THE CONSPIRACY.
“CONFUSION!” exclaimed Parozzi, a Venetian nobleman of the first rank, as
he paced his chamber with a disordered air on the morning after Matteo’s
murder; “now all curses light upon the villain’s awkwardness; yet it
seems inconceivable to me how all this should have fallen out so
untowardly. Has any one discovered my designs? I know well that Verrino
loves Rosabella. Was it he who opposed this confounded Abellino to
Matteo, and charged him to mar my plans against her? That seems likely;
and now, when the Doge inquires who it was that employed assassins to
murder his niece, what other will be suspected than Parozzi, the
discontented lover, to whom Rosabella refused her hand, and whom Andreas
hates past hope of reconciliation? And now, having once found the
scent—Parozzi! Parozzi! should the crafty Andreas get an insight into
your plans, should he learn that you have placed yourself at the head of
a troop of hare-brained youths—hare-brained may I well call children—who,
in order to avoid the rod, set fire to their paternal mansions. Parozzi,
should all this be revealed to Andreas—?”
Here his reflections were interrupted. Memmo, Falieri, and Contarino
entered the room, three young Venetians of the highest rank, Parozzi’s
inseparable companions, men depraved both in mind and body, spendthrifts,
voluptuaries, well known to every usurer in Venice, and owing more than
their paternal inheritance would ever admit of their paying.
“Why, how is this, Parozzi?” cried Memmo as he entered, a wretch whose
every feature exhibited marks of that libertinism to which his life had
been dedicated; “I can scarce recover myself from my astonishment. For
Heaven’s sake, is this report true? Did you really hire Matteo to murder
the Doge’s niece?”
“I?” exclaimed Parozzi, and hastily turned away to hide the deadly
paleness which overspread his countenance; “why should you suppose that
any such designs—surely, Memmo, you are distracted.”
_Memmo_.—By my soul, I speak but the plain matter of fact. Nay, only ask
Falieri; he can tell you more.
_Falieri_.—Faith, it is certain, Parozzi, that Lomellino has declared to
the Doge as a truth beyond doubting that you, and none but you, were the
person who instigated Matteo to attempt Rosabella’s life.
_Parozzi_.—And I tell you again that Lomellino knows not what he says.
_Contarino_.—Well, well, only be upon your guard. Andreas is a terrible
fellow to deal with.
_Falieri_.—_He_ terrible. I tell you he is the most contemptible
blockhead that the universe can furnish! Courage perhaps he possesses,
but of brains not an atom.
_Contarino_.—And _I_ tell you that Andreas is as brave as a lion, and as
crafty as a fox.
_Falieri_.—Pshaw! pshaw! Everything would go to rack and ruin were it
not for the wiser heads of this triumvirate of counsellors, whom Heaven
confound! Deprive him of Paolo Manfrone, Conari, and Lomellino, and the
Doge would stand there looking as foolish as a schoolboy who was going to
be examined and had forgotten his lesson.
_Parozzi_.—Falieri is in the right.
_Memmo_.—Quite, quite.
_Falieri_.—And then Andreas is as proud as a beggar grown rich and
dressed in his first suit of embroidery. By St. Anthony, he is become
quite insupportable. Do you not observe how he increases the number of
his attendants daily?
_Memmo_.—Nay, that is an undoubted fact.
_Contarino_.—And then, to what an unbounded extent has he carried his
influence. The Signoria, the Quaranti, the Procurators of St. Mark, the
Avocatori, all think and act exactly as it suits the Doge’s pleasure and
convenience! Every soul of them depends as much on that one man’s honour
and caprices as puppets do who nod or shake their wooden heads just as
the fellow behind the curtain thinks proper to move the wires.
_Parozzi_.—And yet the populace idolises this Andreas.
_Memmo_.—Ay, that is the worst part of the story.
_Falieri_.—But never credit me again if he does not experience a reverse
of fortune speedily.
_Contarino_.—That might happen would we but set our shoulders to the
wheel stoutly. But what do we do? We pass our time in taverns; drink
and game, and throw ourselves headlong into such an ocean of debts, that
the best swimmer must sink at last. Let us resolve to make the attempt.
Let us seek recruits on all sides; let us labour with all our might and
main. Things must change, or if they do not, take my word for it, my
friends, this world is no longer a world for us.
_Memmo_.—Nay, it’s a melancholy truth, that during the last half-year my
creditors have been ready to beat my door down with knocking. I am
awakened out of my sleep in the morning, and lulled to rest again at
night with no other music than their eternal clamour.
_Parozzi_.—Ha! ha! ha! As for me, I need not tell you how I am suited.
_Falieri_.—Had we been less extravagant, we might at this moment have
been sitting quietly in our palaces; but as things stand now—
_Parozzi_.—Well, as things stand now—I verily believe that Falieri is
going to moralise.
_Contarino_.—That is ever the way with old sinners when they have lost
the power to sin any longer. Then they are ready enough to weep over
their past life, and talk loudly about repentance and reformation. Now,
for my own part, I am perfectly well satisfied with my wanderings from
the common beaten paths of morality and prudence. They serve to convince
me that I am not one of your every-day men, who sit cramped up in the
chimney-corner, lifeless, phlegmatic, and shudder when they hear of any
extraordinary occurrence. Nature evidently has intended me to be a
libertine, and I am determined to fulfil my destination. Why, if spirits
like ours were not produced every now and then, the world would
absolutely go fast asleep, but we rouse it by deranging the old order of
things, force mankind to quicken their snail’s pace, furnish a million of
idlers with riddles which they puzzle their brains about without being
able to comprehend, infuse some hundreds of new ideas into the heads of
the great multitude, and, in short, are as useful to the world as
tempests are, which dissipate those exhalations with which Nature
otherwise would poison herself.
_Falieri_.—Excellent sophistry, by my honour. Why, Contarino, ancient
Rome has had an irreparable loss in not having numbered you among her
orators. It is a pity, though, that there should be so little that’s
solid wrapped up in so many fine-sounding words. Now learn that while
you, with this rare talent of eloquence, have been most unmercifully
wearing out the patience of your good-natured hearers, Falieri has been
in _action_. The Cardinal Gonzaga is discontented with the
government—Heaven knows what Andreas has done to make him so vehemently
his enemy—but, in short, Gonzaga now belongs to our party.
_Parozzi_ (with astonishment and delight).—Falieri, are you in your
senses? The Cardinal Gonzaga—?
_Falieri_.—Is ours, and ours both body and soul. I confess I was first
obliged to rhodomontade a good deal to him about our patriotism, our
glorious designs, our love for freedom, and so forth; in short, Gonzaga
is a hypocrite, and therefore is Gonzaga the fitter for us.
_Contarino_ (clasping Falieri’s hand).—Bravo, my friend! Venice shall
see a second edition of Catiline’s conspiracy. Now, then, it is _my_
turn to speak, for I have not been idle since we parted. In truth, I
have as yet _caught_ nothing, but I have made myself master of an
all-powerful net, with which I doubt not to capture the best half of
Venice. You all know the Marchioness Olympia?
_Parozzi_.—Does not each of us keep a list of the handsomest women in the
Republic, and can we have forgotten number one?
_Falieri_.—Olympia and Rosabella are the goddesses of Venice; our youths
burn incense on no other altars.
_Contarino_.—Olympia is my own.
_Falieri_.—How?
_Parozzi_.—Olympia?
_Contarino_.—Why, how now? Why stare ye as had I prophesied to you that
the skies were going to fall? I tell you Olympia’s heart is mine, and
that I possess her entire and most intimate confidence. Our connection
must remain a profound secret, but depend on it, whatever _I_ wish _she_
wishes also; and you know she can make half the nobility in Venice dance
to the sound of her pipe, let her play what tune she pleases.
_Parozzi_.—Contarino, you are our master.
_Contarino_.—And you had not the least suspicion how powerful an ally I
was labouring to procure for you?
_Parozzi_.—I must blush for myself while I listen to you, since as yet I
have done nothing. Yet this I must say in my excuse: Had Matteo, bribed
by my gold, accomplished Rosabella’s murder, the Doge would have been
robbed of that chain with which he holds the chief men in Venice attached
to his government. Andreas would have no merit, were Rosabella once
removed. The most illustrious families would care no longer for his
friendship with their hopes of a connection with him by means of his
niece buried in her grave. Rosabella will one day be the Doge’s heiress.
_Memmo_.—All that I can do for you in this business is to provide you
with pecuniary supplies. My old miserable uncle, whose whole property
becomes mine at his death, has brimful coffers, and the old miser dies
whenever I say the word.
_Falieri_.—You have suffered him to live too long already.
_Memmo_.—Why, I never have been able to make up my mind entirely to—You
would scarcely believe it, friends, but at times I am so hypochondriac,
that I could almost fancy I feel twinges of conscience.
_Contarino_.—Indeed. Then take my advice, go into a monastery.
_Memmo_.—Our care first must be to find out our old acquaintances,
Matteo’s companions: yet, having hitherto always transacted business with
them through their captain, I know not where they are to be met with.
_Parozzi_.—As soon as they are found, their first employment must be the
removal of the Doge’s trio of advisers.
_Contarino_.—That were an excellent idea, if it were as easily done as
said. Well, then, my friends, this principal point at least is decided.
Either we will bury our debts under the ruins of the existing
constitution of the Republic, or make Andreas a gift of our heads towards
strengthening the walls of the building. In either case, we shall at
least obtain quiet. Necessity, with her whip of serpents, has driven us
to the very highest point of her rock, whence we must save ourselves by
some act of extraordinary daring, or be precipitated on the opposite side
into the abyss of shame and eternal oblivion. The next point to be
considered is, how we may best obtain supplies for our necessary
expenses, and induce others to join with us in our plans. For this
purpose we must use every artifice to secure in our interests the
courtesans of the greatest celebrity in Venice. What _we_ should be
unable to effect by every power of persuasion, banditti by their daggers,
and princes by their treasuries, can one of those Phrynes accomplish with
a single look. Where the terrors of the scaffold are without effect, and
the exhortations of the priests are heard with coldness, a wanton look
and a tender promise often perform wonders. The bell which sounded the
hour of assignation has often rang the knell of the most sacred
principles and most steadfast resolutions. But should you either fail to
gain the mastery over the minds of these women, or fear to be yourselves
entangled in the nets which you wish to spread for others, in these cases
you must have recourse to the holy father confessors. Flatter the pride
of these insolent friars; paint for them upon the blank leaf of futurity
bishops’ mitres, patriarchal missions, the hats of cardinals, and the
keys of St. Peter; my life upon it, they will spring at the bait, and you
will have them completely at your disposal. These hypocrites who govern
the consciences of the bigoted Venetians, hold man and woman, the noble
and the mendicant, the Doge and the gondolier, bound fast in the chains
of superstition, by which they can head them wheresoever it best suits
their pleasure. It will save us tons of gold in gaining over proselytes,
and keeping their consciences quiet when gained, if we can but obtain the
assistance of the confessors, whose blessings and curses pass with the
multitude for current coin. Now, then, to work, comrades, and so
farewell.