CINTHIA’S DWELLING.
SCARCELY had Abellino achieved the bloody deed which employed every
tongue in Venice, when he changed his dress and whole appearance with so
much expedition and success as to prevent the slightest suspicion of his
being Matteo’s murderer. He quitted the gardens unquestioned, nor left
the least trace which could lead to a discovery.
He arrived at Cinthia’s dwelling. It was already evening. Cinthia
opened the door, and Abellino entered the common apartment.
“Where are the rest?” said he in a savage tone of voice whose sound made
Cinthia tremble.
“They have been asleep,” she answered, “since mid-day. Probably they
mean to go out on some pursuit to-night.” Abellino threw himself into a
chair, and seemed to be lost in thought.
“But why are you always so gloomy, Abellino?” said Cinthia, drawing near
him; “it’s that which makes you so ugly. Prithee away with those frowns;
they make your countenance look worse than nature made it?”
Abellino gave no answer.
“Really, you are enough to frighten a body! Come, now, let us be
friends, Abellino; I begin not to dislike you, and to endure your
appearance; and I don’t know but—”
“Go, wake the sleepers!” roared the bravo.
“The sleepers? Pshaw, let them sleep on, the stupid rogues. Sure you
are not afraid to be alone with me? Mercy on me, one would think I
looked as terrible as yourself? Do I? Nay, look on me, Abellino.”
Cinthia, to say the truth, was by no means an ill-looking girl; her eyes
were bright and expressive; the hair fell in shining ringlets over her
bosom; her lips were red and full, and she bowed them towards Abellino’s.
But Abellino’s were still sacred by the touch of Rosabella’s cheek. He
started from his seat, and removed, yet gently, Cinthia’s hand, which
rested on his shoulder.
“Wake the sleepers, my good girl,” said he, “I must speak with them this
moment.”
Cinthia hesitated.
“Nay, go,” said he, in a fierce voice.
Cinthia retired in silence; yet as she crossed the threshold, she stopped
for an instant and menaced him with her finger.
Abellino strode through the chamber with hasty steps, his head reclining
on his shoulder, his arms folded over his breast.
“The first step is taken,” said he to himself. “There is one moral
monster the less on earth. I have committed no sin by this murder; I
have but performed a sacred duty. Aid me, thou Great and Good, for
arduous is the task before me. Ah, should that task be gone through with
success, and Rosabella be the reward of my labours—Rosabella? What,
shall the Doge’s niece bestow on the outcast Abellino? Oh, madman that I
am to hope it, never can I reach the goal of my wishes! No, never was
there frenzy to equal mine. To attach myself at first sight to—Yet
Rosabella alone is capable of thus enchanting at first sight—Rosabella
and Valeria? To be beloved by two such women—Yet, though ’tis impossible
to attain, the striving to attain such an end is glorious. Illusions so
delightful will at least make me happy for a moment, and alas, the
wretched Abellino needs so many illusions that for a moment will make him
happy! Oh, surely, knew the world what I gladly would accomplish, the
world would both love and pity me.”
Cinthia returned; the four bravoes followed her, yawning, grumbling, and
still half asleep.
“Come, come!” said Abellino, “rouse yourselves, lads. Before I say
anything, be convinced that you are wide awake, for what I am going to
tell you is so strange that you would scarce believe it in a dream.”
They listened to him with an air of indifference and impatience.
“Why, what’s the matter now?” said Thomaso, while he stretched himself.
“Neither more nor less than that our honest, hearty, brave Matteo is
murdered.”
“What, murdered!” every one exclaimed, and gazed with looks of terror on
the bearer of this unwelcome news; while Cinthia gave a loud scream, and,
clasping her hands together, sank almost breathless into a chair.
A general silence prevailed for some time.
“Murdered!” at length repeated Thomaso, “and by whom?”
_Baluzzo_.—Where?
_Pietrino_.—What? this forenoon?
_Abellino_.—In the gardens of Dolabella, where he was found bleeding at
the feet of the Doge’s niece. Whether he fell by her hand, or by that of
one of her admirers, I cannot say.
_Cinthia_ (weeping).—Poor dear Matteo.
_Abellino_.—About this time to-morrow you will see his corpse exhibited
on the gibbet.
_Pietrino_.—What! Did any one recognise him?
_Abellino_.—Yes, yes! there’s no doubt about his trade, you may depend
on’t.
_Cinthia_.—The gibbet! Poor dear Matteo!
_Thomaso_.—This is a fine piece of work.
_Baluzzo_.—Confound the fellow, who would have thought of anything
happening so unlucky?
_Abellino_.—Why, how now? You seem to be overcome.
_Struzza_.—I cannot recover myself; surprise and terror have almost
stupefied me.
_Abellino_.—Indeed! By my life, when I heard the news I burst into
laughter. “Signor Matteo,” said I, “I wish your worship joy of your safe
arrival.”
_Thomaso_.—What?
_Struzza_.—You laughed? Hang me if I can see what there is to laugh at.
_Abellino_.—Why, surely you are not afraid of receiving what you are so
ready to bestow on others? What is your object? What can we expect as
our reward at the end of our labours except the gibbet or the rock? What
memorials of our actions shall we leave behind us, except our skeletons
dancing in the air, and the chains which rattle round them? He who
chooses to play the bravo’s part on the great theatre of the world must
not be afraid of death, whether it comes at the hands of the physician or
the executioner. Come, come, pluck up your spirits, comrades.
_Thomaso_.—That’s easy to say, but quite out of my power.
_Pietrino_.—Mercy on me, how my teeth chatter.
_Baluzzo_.—Prithee, Abellino, be composed for a moment or two, your
gaiety at a time like this is quite horrible.
_Cinthia_.—Oh, me! oh, me! Poor murdered Matteo.
_Abellino_.—Hey-day. Why, what is all this! Cinthia, my life, are you
not ashamed of being such a child? Come, let you and I renew that
conversation which my sending you to wake these gentlemen interrupted.
Sit down by me, sweetheart, and give me a kiss.
_Cinthia_.—Out upon you, monster.
_Abellino_.—What, have you altered your mind, my pretty dear? Well,
well, with all my heart, when _you_ are in the humour, perhaps _I_ may
not have the inclination.
_Baluzzo_.—Death and the devil, Abellino, is this a time for talking
nonsense? Prithee keep such trash for a fitter occasion, and let us
consider what we are to do just now.
_Pietrino_.—Nay, this is no season for trifling.
_Struzza_.—Tell us, Abellino; you are a clever fellow; what course is it
best for us to take?
_Abellino_ (after a pause).—Nothing must be done, or a great deal. One
of two things we must choose. Either we must remain _where_ we are, and
_what_ we are, murder honest men to please any rascal who will give us
gold and fair words, and make up our minds to be hung, broken on the
wheel, condemned to the galleys, burnt alive, crucified, or beheaded, at
the long run, just as it may seem best to the supreme authority; or else—
_Thomaso_.—Or else? Well?
_Abellino_.—Or else we must divide the spoils which are already in our
possession, quit the Republic, begin a new and better life, and endeavour
to make our peace with Heaven. We have already wealth enough to make it
unnecessary for us to ask how shall we get our bread? You may either buy
an estate in some foreign country, or keep _Osteria_, or engage in
commerce, or set up some trade, or, in short, do whatever you like best,
so that you do but abandon the profession of an assassin. Then we may
look out for a wife among the pretty girls of our own rank in life,
become the happy fathers of sons and daughters may eat and drink in peace
and security, and make amends by the honesty of our future lives for the
offences of our past.
_Thomaso_.—Ha! ha! ha!
_Abellino_.—What _you_ do, that will _I_ do too; I will either hang or be
broken on the wheel along with you, or become an honest man, just as you
please. Now, then, what is your decision?
_Thomaso_.—Was there ever such a stupid counsellor.
_Pietrino_.—Our decision? Nay, the point’s not very difficult to decide.
_Abellino_.—I should have thought it _had_ been.
_Thomaso_.—Without more words, then, I vote for our remaining as we are,
and carrying on our old trade; that will bring us plenty of gold, and
enable us to lead a jolly life.
_Pietrino_.—Right, lad, you speak my thoughts exactly.
_Thomaso_.—We are bravoes, it’s true; but what then? We are honest
fellows, and the devil take him who dares to say we are not. However, at
any rate, we must keep within doors for a few days, lest we should be
discovered; for I warrant you the Doge’s spies are abroad in search of us
by this. But as soon as the pursuit is over, be it our first business to
find out Matteo’s murderer, and throttle him out of hand as a warning to
all others.
_All_.—Bravo, bravissimo.
_Pietrino_.—And from this day forth I vote that Thomaso should be our
captain.
_Struzza_.—Aye, in Matteo’s stead.
_All_.—Right, right.
_Abellino_.—To which I say amen with all my heart. Now, then, all is
decided.
Book the Second.
CHAPTER I.
THE BIRTHDAY.
IN solitude and anxiety, with barred windows and bolted doors, did the
banditti pass the day immediately succeeding Matteo’s murder; every
murmur in the street appeared to them a cause of apprehension; every
footstep which approached their doors made them tremble till it had
passed them.
In the meanwhile the ducal palace blazed with splendour and resounded
with mirth. The Doge celebrated the birthday of his fair niece,
Rosabella; and the feast was honoured by the presence of the chief
persons of the city, of the foreign ambassadors, and of many illustrious
strangers who were at that time resident in Venice.
On this occasion no expense had been spared, no source of pleasure had
been neglected. The arts contended with each other for superiority; the
best poets in Venice celebrated this day with powers excelling anything
which they had before exhibited, for the subject of their verses was
Rosabella; the musicians and _virtuosi_ surpassed all their former
triumphs, for their object was to obtain the suffrage of Rosabella. The
singular union of all kinds of pleasure intoxicated the imagination of
every guest; and the genius of delight extended his influence over the
whole assembly, over the old man and the youth, over the matron and the
virgin.
The venerable Andreas had seldom been in such high spirits as on this
occasion. He was all life; smiles of satisfaction played round his lips;
gracious and condescending to every one, he made it his chief care to
prevent his rank from being felt. Sometimes he trifled with the ladies,
whose beauty formed the greatest ornament of this entertainment;
sometimes he mingled among the masks, whose fantastic appearance and
gaiety of conversation enlivened the ball-room by their variety; at other
times he played chess with the generals and admirals of the Republic; and
frequently he forsook everything to gaze with delight on Rosabella’s
dancing, or listen in silent rapture to Rosabella’s music.
Lomellino, Conari, and Paolo Manfrone, the Doge’s three confidential
friends and counsellors, in defiance of their grey hairs, mingled in the
throng of youthful beauties, flirted first with one and then with
another, and the arrows of raillery were darted and received on both
sides with spirit and good humour.
“Now, Lomellino,” said Andreas to his friend, who entered the saloon in
which the Doge was at that time accidentally alone with his niece, “you
seem in gayer spirits this evening than when we were lying before
Scardona, and had so hard a game to play against the Turks.”
_Lomellino_.—I shall not take upon me to deny that, signor. I still
think with a mixture of terror and satisfaction on the night when we took
Scardona, and carried the half-moon before the city walls. By my soul,
our Venetians fought like lions.
_Andreas_.—Fill this goblet to their memory, my old soldier; you have
earned your rest bravely.
_Lomellino_.—Aye, signor, and oh, it is so sweet to rest on laurels. But
in truth, ’tis to you that I am indebted for mine; it is you who have
immortalised me. No soul on earth would have known that Lomellino
existed, had he not fought in Dalmatia and Sicilia under the banners of
the great Andreas, and assisted him in raising eternal trophies in honour
of the Republic.
_Andreas_.—My good Lomellino, the Cyprus wine must have heated your
imagination.
_Lomellino_.—Nay, I know well I ought not to call you great, and praise
you thus openly to your face; but faith, signor, I am grown too old for
it to be worth my while to flatter. That is a business which I leave to
our young courtiers, who have never yet come within the smell of powder,
and never have fought for Venice and Andreas.
_Andreas_.—You are an old enthusiast. Think you the Emperor is of the
same opinion?
_Lomellino_.—Unless Charles the Fifth is deceived by those about him, or
is too proud to allow the greatness of an enemy, he must say, perforce,
“There is but one man on earth whom I fear, and who is worthy to contend
with me, and that man is Andreas.”
_Andreas_.—I suspect he will be sorely displeased when he receives my
answer to the message by which he notified to me the imprisonment of the
French king.
_Lomellino_.—Displeased he will be, signor, no doubt of it; but what
then? Venice need not fear his displeasure, while Andreas still lives.
But when you and your heroes are once gone to your eternal rest—then,
alas for thee, poor Venice. I fear your golden times will soon come to
their conclusion.
_Andreas_.—What! Have we not many young officers of great promise?
_Lomellino_.—Alas, what are most of them? Heroes in the fields of Venus.
Heroes at a drinking-bout. Effeminate striplings, relaxed both in mind
and body. But how am I running on, forgetful. Ah, when one is grown
old, and conversing with an Andreas, it is easy to forget everything
else. My lord, I sought you with a request, a request, too, of
consequence.
_Andreas_.—You excite my curiosity.
_Lomellino_.—About a week ago there arrived here a young Florentine
nobleman called Flodoardo, a youth of noble appearance and great promise.
_Andreas_.—Well?
_Lomellino_.—His father was one of my dearest friends. He is dead now,
the good old generous nobleman. In our youth we served together on board
the same vessel, and many a turbaned head has fallen beneath his sword.
Ah, he was a brave soldier.
_Andreas_.—While celebrating the father’s bravery, you seem to have quite
forgotten the son.
_Lomellino_.—His son is arrived in Venice, and wishes to enter into the
service of the Republic. I entreat you, give the young man some
respectable situation; he will prove the boast of Venice when we shall be
in our graves, on that would I hazard my existence.
_Andreas_.—Has he sense and talent?
_Lomellino_.—That he has; a heart like his father’s. Will it please you
to see and converse with him? He is yonder, among the masks in the great
saloon. One thing I must tell you, as a specimen of his designs. He has
heard of the banditti who infest Venice, and he engages that the first
piece of service which he renders the Republic shall be the delivering
into the hands of justice those concealed assassins, who hitherto have
eluded the vigilance of our police.
_Andreas_.—Indeed! I doubt that promise will be too much for his power
to perform. Flodoardo, I think you called him? Tell him I would speak
with him.
_Lomellino_.—Oh! then I have gained at least the _half_ of my cause, and
I believe the _whole_ of it, for to see Flodoardo and not to like him is
as difficult as to look at Paradise and not wish to enter. To see
Flodoardo and to hate him is as unlikely as that a blind man should hate
the kind hand which removes the cataract from his eyes, and pours upon
them the blessings of light and beauties of nature.
_Andreas_ (smiling).—In the whole course of our acquaintance, Lomellino,
never did I hear you so enthusiastic! Go, then, conduct this prodigy
hither.
_Lomellino_.—I hasten to find him. And as for you, signora, look to
yourself! look to yourself, I say!
_Rosabella_.—Nay, prithee, Lomellino, bring your hero hither without
delay; you have raised my curiosity to the height.
Lomellino quitted the saloon.
_Andreas_.—How comes it that you rejoin not the dancers, my child?
_Rosabella_.—I am weary, and, besides, curiosity now detains me here, for
I would fain see this Flodoardo, whom Lomellino thinks deserving of such
extraordinary praise. Shall I tell you the truth, my dear uncle? I
verily believe that I am already acquainted with him. There was a mask
in a Grecian habit, whose appearance was so striking, that it was
impossible for him to remain confounded with the crowd. The least
attentive eye must have singled him out from among a thousand. It was a
tall light figure, so graceful in every movement; then his dancing was
quite perfection.
_Andreas_ (smiling, and threatening with his finger).—Child, child!
_Rosabella_.—Nay, my dear uncle, what I say is mere justice; it is
possible, indeed, that the Greek and the Florentine may be two different
persons, but still, according to Lomellino’s description—Oh! look, dear
uncle, only look yonder; there stands the Greek, as I live.
_Andreas_.—And Lomellino is with him; they approach. Rosabella, you have
made a good guess.
The Doge had scarcely ceased to speak, when Lomellino entered the room,
conducting a tall young man, richly habited in the Grecian fashion.
“My gracious lord,” said Lomellino, “I present to you the Count
Flodoardo, who humbly sues for your protection.”
Flodoardo uncovered his head in token of respect, took off his mask, and
bowed low before the illustrious ruler of Venice.
_Andreas_.—I understand you are desirous of serving the Republic?
_Flodoardo_.—That is my ambition, should your Highness think me deserving
of such an honour.
_Andreas_.—Lomellino speaks highly of you; if all that he says be true,
how came you to deprive your own country of your services?
_Flodoardo_.—Because my own country is not governed by an Andreas.
_Andreas_.—You have intentions, it seems, of discovering the haunts of
the banditti, who for some time past have caused so many tears to flow in
Venice?
_Flodoardo_.—If your Highness would deign to confide in me, I would
answer with my head for their delivery into the hands of your officers,
and that speedily.
_Andreas_.—That were much for a stranger to perform. I would fain make
the trial whether you can keep your word.
_Flodoardo_.—That is sufficient. To-morrow, or the day after at least,
will I perform my promise.
_Andreas_.—And you make that promise so resolutely? Are you aware, young
man, how dangerous a task it is to surprise these miscreants? They are
never to be found when sought for, and always present when least
expected; they are at once everywhere and nowhere. There exists not a
nook in Venice which our spies are not acquainted with, or have left
unexamined, and yet has our police endeavoured in vain to discover the
place of their concealment.
_Flodoardo_.—I know all this, and to know it rejoices me, since it
affords me an opportunity of convincing the Doge of Venice, that my
actions are not those of a common adventurer.
_Andreas_.—Perform your promise, and then let me hear of you. For the
present our discourse shall end here, for no unpleasant thoughts must
disturb the joy to which this day is dedicated. Rosabella, would you not
like to join the dancers? Count, I confide her to your care.
_Flodoardo_.—I could not be entrusted with a more precious charge.
Rosabella, during this conversation, had been leaning against the back of
her uncle’s chair. She repeated to herself Lomellino’s assertion, “that
to see Flodoardo, and not to like him, was as difficult as to look at
Paradise and not wish to enter;” and while she gazed on the youth, she
allowed that Lomellino had not exaggerated. When her uncle desired
Flodoardo to conduct her to the dancers, a soft blush overspread her
cheek, and she doubted whether she should accept or decline the hand
which was immediately offered.
And to tell you my real opinion, my fair ladies, I suspect that very few
of you would have been more collected than Rosabella, had you found
yourselves similarly situated. In truth, such a form as Flodoardo’s; a
countenance whose physiognomy seemed a passport at once to the hearts of
all who examined it; features so exquisitely fashioned that the artist
who wished to execute a model of manly beauty, had he imitated them,
would have had nothing to supply or improve; features, every one of which
spoke so clearly, “The bosom of this youth contains the heart of a hero.”
Ah, ladies, my dear ladies, a man like this might well make some little
confusion in the head and heart of a poor young girl, tender and
unsuspicious!
Flodoardo took Rosabella’s hand, and led her into the ball-room. Here
all was mirth and splendour, the roofs re-echoed with the full swell of
harmony, and the floor trembled beneath the multitude of dancers, who
formed a thousand beautiful groups by the blaze of innumerable lustres.
Yes, Flodoardo and Rosabella passed on in silence till they reached the
extreme end of the great saloon. Here they stopped, and remained before
an open window. Some minutes passed, and still they spoke not.
Sometimes they gazed on each other, sometimes on the dancers, sometimes
on the moon; and then again they forgot each other, the dancers, and the
moon, and were totally absorbed in themselves.
“Lady,” said Flodoardo, at length, “can there be a greater misfortune?”
“A misfortune?” said Rosabella, starting as if suddenly awaking from a
dream; “what misfortune, signor? Who is unfortunate?”
“He who is doomed to behold the joys of Elysium and never to possess
them. He who dies of thirst and sees a cup stand full before him, but
which he knows is destined for the lips of another.”
“And are you, my lord, this outcast from Elysium? Are you the thirsty
one who stands near the cup which is filled for another? Is it thus that
you wish me to understand your speech?”
“You understand it as I meant: and now tell me, lovely Rosabella, am I
not indeed unfortunate?”
“And where, then, is the Elysium which you must never possess?”
“Where Rosabella is, there is indeed Elysium. You are not offended,
signora?” said Flodoardo, and took her hand with an air of respectful
tenderness. “Has this openness displeased you?”
“You are a native of Florence, Count Flodoardo. In Venice we dislike
this kind of compliment: at least I dislike them, and wish to hear them
from no one less than from you.”
“By my life, signora, I spoke but as I thought! my words concealed no
flattery.”
“See, the Doge enters the saloon with Manfrone and Lomellino: he will
seek us among the dancers. Come, let us join them.”
Flodoardo followed her in silence. The dance began. Heavens! how lovely
looked Rosabella, as she glided along to the sweet sounds of music,
conducted by Flodoardo. How handsome looked Flodoardo, as, lighter than
air, he flew down the dance, while his brilliant eyes saw no object but
Rosabella.
He was still without his mask, and bareheaded: but every eye glanced away
from the helmets and _barettes_, waving with plumes, and sparkling with
jewels, to gaze on Flodoardo’s raven locks, as they floated on the air in
wild luxuriance. A murmur of admiration rose from every corner of the
saloon, but it rose unmarked by those who were the objects of it.
Neither Rosabella nor Flodoardo at that moment formed a wish to be
applauded, except by each other.
CHAPTER II.
THE FLORENTINE STRANGER.
TWO evenings had elapsed since the Doge’s entertainment. On the second,
Parozzi sat in his own apartment, with Memmo and Falieri. Dimly burnt
the lights; lowering and tempestuous were the skies without; gloomy and
fearful were the souls of the libertines within.
_Parozzi_ (after a long silence).—What, are you both dreaming? Ho,
there, Memmo, Falieri, fill your goblets.
_Memmo_ (with indifference).—Well, to please you—. But I care not for
wine to-night.
_Falieri_.—Nor I. Methinks it tastes like vinegar: yet the wine itself
is good: ’tis our ill temper spoils it.
_Parozzi_.—Confound the rascals.
_Memmo_.—What, the banditti?
_Parozzi_.—Not a trace of them can be found. It is enough to kill one
with vexation.
_Falieri_.—And in the meanwhile the time runs out, our projects will get
wind, and then we shall sit quietly in the State prisons of Venice,
objects of derision to the populace and ourselves. I could tear my flesh
for anger. (A universal silence.)
_Parozzi_ (striking his hand against the table passionately).—Flodoardo,
Flodoardo.
_Falieri_.—In a couple of hours I must attend the Cardinal Gonzaga, and
what intelligence shall I have to give him?
_Memmo_.—Come, come, Contarino cannot have been absent so long without
cause; I warrant you he will bring some news with him when he arrives.
_Falieri_.—Pshaw, pshaw! My life on’t he lies at this moment at
Olympia’s feet, and forgets us, the Republic, the banditti, and himself.
_Parozzi_.—And so neither of you know anything of this Flodoardo?
_Memmo_.—No more than of what happened on Rosabella’s birthday.
_Falieri_.—Well, then, I know one thing more about him; Parozzi is
jealous of him.
_Parozzi_.—I? Ridiculous, Rosabella may bestow her hand on the German
Emperor, or a Venetian gondolier, without its giving me the least
anxiety.
_Falieri_.—Ha! ha! ha!
_Memmo_.—Well, one thing at least even envy must confess; Flodoardo is
the handsomest man in Venice. I doubt whether there’s a woman in the
city who can resist him.
_Parozzi_.—And I should doubt it too, if women had as little sense as you
have, and looked only at the shell without minding the kernel—
_Memmo_.—Which unluckily is exactly the thing which women always do—
_Falieri_.—The old Lomellino seems to be extremely intimate with this
Flodoardo. They say he was well acquainted with his father.
_Memmo_.—It was he who presented him to the Doge.
_Parozzi_.—Hark!—Surely some one knocked at the palace door?
_Memmo_.—It can be none but Contarino. Now, then, we shall hear whether
he has discovered the banditti.
_Falieri_ (starting from his chair).—I’ll swear to that footstep, it’s
Contarino.
The doors were thrown open. Contarino entered hastily, enveloped in his
cloak.
“Good evening, sweet gentlemen,” said he, and threw his mantle aside.
And Memmo, Parozzi, and Falieri started back in horror.
“Good God!” they exclaimed, “what has happened? You are covered with
blood?”
“A trifle!” cried Contarino; “is that wine? quick, give me a goblet of
it, I expire with thirst.”
_Falieri_ (while he gives him a cup).—But, Contarino, you bleed?
_Contarino_.—You need not tell me that. I did not do it myself, I
promise you.
_Parozzi_.—First let us bind up your wounds, and then tell us what has
happened to you. It is as well that the servants should remain ignorant
of your adventure; I will be your surgeon myself.
_Contarino_.—What has happened to me, say you? Oh! a joke, gentlemen, a
mere joke. Here, Falieri, fill the bowl again.
_Memmo_.—I can scarcely breathe for terror.
_Contarino_.—Very possibly; neither should I, were I Memmo instead of
being Contarino. The wound bleeds plenteously it’s true, but it’s by no
means dangerous (he tore open his doublet, and uncovered his bosom).
There, look, comrades; you see it’s only a cut of not more than two
inches deep.
_Memmo_ (shuddering).—Mercy on me! the very sight of it makes my blood
run cold.
Parozzi brought ointments and linen, and bound up the wound of his
associate.
_Contarino_.—Old Horace is in the right. A philosopher can be anything
he pleases, a cobbler, a king, or a physician. Only observe with what
dignified address the philosopher Parozzi spreads that plaster for me. I
thank you, friend; that’s enough: and now, comrades, place yourselves in
a circle round me, and listen to the wonders which I am going to relate.
_Falieri_.—Proceed.
_Contarino_.—As soon as it was twilight, I stole out, wrapped in my
cloak, determined if possible to discover some of the banditti. I knew
not their persons, neither were they acquainted with mine. An
extravagant undertaking, perhaps, you will tell me; but I was resolved to
convince you that everything which a man _determines_ to do, may be done.
I had some information respecting the rascals, though it was but slight,
and on these grounds I proceeded. I happened by mere accident to stumble
upon a gondolier, whose appearance excited my curiosity. I fell into
discourse with him. I was soon convinced that he was not ignorant of the
lurking-place of the bravoes, and by means of some gold and many fair
speeches, I at length brought him to confess that though not regularly
belonging to the band, he had occasionally been employed by them. I
immediately made a bargain with him; he conducted me in his gondola
through the greatest part of Venice, sometimes right, sometimes left,
till I lost every idea as to the quarter of the town in which I found
myself. At length he insisted on binding my eyes with his handkerchief,
and I was compelled to submit. Half an hour elapsed before the gondola
stopped. He told me to descend, conducted me through a couple of
streets, and at length knocked at a door, where he left me still
blindfolded. The door was opened; my business was inquired with great
caution, and after some demur I was at length admitted. The handkerchief
was now withdrawn from my eyes, and I found myself in a small chamber,
surrounded by four men of not the most creditable appearance, and a young
woman, who (it seems) had opened the door for me.
_Falieri_.—You are a daring fellow, Contarino.
_Contarino_.—Here was no time to be lost. I instantly threw my purse on
the table, promised them mountains of gold, and fixed on particular days,
hours, and signals which were necessary to facilitate our future
intercourse. For the present I only required that Manfrone, Conari, and
Lomellino should be removed with all possible expedition.
_All_.—Bravo.
_Contarino_.—So far everything went exactly as we could have wished, and
one of my new associates was just setting out to guide me home, when we
were surprised by an unexpected visit.
_Parozzi_.—Well?
_Memmo_ (anxiously).—Go on, for God’s sake!
_Contarino_.—A knocking was heard at the door; the girl went to inquire
the cause. In an instant she returned pale as a corpse, and “Fly! fly!”
cried she.
_Falieri_.—What followed?
_Contarino_.—Why then followed a whole legion of sbirri and
police-officers, and who should be at their head but the Florentine
stranger.
_All_.—Flodoardo? What, Flodoardo?
_Contarino_.—Flodoardo.
_Falieri_.—What demon could have guided him thither?
_Parozzi_.—Hell and furies! Oh, that I had been there.
_Memmo_.—There, now, Parozzi, you see at least that Flodoardo is no
coward.
_Falieri_.—Hush, let us hear the rest.
_Contarino_.—We stood as if we had been petrified; not a soul could stir
a finger. “In the name of the Doge and the Republic,” cried Flodoardo,
“yield yourselves and deliver your arms.” “The devil shall yield himself
sooner than we,” exclaimed one of the banditti, and forced a sword from
one of the officers. The others snatched their muskets from the walls;
and as for me, my first care was to extinguish the lamp so that we could
not tell friends from foes. But still the confounded moonshine gleamed
through the window-shutters, and shed a partial light through the room.
“Look to yourself, Contarino,” thought I; “if you are found here, you
will be hanged for company,” and I drew my sword and made a plunge at
Flodoardo; but, however well intended, my thrust was foiled by his sabre,
which he whirled around with the rapidity of lightning. I fought like a
madman, but all my skill was without effect on this occasion, and before
I was aware of it, Flodoardo ripped open my bosom. I felt myself
wounded, and sprang back. At that moment two pistols were fired, and the
flash discovered to me a small side door, which they had neglected to
beset. Through this I stole unperceived into the adjoining chamber,
burst open the grated window, sprang below unhurt, crossed a courtyard,
climbed two or three garden walls, gained the canal, where a gondola
fortunately was waiting, persuaded the boatman to convey me with all
speed to the Place of St. Mark, and thence hastened hither, astonished to
find myself still alive. There’s an infernal adventure for you.
_Parozzi_.—I shall go mad.
_Falieri_.—Everything we design is counteracted; the more trouble we give
ourselves, the further we are from the goal.
_Memmo_.—I confess it seems to me as if Heaven gave us warning to desist.
How say you?
_Contarino_.—Pshaw, these are trifles! Such accidents should only serve
to sharpen our wits. The more obstacles I encounter, the firmer is my
resolution to surmount them.
_Falieri_.—Do the banditti know who you are?
_Contarino_.—No; they are not only ignorant of my name, but suppose me to
be a mere instrument of some powerful man, who has been injured by the
ducal confederates.
_Memmo_.—Well, Contarino, in my mind you should thank Heaven that you
have escaped so well.
_Falieri_.—But since he is an absolute stranger in Venice, how could
Flodoardo discover the lurking place of the banditti?
_Contarino_.—I know not; probably by mere accident like myself, but by
the Power that made me, he shall pay dearly for this wound.
_Falieri_.—Flodoardo is rather too hasty in making himself remarked.
_Parozzi_.—Flodoardo must die.
_Contarino_ (filling a goblet).—May his next cup contain poison.
_Falieri_.—I shall do myself the honour of becoming better acquainted
with the gentleman.
_Contarino_.—Memmo, we must needs have full purses, or our business will
hang on hand wofully.
When does your uncle take his departure to a better world?
_Memmo_.—To-morrow evening, and yet—ugh, I tremble.
CHAPTER III.
MORE CONFUSION.
SINCE Rosabella’s birthday, no woman in Venice who had the slightest
pretensions to beauty, or the most remote expectations of making
conquests, had any subject of conversation except the handsome
Florentine. He found employment for every female tongue, and she who
dared not to employ her tongue, made amends for the privation with her
thoughts. Many a maiden now enjoyed less tranquil slumbers; many an
experienced coquette sighed as she laid on her colour at the looking
glass; many a prude forgot the rules which she had imposed upon herself,
and daily frequented the gardens and walks in which report gave her the
hope of meeting Flodoardo.
But from the time that, placing himself at the head of the sbirri, he had
dared to enter boldly the den of the banditti, and seize them at the
hazard of his life, he was scarcely more an object of attention among the
women than among the men. Greatly did they admire his courage and
unshaken presence of mind while engaged in so perilous an adventure; but
still more were they astonished at his penetration in discovering where
the bravoes concealed themselves, an attempt which foiled even the keen
wits of the so much celebrated police of Venice.
The Doge Andreas cultivated the acquaintance of this singular young man
with increasing assiduity; and the more he conversed with him, the more
deserving of consideration did Flodoardo appear. The action by which he
had rendered the Republic a service so essential was rewarded by a
present that would not have disgraced Imperial gratitude, and one of the
most important offices of the State was confided to his superintendence.
Both favours were conferred unsolicited, but no sooner was the Florentine
apprised of the Doge’s benevolent care of him, than with modesty and
respect he requested to decline the proposed advantages. The only favour
which he requested was, to be permitted to live free and independent in
Venice during a year, at the end of which he promised to name that
employment which he esteemed the best adapted to his abilities and
inclination.
Flodoardo was lodged in the magnificent palace of his good old patron,
Lomellino, here he lived in the closest retirement, studied the most
valuable parts of ancient and modern literature, remained for whole days
together in his own apartment, and was seldom to be seen in public except
upon some great solemnity.
But the Doge, Lomellino, Manfrone, and Conari, men who had established
the fame of Venice on so firm a basis that it would require centuries to
undermine it; men in whose society one seemed to be withdrawn from the
circle of ordinary mortals, and honoured by the intercourse of superior
beings, men who now graciously received the Florentine stranger into
their intimacy, and resolved to spare no pains in forming him to support
the character of a great man; it could not long escape the observation of
men like these, that Flodoardo’s gaiety was assumed, and that a secret
sorrow preyed upon his heart.
In vain did Lomellino, who loved him like a father, endeavour to discover
the source of his melancholy; in vain did the venerable Doge exert
himself to dispel the gloom which oppressed his young favourite.
Flodoardo remained silent and sad.
And Rosabella? Rosabella would have belied her sex had she remained gay
while Flodoardo sorrowed. Her spirits were flown, her eyes were
frequently obscured with tears. She grew daily paler and paler, till the
Doge, who doted on her, was seriously alarmed for her health. At length
Rosabella grew really ill; a fever fixed itself upon her; she became
weak, and was confined to her chamber, and her complaint baffled the
skill of the most experienced physicians in Venice.
In the midst of these unpleasant circumstances in which Andreas and his
friends now found themselves, an incident occurred one morning, which
raised their uneasiness to the very highest pitch. Never had so bold and
audacious an action been heard of in Venice, as that which I am going to
relate.
The four banditti, whom Flodoardo had seized, Pietrino, Struzza, Baluzza,
and Thomaso, had been safely committed to the Doge’s dungeons, where they
underwent a daily examination, and looked upon every sun that rose as the
last that would ever rise for _them_. Andreas and his confidential
counsellors now flattered themselves that the public tranquillity had
nothing more to apprehend, and that Venice was now completely purified of
the miscreants, whom gold could bribe to be the instruments of revenge
and cruelty; when all at once the following address was discovered,
affixed to most of the remarkable statues, and pasted against the corners
of the principal streets, and pillars of the public buildings:—
“VENETIANS!
“Struzza, Thomaso, Pietrino, Baluzza, and Matteo, five as brave men
as the world ever produced, who, had they stood at the head of
armies, would have been called _heroes_, and now being called
_banditti_, are fallen victims to the injustice of State policy.
These men, it is true, exist for you no longer; but their place is
supplied by him, whose name is affixed to this paper, and who will
stand by his employers with body and with soul. I laugh at the
vigilance of the Venetian police; I laugh at the crafty and insolent
Florentine, whose hand has dragged his brethren to the rack. Let
those who need me, seek me; they will find me everywhere! Let those
who seek me with the design of delivering me up to the law, despair
and tremble; they will find me nowhere, but _I_ shall find _them_,
and that when they least expect me! Venetians, you understand me!
Woe to the man who shall attempt to discover me; his life and death
depend upon my pleasure. This comes from the Venetian Bravo,
ABELLINO.”
“A hundred sequins,” exclaimed the incensed Doge, on reading the paper,
“a hundred sequins to him who discovers this monster Abellino, and a
thousand to him who delivers him up to justice.”
But in vain did spies ransack every lurking place in Venice; no Abellino
was to be found. In vain did the luxurious, the avaricious, and the
hungry stretch their wits to the utmost, incited by the tempting promise
of a thousand sequins. Abellino’s prudence set all their ingenuity at
defiance.
But not the less did every one assert that he had recognised Abellino,
sometimes in one disguise, and sometimes in another, as an old man, a
gondolier, a woman, or a monk. Everybody had seen him somewhere; but,
unluckily, nobody could tell where he was to be seen again.
CHAPTER IV.
THE VIOLET.
I INFORMED my readers, in the beginning of the last chapter, that
Flodoardo was become melancholy, and that Rosabella was indisposed, but I
did not tell them what had occasioned this sudden change.
Flodoardo, who on his first arrival at Venice was all gaiety, and the
life of every society in which he mingled, lost his spirits on one
particular day; and it so happened that it was on the very same day that
Rosabella betrayed the first symptoms of indisposition.
For on this unlucky day did the caprice of accident, or perhaps the
Goddess of Love (who has her caprices too every now and then), conduct
Rosabella into her uncle’s garden, which none but the Doge’s intimate
friends were permitted to enter; and where the Doge himself frequently
reposed in solitude and silence during the evening hours of a sultry day.
Rosabella, lost in thought, wandered listless and unconscious along the
broad and shady alleys of the garden. Sometimes, in a moment of
vexation, she plucked the unoffending leaves from the hedges and strewed
them upon the ground; sometimes she stopped suddenly, then rushed forward
with impetuosity, then again stood still, and gazed upon the clear blue
heaven. Sometimes her beautiful bosom was heaved with quick and
irregular motion, and sometimes a half-suppressed sigh escaped from her
lips of coral.
“He is very handsome!” she murmured, and gazed with such eagerness on
vacancy, as though she had there seen something which was hidden from the
sight of common observers.
“Yet Camilla is in the right,” she resumed, after a pause, and she
frowned as had she said that Camilla was in the wrong.
This Camilla was her governess, her friend, her confidante, I may almost
say her mother. Rosabella had lost her parents early. Her mother died
when her child could scarcely lisp her name; and her father, Guiscardo of
Corfu, the commander of a Venetian vessel, eight years before had
perished in an engagement with the Turks, while he was still in the prime
of life. Camilla, one of the worthiest creatures that ever dignified the
name of woman, supplied to Rosabella the place of mother, had brought her
up from infancy, and was now her best friend, and the person to whose ear
she confided all her little secrets.
While Rosabella was still buried in her own reflections, the excellent
Camilla advanced from a side path, and hastened to join her pupil.
Rosabella started.
_Rosabella_.—Ah! dear Camilla, is it you? What brings you hither?
_Camilla_.—You often call me your guardian angel, and guardian angels
should always be near the object of their care.
_Rosabella_.—Camilla, I have been thinking over your arguments; I cannot
deny that all you have said to me is very true, and very wise, but still—
_Camilla_.—But still, though your prudence agrees with me, your heart is
of a contrary opinion.
_Rosabella_.—It is, indeed.
_Camilla_.—Nor do I blame your heart for differing from me, my poor girl.
I have acknowledged to you without disguise that were _I_ at your time of
life, and were such a man as Flodoardo to throw himself in my way, I
could not receive his attentions with indifference. It cannot be denied
that this young stranger is uncommonly pleasing, and, indeed, for any
woman whose heart is disengaged, an uncommonly _dangerous_ companion.
There is something very prepossessing in his appearance, his manners are
elegant, and short as has been his abode in Venice, it is already past
doubting that there are many noble and striking features in his
character. But alas, after all, he is but a poor nobleman, and it is not
very probable that the rich and powerful Doge of Venice will ever bestow
his niece on one who, to speak plainly, arrived here little better than a
beggar. No, no, child, believe me, a romantic adventurer is no fit
husband for Rosabella of Corfu.
_Rosabella_.—Dear Camilla, who was talking about husbands? What I feel
for Flodoardo is merely affection, friendship.
_Camilla_.—Indeed! Then you would be perfectly satisfied, should some
one of our wealthy ladies bestow her hand on Flodoardo?
_Rosabella_ (hastily).—Oh! Flodoardo would not _accept_ her hand,
Camilla; of that I am sure.
_Camilla_.—Child, child, you would willingly deceive yourself. But be
assured that a girl who loves ever connects, perhaps unconsciously, the
wish for an eternal _union_ with the idea of eternal _affection_. Now
this is a wish which you cannot indulge in regard to Flodoardo without
seriously offending your uncle, who, good man as he is, must still submit
to the severe control of politics and etiquette.
_Rosabella_.—I know all that, Camilla, but can I not make you comprehend
that I am not in love with Flodoardo, and do not mean to be in love with
him, and that love has nothing at all to do in the business? I repeat to
you, what I feel for him is nothing but sincere and fervent friendship;
and surely Flodoardo deserves that I should feel that sentiment for him.
Deserves it, said I? Oh, what does Flodoardo _not_ deserve?
_Camilla_.—Ay, ay, friendship, indeed, and love. Oh, Rosabella, you know
not how often these deceivers borrow each other’s mask to ensnare the
hearts of unsuspecting maidens. You know not how often love finds
admission, when wrapped in friendship’s cloak, into that bosom, which,
had he approached under his own appearance, would have been closed
against him for ever. In short, my child, reflect how much you owe to
your uncle; reflect how much uneasiness this inclination would cost him;
and sacrifice to duty what at present is a mere caprice, but which, if
encouraged, might make too deep an impression on your heart to be
afterwards removed by your best efforts.
_Rosabella_.—You say right, Camilla. I really believe myself that my
prepossession in Flodoardo’s favour is merely an accidental fancy, of
which I shall easily get the better. No, no; I am not in love with
Flodoardo—of that you may rest assured. I even think that I rather feel
an antipathy towards him, since you have shown me the possibility of his
making me prove a cause of uneasiness to my kind, my excellent uncle.
_Camilla_ (smiling).—Are your sentiments of duty and gratitude so very
strong?
_Rosabella_.—Oh, that they are, Camilla; and so you will say yourself
hereafter. This disagreeable Flodoardo—to give me so much vexation! I
wish he had never come to Venice. I declare I do not like him at all.
_Camilla_.—No—what! Not like Flodoardo?
_Rosabella_ (casting down her eyes).—No, not at all. Not that I wish him
ill, either, for you know, Camilla, there’s no reason why I should hate
this poor Flodoardo!
_Camilla_.—Well, we will resume this subject when I return. I have
business, and the gondola waits for me. Farewell, my child; and do not
lay aside your resolution as hastily as you took it up.
_Camilla_ departed, and Rosabella remained melancholy and uncertain. She
built castles in the air, and destroyed them as soon as built. She
formed wishes, and condemned herself for having formed them. She looked
round her frequently in search of something, but dared not confess to
herself what it was of which she was in search.
The evening was sultry, and Rosabella was compelled to shelter herself
from the sun’s overpowering heat. In the garden was a small fountain,
bordered by a bank of moss, over which the magic hands of art and nature
had formed a canopy of ivy and jessamine. Thither she bent her steps.
She arrived at the fountain, and instantly drew back, covered with
blushes, for on the bank of moss, shaded by the protecting canopy, whose
waving blossoms were reflected on the fountain, Flodoardo was seated, and
fixed his eyes on a roll of parchment.
Rosabella hesitated whether she should retire or stay. Flodoardo started
from his place, apparently in no less confusion than herself, and
relieved her from her indecision by taking her hand with respect, and
conducting her to the seat which he had just quitted.
Now, then, she could not possibly retire immediately, unless she meant to
violate every common principle of good breeding.
Her hand was still clasped in Flodoardo’s; but it was so natural for him
to take it, that she could not blame him for having done so. But what
was she next to do? Draw her hand away? Why should she, since he did
her hand no harm by keeping it, and the keeping it seemed to make him so
happy? And how could the gentle Rosabella resolve to commit an act of
such unheard-of cruelty as wilfully to deprive any one of a pleasure
which made him so happy, and which did herself no harm?
“Signora,” said Flodoardo, merely for the sake of saying something, “you
do well to enjoy the open air. The evening is beautiful.”
“But I interrupt your studies, my lord,” said Rosabella.
“By no means,” answered Flodoardo; and there this interesting
conversation came to a full stop. Both looked down; both examined the
heaven and the earth, the trees and the flowers, in the hopes of finding
some hints for renewing the conversation; but the more anxiously they
sought them, the more difficult did it seem to find what they sought; and
in this painful embarrassment did two whole precious minutes elapse.
“Ah, what a beautiful flower!” suddenly cried Rosabella, in order to
break the silence, then stooped and plucked a violet with an appearance
of the greatest eagerness, though, in fact, nothing at that moment could
have been more a matter of indifference.
“It is a very beautiful flower, indeed,” gravely observed Flodoardo, and
was out of all patience with himself for having made so flat a speech.
“Nothing can surpass this purple,” continued Rosabella; “red and blue so
happily blended, that no painter can produce so perfect a union.”
“Red and blue—the one the symbol of happiness, the other of affection.
Ah, Rosabella! how enviable will be that man’s lot on whom your hand
shall bestow such a flower. Happiness and affection are not more
inseparably united than the red and blue which purple that violet.”
“You seem to attach a value to the flower of which it is but little
deserving.”
“Might I but know on whom Rosabella will one day bestow what that flower
expresses. Yet, this is a subject which I have no right to discuss. I
know not what has happened to me to-day. I make nothing but blunders and
mistakes. Forgive my presumption, lady. I will hazard such forward
inquiries no more.”
He was silent. Rosabella was silent also.
But though they could forbid their lips to betray their hidden affection;
though Rosabella said not—“Thou art he on whom this flower shall be
bestowed:” though Flodoardo’s words had not expressed—“Rosabella, give me
that violet, and that which it implies”—oh, their eyes were far from
being silent. Those treacherous interpreters of secret feelings
acknowledged more to each other than their hearts had yet acknowledged to
themselves.
Flodoardo and Rosabella gazed on each other with looks which made all
speech unnecessary. Sweet, tender, and enthusiastic was the smile which
played around Rosabella’s lips when her eyes met those of the youth whom
she had selected from the rest of mankind; and with mingled emotions of
hope and fear did the youth study the meaning of that smile. He
understood it, and his heart beat louder, and his eye flamed brighter.
Rosabella trembled; her eyes could no longer sustain the fire of his
glances, and a modest blush overspread her face and bosom.
“Rosabella!” at length murmured Flodoardo, unconsciously; “Flodoardo!”
sighed Rosabella, in the same tone.
“Give me that violet!” he exclaimed, eagerly, then sank at her feet, and
in a tone of the most humble supplication repeated, “Oh, give it to me!”
Rosabella held the flower fast.
“Ask for it what thou wilt. If a throne can purchase it, I will pay that
price, or perish. Rosabella, give me that flower!”
She stole one look at the handsome suppliant and dared not hazard a
second.
“My repose, my happiness, my life—nay, even my glory, all depend on the
possession of that little flower. Let that be mine, and here I solemnly
renounce all else which the world calls precious.”
The flower trembled in her snowy hand. Her fingers clasped it less
firmly.
“You hear me, Rosabella? I kneel at your feet; and am I then in vain a
beggar?”
The word “beggar” recalled to her memory Camilla and her prudent
counsels. “What am I doing?” she said to herself. “Have I forgotten my
promise, my resolution? Fly, Rosabella, fly, or this hour makes you
faithless to yourself and duty.”
She tore the flower to pieces, and threw it contemptuously on the ground.
“I understand you, Flodoardo,” said she; “and having understood you, will
never suffer this subject to be renewed. Here let us part, and let me
not again be offended by a similar presumption. Farewell!”
She turned from him with disdain, and left Flodoardo rooted to his place
with sorrow and astonishment.
CHAPTER V.
THE ASSASSIN.
SCARCELY had she reached her chamber ere Rosabella repented her having
acted so courageously. It was cruel in her, she thought, to have given
him so harsh an answer. She recollected with what hopeless and
melancholy looks the poor thunderstruck youth had followed her steps as
she turned to leave him. She fancied that she saw him stretched
despairing on the earth, his hair dishevelled, his eyes filled with
tears. She heard him term her the murderess of his repose, pray for
death as his only refuge; and she saw him with every moment approach
towards the attainment of his prayer through the tears which he shed on
her account. Already she heard those dreadful words—“Flodoardo is no
more.” Already she saw the sympathising multitude weep round the tomb of
him whom all the virtuous loved, and whom the wicked dreaded; whom all
his friends adored, and whom even his enemies admired.
“Alas! alas!” cried she, “this was but a wretched attempt to play the
heroine. Already does my resolution fail me. Ah, Flodoardo! I meant
not what I said. I love you—love you now, and must love you always,
though Camilla may chide, and though my good uncle may hate me.”
In a few days after this interview she understood that an extraordinary
alteration had taken place in Flodoardo’s manner and appearance; that he
had withdrawn himself from all general society; and that when the
solicitations of his intimate friends compelled him to appear in their
circle, his spirits seemed evidently depressed by the weight of an
unconquerable melancholy.
This intelligence was like the stroke of a poniard to the feeling heart
of Rosabella. She fled for shelter to the solitude of her chamber, there
indulged her feelings without restraint, and lamented, with showers of
repentant tears, her harsh treatment of Flodoardo.
The grief which preyed in secret on her soul soon undermined her health.
No one could relieve her sufferings, for no one knew the cause of her
melancholy, or the origin of her illness. No wonder, then, that
Rosabella’s situation at length excited the most bitter anxiety in the
bosom of her venerable uncle. No wonder, too, that Flodoardo entirely
withdrew himself from a world which was become odious to him, since
Rosabella was to be seen in it no longer; and that he devoted himself in
solitude to the indulgence of a passion which he had vainly endeavoured
to subdue, and which, in the impetuosity of its course, had already
swallowed up every other wish, and every other sentiment.
But let us for the moment turn from the sick chamber of Rosabella, and
visit the dwellings of the conspirators, who were now advancing with
rapid strides towards the execution of their plans; and who, with every
hour that passed over their heads, became more numerous, more powerful,
and more dangerous to Andreas and his beloved Republic.
Parozzi, Memmo, Contarino, Falieri, the chiefs of this desperate
undertaking, now assembled frequently in the Cardinal Gonzaga’s palace,
where different plans for altering the constitution of Venice were
brought forward and discussed. But in all different schemes it was
evident that the proposer was solely actuated by considerations of
private interest. The object of one was to get free from the burden of
enormous debts; another was willing to sacrifice everything to gratify
his inordinate ambition. The cupidity of _this_ man was excited by the
treasures of Andreas and his friends; while _that_ was actuated by
resentment of some fancied offence, a resentment which could only be
quenched with the offender’s blood.
These execrable wretches, who aimed at nothing less than the total
overthrow of Venice, or at least of her government, looked towards the
completion of their extravagant hopes with the greater confidence, since
a new but necessary addition to the already existing taxes had put the
Venetian populace out of humour with their rulers.
Rich enough, both in adherents and in wealth, to realise their projects,
rich enough in bold, shrewd, desperate men, whose minds were well adapted
to the contrivance and execution of revolutionary projects, they now
looked down with contempt upon the good old Doge, who as yet entertained
no suspicion of their nocturnal meetings.
Still did they not dare to carry their projects into effect, till some
principal persons in the State should be prevented by _death_ from
throwing obstacles in their way. For the accomplishment of this part of
their plan they relied on the daggers of the banditti. Dreadful
therefore was the sound in their ears, when the bell gave the signal for
execution, and they saw their best-founded hopes expire on the scaffold,
which supported the headless trunks of the four bravoes. But if their
consternation was great at thus losing the destined instruments of their
designs, how extravagant was their joy when the proud Abellino dared
openly to declare to Venice that he still inhabited the Republic, and
that he still wore a dagger at the disposal of Vice.
“This desperado is the very man for us!” they exclaimed unanimously, and
in rapture; and now their most ardent wish was to enroll Abellino in
their services.
Their object was soon attained—they sought the daring ruffian, and he
suffered himself to be found. He visited their meetings, but in his
promises and demands he was equally extravagant.
The first and most earnest wish of the whole conspiracy was the death of
Conari, the Procurator, a man whom the Doge valued beyond all others, a
man whose eagle eyes made the conspirators hourly tremble for their
secret, and whose service the Doge had accepted, in preference to those
of the Cardinal Gonzaga. But the sum which Abellino demanded for the
murder of this one man was enormous.
“Give me the reward which I require,” said he, “and I promise, on the
word of a man of honour, that after this night the Procurator, Conari,
shall give you no further trouble. Exalt him to heaven, or imprison him
in hell, I’ll engage to find and stab him.”
What could they do? Abellino was not a man to be easily beat down in his
demands. The Cardinal was impatient to attain the summit of his wishes;
but his road lay straight over Conari’s grave!
Abellino received the sum demanded; the next day the venerable Conari,
the Doge’s best and dearest friend, the pride and safeguard of the
Republic, was no longer numbered among the living.
“’Tis a terrible fellow, this Abellino!” cried the conspirators, when the
news reached them, and celebrated the Procurator’s death in triumph at
the Cardinal’s midnight feast.
The Doge was almost distracted with terror and astonishment. He engaged
to give ten thousand sequins to any one who should discover by whom
Conari had been removed from the world. A proclamation to this effect
was published at the corner of every street in Venice, and made known
throughout the territories of the Republic. A few days after this
proclamation had been made, a paper was discovered affixed to the
principal door of the Venetian Signoria.
“VENETIANS!
“You would fain know the author of Conari’s death. To spare you much
fruitless trouble, I hereby acknowledge that I, Abellino, was his
assassin.
“Twice did I bury my dagger in his heart, and then sent his body to
feed the fishes. The Doge promises _ten_ thousand sequins to him who
shall discover Conari’s murderer; and to him who shall be clever
enough to _seize_ him, Abellino hereby promises _twenty_. Adieu,
Signors. I remain your faithful servant,
“ABELLINO.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE TWO GREATEST MEN IN VENICE.
IT must be superfluous to inform my readers that all Venice became
furious at this new insolence. Within the memory of man had no one ever
treated with such derision the celebrated Venetian police, or set the
Doge’s power at defiance with such proud temerity. This occurrence threw
the whole city into confusion; every one was on the look-out; the patrols
were doubled; the sbirri extended their researches on all sides; yet no
one could see, or hear, or discover the most distant trace of Abellino.
The priests in their sermons strove to rouse the slumbering vengeance of
Heaven to crush this insolent offender. The ladies were ready to swoon
at the very name of Abellino, for who could assure them that, at some
unexpected moment, he might not pay _them_ the same compliment which he
had paid to Rosabella? As for the old women, they unanimously asserted
that Abellino had sold himself to the Prince of Darkness, by whose
assistance he was enabled to sport with the patience of all pious
Venetians, and deride the impotence of their just indignation. The
Cardinal and his associates were proud of their terrible confederate, and
looking forward with confidence to the triumphant issue of their
undertaking. The deserted family of Conari called down curses on his
murderer’s head, and wished that their tears might be changed into a sea
of sulphur, in whose waves they might plunge the monster Abellino; nor
did Conari’s relations feel more grief for his loss than the Doge and his
two confidants, who swore never to rest till they had discovered the
lurking-place of this ruthless assassin, and had punished his crime with
tenfold vengeance.
“Yet, after all,” said Andreas one evening, as he sat alone in his
private chamber, “after all, it must be confessed that this Abellino is a
singular man. He who can do what Abellino has done must possess both
such talents and such courage as, stood he at the head of an army, would
enable him to conquer half the world. Would that I could once get a
sight of him!”
“Look up, then!” roared Abellino, and clapped the Doge on the shoulder.
Andreas started from his seat. A colossal figure stood before him,
wrapped in a dark mantle above which appeared a countenance so hideous
and forbidding, that the universe could not have produced its equal.
“Who art thou?” stammered out the Doge.
“Thou seest me, and canst doubt? Well, then, I am Abellino, the good
friend of your murdered Conari, the Republic’s most submissive slave.”
The brave Andreas, who had never trembled in fight by land or by sea, and
for whom no danger had possessed terrors sufficient to shake his
undaunted resolution, the brave Andreas now forgot for a few moments his
usual presence of mind. Speechless did he gaze on the daring assassin,
who stood before him calm and haughty, unappalled by the majesty of the
greatest man in Venice.
Abellino nodded to him with an air of familiar protection, and graciously
condescended to grin upon him with a kind of half-friendly smile.
“Abellino,” said the Doge, at length, endeavouring to recollect himself,
“thou art a fearful—a detestable man.”
“Fearful?” answered the bravo; “dost thou think me so? Good, that glads
me to the very heart! Detestable? that may be so, or it may not. I
confess, the sign which I hang out gives no great promise of good
entertainment within; but yet, Andreas, one thing is certain. You and I
stand on the same line, for at this moment we are the two greatest men in
Venice; you in your way, I in mine.”
The Doge could not help smiling at the bravo’s familiar tone.
“Nay, nay,” continued Abellino, “no smiles of disbelief, if you please.
Allow me, though a bravo, to compare myself to a Doge; truly, I think
there’s no great presumption in placing myself on a level with a man whom
I hold in my power, and who therefore is in fact beneath me.”
The Doge made a movement, as he would have left him.
“Not so fast,” said Abellino, laughing rudely, and he barred the Doge’s
passage. “Accident seldom unites in so small a space as this chamber a
pair of such great men. Stay where you are, for I have not done with you
yet; we must have a little conversation.”
“Hear me, Abellino,” said the Doge, mustering up all the dignity which he
possessed; “thou hast received great talents from Nature: why dost thou
employ them to so little advantage? I here promise you, on my most
sacred word, pardon for the past, and protection for the future, will you
but name to me the villain who bribed you to assassinate Conari, abjure
your bloody trade, and accept an honest employment in the service of the
Republic. If this offer is rejected, at least quit with all speed the
territory of Venice, or I swear—”
“Ho! ho!” interrupted Abellino; “pardon and protection, say you? It is
long since I thought it worth my while to care for such trifles.
Abellino is able to protect himself without foreign aid; and, as to
pardon, mortals cannot give absolution for sins like mine. On that day,
when all men must give in the list of their offences, then, too, will I
give in mine, but till then never. You would know the name of him who
bribed me to be Conari’s murderer? Well, well, you shall know it, but
not to-day. I must quit with all speed the Venetian territory? and
wherefore; through fear of thee? Ho! ho! Through fear of Venice? Ha,
Abellino fears not Venice; ’tis Venice that fears Abellino! You would
have me abjure my profession? Well, Andreas, there is one condition,
which, perhaps—”
“Name it,” cried the Doge, eagerly; “will ten thousand sequins purchase
your departure from the Republic?”
“I would gladly give you twice as much myself, could you recall the
insult of offering Abellino so miserable a bribe! No, Andreas, but one
price can pay me: give me your niece for my bride. I love Rosabella, the
daughter of Guiscard of Corfu.”
“Monster—what insolence!”
“Ho! ho! Patience, patience, good uncle, that is to be. Will you accept
my terms?”
“Name what sum will satisfy you, and it shall be yours this instant, so
you will only relieve Venice from your presence. Though it should cost
the Republic a million she will be a gainer, if her air is no longer
poisoned by your breath.”
“Indeed! Why, in fact, a million is not so great a sum; for look you,
Andreas, I have just sold for near _half_ a million the lives of your two
dear friends, Manfrone and Lomellino. Now give me Rosabella, and I break
the bargain.”
“Miscreant! Has Heaven no lightnings?”
“You will not? Mark me! In four-and-twenty hours shall Manfrone and
Lomellino be food for fishes. Abellino has said it. Away!”
And with these words he drew a pistol from under his cloak, and flashed
it in the Doge’s face. Blinded by the powder, and confused by the
unexpected explosion, Andreas started back, and sunk bewildered on a
neighbouring sofa. He soon recovered from his astonishment. He sprang
from his seat to summon his guards and seize Abellino; but Abellino had
already disappeared.
On that same evening were Parozzi and his confederates assembled in the
palace of the Cardinal Gonzaga. The table was spread with the most
luxurious profusion, and they arranged over their flowing goblets plans
for the Republic’s ruin. The Cardinal related how he had of late
contrived to insinuate himself into the Doge’s good graces, and had
succeeded in impressing him with an opinion that the chiefs of the
confederacy were fit men to hold offices of important trust. Contarino
boasted that he doubted not before long to be appointed to the vacant
procuratorship. Parozzi reckoned for _his_ share upon Rosabella’s hand,
and the place either of Lomellino or Manfrone, when once those two chief
obstacles to his hope should be removed. Such was the conversation in
which they were engaged, when the clock struck twelve, the doors flew
wide, and Abellino stood before them.
“Wine, there!” cried he; “the work is done. Manfrone and Lomellino are
at supper with the worms. And I have thrown the Doge himself into such a
fit of terror that I warrant he will not recover himself easily. Now
answer are you content with me, you bloodhounds?”
“Next, then, for Flodoardo!” shouted Parozzi.