
turns the page!
....
By the bridge of the Rialto stood two Venetians--ardent Republicans and
Democrats--looking to the Revolution of France as the earthquake which
must shatter their own expiring and vicious constitution, and give
equality of ranks and rights to Venice.
“Yes, Cottalto,” said one; “my correspondent of Paris has promised to
elude all obstacles, and baffle all danger. He will arrange with us the
hour of revolt, when the legions of France shall be within hearing of
our guns. One day in this week, at this hour, he is to meet me here.
This is but the fourth day.”
He had scarce said these words before a man, wrapped in his roquelaire,
emerging from one of the narrow streets to the left, halted opposite
the pair, and eying them for a few moments with an earnest scrutiny,
whispered, “Salut!”
“Et fraternite,” answered the speaker.
“You, then, are the brave Dandolo with whom the Comite deputed me to
correspond? And this citizen--”
“Is Cottalto, whom my letters have so often mentioned.” (I know not if
the author of the original MSS. designs, under these names, to introduce
the real Cottalto and the true Dandolo, who, in 1797, distinguished
themselves by their sympathy with the French, and their democratic
ardor.--Ed.)
“Health and brotherhood to him! I have much to impart to you both. I
will meet you at night, Dandolo. But in the streets we may be observed.”
“And I dare not appoint my own house; tyranny makes spies of our very
walls. But the place herein designated is secure;” and he slipped an
address into the hand of his correspondent.
“To-night, then, at nine! Meanwhile I have other business.” The man
paused, his colour changed, and it was with an eager and passionate
voice that he resumed,--
“Your last letter mentioned this wealthy and mysterious visitor,--this
Zanoni. He is still at Venice?”
“I heard that he had left this morning; but his wife is still here.”
“His wife!--that is well!”
“What know you of him? Think you that he would join us? His wealth would
be--”
“His house, his address,--quick!” interrupted the man.
“The Palazzo di --, on the Grand Canal.”
“I thank you,--at nine we meet.”
The man hurried on through the street from which he had emerged; and,
passing by the house in which he had taken up his lodging (he had
arrived at Venice the night before), a woman who stood by the door
caught his arm.
“Monsieur,” she said in French, “I have been watching for your return.
Do you understand me? I will brave all, risk all, to go back with you to
France,--to stand, through life or in death, by my husband’s side!”
“Citoyenne, I promised your husband that, if such your choice, I would
hazard my own safety to aid it. But think again! Your husband is one of
the faction which Robespierre’s eyes have already marked; he cannot
fly. All France is become a prison to the ‘suspect.’ You do not endanger
yourself by return. Frankly, citoyenne, the fate you would share may be
the guillotine. I speak (as you know by his letter) as your husband bade
me.”
“Monsieur, I will return with you,” said the woman, with a smile upon
her pale face.
“And yet you deserted your husband in the fair sunshine of the
Revolution, to return to him amidst its storms and thunder,” said the
man, in a tone half of wonder, half rebuke.
“Because my father’s days were doomed; because he had no safety but in
flight to a foreign land; because he was old and penniless, and had none
but me to work for him; because my husband was not then in danger,
and my father was! HE is dead--dead! My husband is in danger now. The
daughter’s duties are no more,--the wife’s return!”
“Be it so, citoyenne; on the third night I depart. Before then you may
retract your choice.”
“Never!”
A dark smile passed over the man’s face.
“O guillotine!” he said, “how many virtues hast thou brought to light!
Well may they call thee ‘A Holy Mother!’ O gory guillotine!”
He passed on muttering to himself, hailed a gondola, and was soon amidst
the crowded waters of the Grand Canal.