الفصل الفصل 11 · Chapter XI
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As a pack of blood-hounds, after having in vain tracked the hare, return
desponding towards their master, with their ears down, and tails
hanging, so, in this night of confusion, returned the bravoes to the
palace of Don Roderick, who was pacing, in the dark, the floor of an
upper uninhabited chamber. Full of impatience and uncertainty as to the
issue of the expedition, and not without anxiety for the possible
consequences, his ear was attentive to every sound, and his eye to every
movement on the esplanade. This was the most daring piece of villany he
had ever undertaken; but he felt that the precautions he had used would
preserve him from suspicion. “And who will dare to come here, and ask if
she is not in this palace? Should this young fellow do so, he will be
well received, I promise him. Let the friar come! yea, let him come. If
the old woman presumes so far, she shall be sent to Bergamo. As for the
law, I do fear it not; the _podestà_ is neither a boy nor a fool! Pshaw!
there’s nothing to fear. How will Attilio be surprised to-morrow
morning; he will find I am not a mere boaster. But if any difficulty
should arise, he’ll assist—the honour of all my relatives will be
pledged.” But these anxious thoughts subsided as he reverted to
Lucy.—“She will be frightened to find herself alone, surrounded only by
these rough visages: by Bacchus, the most human face here is my own, and
she will be obliged to have recourse to me—to entreaty.” In the midst
of these calculations he heard a trampling of feet, approached the
window, and looking out exclaimed, “It is they! But the litter! the
devil! where is the litter? Three, five, eight, they are all there; but
where is the litter? The devil! Griso shall render me an account of
this.” He then advanced to the head of the stairs to meet Griso. “Well,”
cried he, “Signor Bully, Signor Captain, Signor ‘Leave it to me!’”
“It is hard,” said Griso,—“it is hard to meet with reproach, when one
has hazarded one’s life to perform his duty.”
“How has it happened? Let us hear, let us hear,” said he, as he advanced
towards the room, followed by Griso, who related, as clearly as he
could, the occurrences of the night.
“Thou hast done well,” said Don Roderick; “thou hast done all that thou
couldst—but to think that this roof harbours a spy! If I discover him
I will settle matters for him; and I tell thee, Griso, I suspect the
information was given the day of the dinner.”
“I have had the same suspicion,” said Griso; “and if my master discovers
the scoundrel, he has only to trust him to me. He has made me pass a
troublesome night, and I wish to pay him for it. But there must be, I
think, some other cause, which we cannot at present fathom; to-morrow,
Signor, to-morrow we will see clear water.”
“Have you been recognised by any one?”
Griso thought not; and after having given him many orders for the
morrow, and wishing to make amends for the impetuosity with which he had
at first greeted him, Don Roderick said, “Go to rest, poor Griso! you
must indeed require it. Labouring all day, and half the night, and then
to be received in this manner! Go to rest now; for we may yet be obliged
to put your friendship to a severer test. Good night.”
The next morning Don Roderick sought the Count Attilio, who, receiving
him with a laugh, said, “San Martin!”
“I will pay the wager,” said Don Roderick. “I thought indeed to have
surprised you this morning, and therefore have kept from you some
circumstances. I will now tell you all.”
“The friar’s hand is in this business,” said his cousin, after having
heard him through: “this friar, with his playing at bo-peep, and giving
advice; I know him for a busybody and a rascal! And you did not confide
in me, and tell me what brought him here the other day to trifle with
you. If I had been in your place he should not have gone out as he came
in, of that be assured.”
“What! would you wish me to incur the resentment of all the capuchins in
Italy?”
“In such a moment,” said the count, “I should have forgotten there was
any other capuchin in the world than this daring rascal; but the means
are not wanting, within the pale of prudence, to take satisfaction even
of a capuchin. It is well for him that he has escaped the punishment
best suited to him; but I take him henceforth under my protection, and
will teach him how to speak to his superiors.”
“Do not make matters worse.”
“Trust me for once; I will serve you as a relation and a friend.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“I don’t know yet; but I will certainly pay the friar. Let me see—the
count my uncle, who is one of the secret council, will do the service;
dear uncle! How pleased I am when I can make him work for me, a
politician of his stamp! The day after to-morrow I will be at Milan, and
in some way or other the friar shall have his due.”
Meanwhile breakfast was brought in, which however did not interrupt the
important discussion. Count Attilio interested himself in the cause from
his friendship for his cousin, and the honour of the name, according to
his notions of friendship and honour; yet he could hardly help laughing
every now and then at the ridiculous issue of the adventure. But Don
Roderick, who had calculated upon making a master-stroke, was vexed at
his signal failure, and agitated by various passions. “Fine stories will
be circulated,” said he, “of last night’s affair, but no matter; as to
justice, I defy it: it does not exist; and if it did, I should equally
defy it. Apropos, I have sent word this morning to the constable, to
make no deposition respecting the affair, and he will be sure to follow
my advice; but tattling always annoys me,—it is enough that _you_ have
it in your power to laugh at me.”
“It is well you have given the constable his message,” said the count;
“this great empty-headed, obstinate proser of a _podestà_ is however a
man who knows his duty, and we must be careful not to place him in
difficulty. If a fellow of a constable makes a deposition, the
_podestà_, however well intentioned, is obliged to——”
“But you,” interrupted Don Roderick, with a little warmth,—“you spoil
my affairs, by contradicting him, and laughing at him on every occasion.
Why the devil can’t you suffer a magistrate to be an obstinate beast,
while in other things that suit our convenience he is an honest man?”
“Do you know, cousin,” said the count, regarding him with an expression
of affected surprise, “do you know that I begin to think you capable of
fear? You take the _podestà_ and myself to be in earnest.”
“Well, well, have not you yourself said that we should be careful?”
“Certainly; and when the question is serious, I will show you I am not a
boy. Shall I tell you what I will do for you? I will go in person to
make the _podestà_ a visit; do you not think he will be pleased with the
honour? And I will let him talk by the half hour of the count duke, and
the Spanish keeper of the castle, and then I will throw in some remarks
about the signor count of the secret council, my uncle; you know what
effect this will have. Finally, he has more need of our protection, than
you have of his condescension. He knows this well enough, and I shall
leave him better disposed than I find him, that you may depend upon.” So
saying, he took his departure, leaving Don Roderick alone to wait the
return of Griso, who had been, in obedience to his orders, reconnoitring
the ground, and ascertaining the state of the public mind with regard to
the events of the preceding night. He came at last, at the hour of
dinner, to give in his relation. The tumult of this night had been so
loud, and the disappearance of three persons from the village so
mysterious, that strict and indefatigable search would naturally be made
for them; and on the other hand, those who were possessed of partial
information on the subject were too numerous to preserve an entire
silence. Perpetua was assailed every where to tell what had caused her
master such a fright, and she, perceiving how she had been deceived by
Agnes, and feeling exasperated at her perfidy, had need of a little
self-restraint; not that she complained of the deception practised on
herself, of that she did not breathe a syllable; but the injury done to
her poor master could not pass in silence, and that such an injury
should have been attempted by such worthy people! Don Abbondio could
command and entreat her to be silent, and she could reply that there was
no necessity for inculcating a thing so obvious and proper, but certain
it is that the secret remained in the heart of the poor woman as new
wine in an old cask, which ferments and bubbles, and if it does not send
the bung into the air, works out in foam between the staves, and drops
here and there, so that one can drink it, and tell what sort of wine it
is. Jervase, who could scarcely believe that for once he knew a little
more than others, and who felt himself a man, since he had been an
accomplice in a criminal affair, was dying to communicate it. And Tony,
however alarmed at the thoughts of further enquiries and investigation,
was bursting, in spite of all his prudence, till he had told the whole
secret to his wife, who was not dumb. The one who spoke least was
Menico, because his parents, alarmed at his coming into collision with
Don Roderick, had kept him in the house for several days; they
themselves, however, without wishing to appear to know more than others,
insinuated that the fugitives had taken refuge at Pescarenico. This
report, then, became current among the villagers. But no one could
account for the attack of the bravoes: all agreed in suspecting Don
Roderick; but the rest was total obscurity. The presence of the three
bravoes at the inn was discussed, and the landlord was interrogated; but
his memory was, on this point, as defective as ever. His inn, he
concluded as usual, was just like a sea-port. Who was this pilgrim, seen
by Stefano and Carlandrea, and whom the robbers wished to murder, and
had carried off? For what purpose had he been at the cottage? Some said
it was a good spirit, come to the assistance of the inmates; others,
that it was the spirit of a wicked pilgrim, who came at night to join
such companions, and perform such deeds, as he had been accustomed to
while living; others, again, went so far as to conjecture that it was
one of these very robbers, clothed like a pilgrim; so that Griso, with
all his experience, would have been at a loss to discover who it was, if
he had expected to acquire this information from others. But, as the
reader knows, that which was perplexity to them, was perfect clearness
to Griso. He was enabled, therefore, from these various sources, to
obtain a sufficiently distinct account for the ear of Don Roderick. He
related the attempt upon Don Abbondio, which accounted for the
desertion of the cottage, without the necessity of imagining a spy in
the palace: he told of their flight, which might be accounted for by the
fear of the discovery of their trick upon Don Abbondio, or by the
intelligence that their cottage had been broken into, and that they had
probably gone together to Pescarenico. “Fled together!” cried Don
Roderick, hoarse with rage: “together! and this rascal friar! this friar
shall answer it! Griso, this night I must know where they are. I shall
have no peace; ascertain if they are at Pescarenico; quick; fly; four
crowns immediately, and my protection for ever! this rascal! this
friar!”
Griso was once more in the field; and on the evening of this very day
reported to his worthy master the desired intelligence, and by the
following means. The good man by whom the little party had been
conducted to Monza, returning with his carriage to Pescarenico at the
hour of vespers, chanced to meet, before he reached his home, a
particular friend, to whom he related, in great confidence, the good
work he had accomplished; so that Griso could, two hours after, inform
Don Roderick that Lucy and her mother had taken refuge in a convent of
Monza, and that Renzo had proceeded on his way to Milan. Don Roderick
felt his hopes revive at this separation; and having, during great part
of the night, revolved in his mind the measures for effecting his wicked
purpose, he aroused Griso early in the morning, and gave him the orders
he had premeditated.
“Signor?” said Griso, hesitating.
“Well, have I have not spoken clearly?”
“If you would send some other——”
“How?”
“Most illustrious signor, I am ready to sacrifice my life for my master,
and it is my duty to do so; but you, you would not desire me to place it
in peril?”
“Well?”
“Your illustrious lordship knows well these few murders that are laid to
my account, and——Here I am under the protection of your lordship, and
in Milan the livery of your lordship is known, but in Monza _I_ am
known. And, your lordship knows, I do not say it boastingly, he who
should deliver me up to justice would be well rewarded, a hundred good
crowns, and permission to liberate two banditti.”
“What, the devil!” said Don Roderick, “you are like a vile cur, who has
scarce courage to rush at the legs of such as pass by the door; and, not
daring to leave the house, keeps himself within the protection of his
master.”
“I think I have given proof, signor,” said Griso.
“Well?”
“Well,” resumed Griso, boldly, thus put on his mettle, “your lordship
must forget my hesitation; heart of a lion, legs of a hare, I am ready
to go.”
“But you shall not go alone; take with you two of the best; _Cut-face_
and _Aim-well_, and go boldly, and show yourself to be still Griso. The
devil! people will be well content to let such faces as yours pass
without molestation! And as to the bailiffs of Monza, they must have
become weary of life to place it in such danger, for the chance of a
hundred crowns! But I do not believe that I am so far unknown there,
that the stamp of my service should pass for nothing.”
Griso, having received ample and minute instructions, took his
departure, accompanied by the two bravoes; cursing in his heart the
whims of his master.
It now became the design of Don Roderick to contrive some way, by which
Renzo, separated as he was from Lucy, should be prevented from
attempting to return. He thought that the most certain means would be to
have him sent out of the state, but this required the sanction of the
law; he could, for example, give a colouring to the attempt at the
curate’s house, and represent it as a seditious act, and through Doctor
Azzecca Garbugli give the _podestà_ to understand that it was his duty
to apprehend Renzo. But while he thought of the doctor as the man the
most suitable for this service, Renzo himself put an end to much further
deliberation on the subject by withdrawing himself.
Like the boy who drives his little Indian pigs to the fold, whose
obstinacy impels them divers ways, and thus obliges him first to apply
to one and then to another till he can succeed in penning them all, so
are we obliged to play the same game with the personages of our story.
Having secured Lucy, we ran to Don Roderick. Him we now quit to give an
account of Renzo.
After the mournful parting which we have related, he set out,
discouraged and disheartened, on his way to Milan. To bid farewell to
his home and his country, and what was more, to Lucy! to find himself
among strangers, not knowing where to rest his head, and all on account
of this villain! When these thoughts presented themselves to the mind of
Renzo, he was, for the moment, absorbed by rage and the desire of
revenge; but when he recollected the prayer that he had uttered with the
good friar in the convent of Pescarenico, his better feelings prevailed,
and he was enabled to acquire some degree of resignation to the
chastisements of which he stood so much in need. The road lay between
two high banks; it was muddy, stony, and furrowed by deep wheel tracks,
which, after a rain, became rivulets, overflowing the road, and
rendering it nearly impassable. In such places small raised footpaths
indicated that others had found a way by the fields. Renzo ascended one
of these paths to the high ground, whence he beheld, as if rising from a
desert, and not in the midst of a city, the noble structure of the
cathedral, and he forgot all his misfortunes in contemplating, even at a
distance, this eighth wonder of the world, of which he had heard so much
from his infancy. But looking back, he saw in the horizon the notched
ridge of mountains, and distinctly perceiving, among them, his own
_Resegone_, he gazed at it mournfully a while, and then with a beating
heart went on his way; steeples, towers, cupolas, and roofs soon
appeared: he descended into the road, and when he perceived that he was
very near the city, he accosted a traveller, with the civility which was
natural to him, “Will you be so good, sir——”
“What do you want, my good young man?”
“Will you be so good as to direct me by the shortest way to the convent
of the capuchins, where Father Bonaventura resides?”
He replied, very affably, “My good lad, there is more than one convent;
you must tell me more clearly what and whom you seek.”
Renzo then took from his bosom the letter of Father Christopher, and
presented it to the gentleman, who, after having read it, returned it,
saying, “The eastern gate; you are fortunate, young man—the convent you
seek is but a short distance from this. Take this path to the left; it
is a by-way, and in a little while you will find yourself by the side of
a long and low building; that is the _lazaretto_; keep along the ditch
that encircles it, and you will soon be at the eastern gate. Enter, and
a few steps further on you will see before you an open square with fine
elm trees; the convent is there—you cannot mistake it. God be with
you!” And accompanying his last words with a kind wave of his hand, he
proceeded on his way. Renzo was astonished at the good manners of the
citizens to countrymen, not knowing that it was an extraordinary day, a
day in which cloaks humbled themselves to doublets. He followed the path
which had been pointed out to him, and arrived at the eastern entrance,
which consisted of two pilasters, with a roofing above to secure the
gates, and on one side was a small house for the toll-gatherer. The
openings of the rampart descended irregularly, and their surface was
filled with rubbish. The street of the suburb which led from this gate
was not unlike the one which now opens from the Tosa gate. A small ditch
ran in the midst of it, until within a few steps of the gate, and
divided it into two small crooked streets, covered with dust or mud,
according to the season. At the place where was, and is still, the
collection of houses called the Borghetto, the ditch empties itself into
a common sewer, and thence into another ditch which runs along the
walls. At this point was a column with a cross on it, dedicated to _San
Dionigi_; to the right and left were gardens enclosed by hedges, and at
intervals, small houses inhabited for the most part by washerwomen.
Renzo passed through the gate, without being stopped by the
toll-gatherer, which appeared to him very remarkable, as he had heard
those few of his townsmen, who could boast of having been at Milan,
relate wonderful stories of the strict search and close enquiries to
which those were subjected who entered its gates. The street was
deserted, and if he had not heard the humming of a crowd at a distance,
he might have thought he was entering a city which had been abandoned by
its inhabitants. As he advanced, he saw on the pavement something
scattered here and there, which was as white as snow, but snow at this
season it could not be; he touched it, and found that it was flour.
“There must be a great plenty in Milan,” said he, “if they thus throw
away the gifts of God. They give out that famine is every where; this
they do to keep poor people abroad quiet.” But in a few moments he
arrived in front of the column, and saw on the steps of the pedestal
certain things scattered, which were not assuredly stones, and which, if
they had been on a baker’s counter, he would not have hesitated to call
loaves of bread. But Renzo dared not so easily trust his eyes, because
truly this was not a place for bread. “Let us see what this is,” said
he, and approaching the column, he took one in his hand; it was, indeed,
a very white loaf of bread, such as Renzo was accustomed to eat only on
festival days. “It is really bread!” said he, in wonder. “Do they
scatter it thus here? And in a year like this? And do they suffer it to
lie here, and not take the trouble to gather it? This must be a fine
place to live in!” After ten miles of travel, in the fresh air of the
morning, the sight of the bread awaked his appetite. “Shall I take it?”
said he again. “Poh! they have left it to the dogs; surely, a Christian
may take advantage of it; and if the owner should come, I can pay him at
any rate.” So saying, he put in one pocket that which he had in his
hand, took a second, and put it in the other, and a third, which he
began to eat, and resumed his way, full of wonder at the strangeness of
the incident. As he moved on he saw people approaching from the interior
of the city; and his attention was drawn to those who appeared first; a
man, a woman, and a boy, each with a load which seemed beyond their
strength, and exhibiting each a grotesque appearance. Their clothes, or
rather their rags, powdered with meal, their faces the same, and
excessively heated; they walked, not only as if overcome by the weight,
but as if their limbs had been beaten and bruised. The man supported
with difficulty a great bag of flour, which having holes here and there,
scattered its contents at every unequal movement. But the figure of the
woman was still more remarkable: she had her petticoat turned up, filled
with as much flour as it could hold, and a little more; so that from
time to time it flew over the pavement. She was, indeed, a grotesque
picture, with her arms stretched out to encompass her burden, and
staggering under its weight, her bare legs were seen beneath it. The boy
held with both hands a basket full of bread on his head, but he was
detained behind his parents to pick up the loaves which were constantly
falling from it.
“If you let another fall, you ugly little dog——” said the mother, in a
rage.
“I don’t let them fall; they fall of themselves. How can I help it?”
replied he.
“Eh! it’s well for thee that my hands are full,” resumed the woman.
“Come, come,” said the man, “now that we have a little plenty, let us
enjoy it in peace.”
Meanwhile there had arrived a company of strangers, and one of them
addressed the woman, “Where are we to go for bread?”—“On, on,” replied
she, and added, muttering, “These rascal countrymen will sweep all the
shops and warehouses, and leave none for us.”
“There is a share for every one, chatterer,” said her husband; “plenty,
plenty.”
From all that Renzo saw and heard, he gathered that there was an
insurrection in the city, and that each one provided for himself, in
proportion to his will and strength. Although we would desire to make
our poor mountaineer appear to the most advantage, historical truth
obliges us to say that his first sentiment was that of complacency. He
had so little to rejoice at, in the ordinary course of affairs, that he
congratulated himself on a change, of whatever nature it might be. And
for the rest, he, who was not a man superior to the age in which he
lived, held the common opinion that the scarcity of bread had been
caused by the speculators and bakers, and that any method would be
justifiable, of wresting from them the aliment which they cruelly denied
to the people. However, he determined to keep away from the tumult, and
congratulated himself on the good fortune of having for his friend a
capuchin, who would afford him shelter and good advice. Occupied with
such reflections, and noticing from time to time as more people came up
loaded with plunder, he proceeded to the convent.
The church and convent of the capuchins was situated in the centre of a
small square, shaded by elm trees; Renzo placed in his bosom his
remaining half loaf, and with his letter in his hand, approached the
gate and rung the bell. At a small grated window appeared the face of a
friar, porter to the convent, to ask “who was there?”
“One from the country, who brings a letter to Father Bonaventura, from
Father Christopher.”
“Give here,” said the friar, thrusting his hand through the grate.
“No, no,” said Renzo, “I must give it into his own hands.”
“He is not in the convent.”
“Suffer me to enter and wait for him,” replied Renzo.
“You had best wait in the church,” said the friar; “perhaps that may be
of service to you. Into the convent you do not enter at present.” So
saying, he hastily closed the window, leaving Renzo to receive the
repulse with the best grace he could. He was about to follow the advice
of the porter, when he was seized with the desire to give a glance at
the tumult. He crossed the square, and advanced towards the middle of
the city, where the disturbance was greatest. Whilst he is proceeding
thither, we will relate, as briefly as possible, the causes of this
commotion.