The Betrothed Part 35

The archbishop pa.s.sed on, and entering the hall, the admirable pair presented themselves to the eager gaze of the clergy who were there a.s.sembled. They regarded with intense curiosity those two countenances, on which were depicted different, but equally profound emotions. The venerable features of Frederick breathed a grateful and humble joy; in those of the Unknown might be traced an embarra.s.sment blended with satisfaction, an unusual modesty, a keen remorse, through which, however, the lingerings of his severe and savage nature were apparent.

More than one of the spectators thought of that pa.s.sage of Isaiah, "The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid." Behind them came Don Abbondio, whom no one noticed.

When they had reached the middle of the apartment, the servant of the cardinal entered, to inform him that he had executed the orders of the chaplain, that the litter was ready, and that they only waited for the female whom the curate was to bring. The cardinal told him to inform Don Abbondio when the curate should have arrived, and that afterwards all would be subject to his orders and those of the Unknown, to whom he bade an affectionate farewell, saying, "I shall expect you." Bowing to Don Abbondio, he directed his steps, followed by the clergy in procession, to the church.

Don Abbondio and the Unknown were left alone in the apartment; the latter was absorbed in his own thoughts, impatient for the moment to arrive when he should take _his_ Lucy from sorrow and prison; for she was indeed _his_ Lucy, but in a sense very different from the preceding night. His countenance expressed concentrated agitation, which to the suspicious eye of Don Abbondio appeared something worse: he looked at him with a desire to begin a friendly conversation. "But what can I say to him?" thought he. "Shall I repeat to him that I rejoice? I rejoice!

at what? That having been a demon, he has formed the resolution to become an honest man? A pretty salutation, indeed! Eh! eh! _however_ I should arrange my words, my _I rejoice_ would signify nothing else! And can one believe that he has become an honest man all in a moment!

a.s.sertions prove nothing; it is so easy to make them! But, nevertheless, I must go with him to the castle! Oh! who would have told me this, this morning! Oh! if ever I am so happy as to get home again, Perpetua shall answer for having urged me to come here! Oh! miserable that I am! I must however say something to this man!" He had at least thought of something to say,--"I never expected the pleasure of being in such respectable company,"--and had opened his mouth to speak, when the servant entered with the curate of the village, who informed them that the good woman was in the litter awaiting them. Don Abbondio, approaching the servant, said to him, "Give me a gentle beast, for, to say truth, I am not a skilful horseman."

"Be quite easy," replied the valet, with a smile; "it is the mule of the secretary, a grave man of letters."

"Well," replied Don Abbondio, and continued to himself, "Heaven preserve me!"

The Unknown had advanced towards the door, but looking back, and seeing Don Abbondio behind, he suddenly recollected himself, and bowing with a polite and humble air, waited to let him pa.s.s before. This circ.u.mstance re-a.s.sured the poor man a little; but he had scarcely reached the little court, when he saw the Unknown resume his carbine, and fling it over his shoulder, as if performing the military exercise.

"Oh! oh! oh!" thought Don Abbondio, "what does he want with this tool?

That is a strange ornament for a converted person! And if some whim should enter his head! what would become of me! what would become of me!"

If the Unknown had had the least suspicion of the thoughts that were pa.s.sing in the mind of his companion, he would have done his utmost to inspire him with confidence; but he was far from such an imagination, as Don Abbondio was very careful not to let his distrust appear.

They found the mules ready at the door: the Unknown mounted one which was presented to him by a groom.

"Is she not vicious in the least?" asked Don Abbondio of the servant, with his foot in the stirrup.

"Be quite easy, she is a lamb," replied he. Don Abbondio climbed to the saddle, by the aid of the servant, and was at last safely mounted.

The litter, which was a few steps in advance, moved at a call from the driver, and the convoy departed.

They had to pa.s.s before the church, which was crowded with people, and through a small square, which was filled with villagers from abroad, who had not been able to find a place within the walls of the church. The report had already spread; and when they saw the carriage appear, and beheld the man who a few hours before had been the object of terror and execration, a confused murmur of applause rose from the crowd. They made way to let him pa.s.s; at the same time each one endeavoured to obtain a sight of him. When he arrived in front of the church, he took off his hat, and bowed his head in reverence, amidst the tumultuous din of many voices, which exclaiming "G.o.d bless you!" Don Abbondio took off his hat also, bent his head, and commended himself to the protection of heaven; and, hearing the voices of his brethren in the choir, he could not restrain his tears.

But when they reached the open country, in the windings of the almost deserted road, a darker veil came over his thoughts; there was nothing that he could regard with confidence but the driver, who, belonging to the establishment of the cardinal, must certainly be honest, and moreover did not look like a coward. From time to time they pa.s.sed travellers crowding to see the cardinal. The sight of them was a transient balm to Don Abbondio; but still he approached this formidable valley, where they would meet none but the va.s.sals of the Unknown! And what va.s.sals! He desired more than ever to enter into conversation with his companion, to keep him in good humour; but, seeing him preoccupied, he dared not attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He was then obliged to hold colloquy with himself, of which we will transcribe a part for the benefit of the reader.

"Is it not an astonis.h.i.+ng thing that the saints, as well as the wicked, have always quicksilver in their veins; and, not contented with making a bustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join the dance with them! Is there not a fatality in it, that the most troublesome come to me,--to me who never meddled with any body; they take me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! who desire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. This mad knave Don Roderick. What was there wanting to make him the happiest man in the world, but a little prudence? He is rich, young, respected, courted; but happiness is a burthen to him, it seems; so that he must seek trouble for himself and his neighbour. He must set up, forsooth, for a molester of women,--the most silly, the most villanous, the most insane conduct in the world. He might ride to paradise in a coach; and he prefers to go halting to the devil's dwelling. And this man before me," continued he, regarding him as if he feared he could hear his thoughts, "and this man, after having, by his villanies, turned the world upside down, now turns it upside down by his conversion--if he is really converted! Meanwhile, it is I who am to put it to the test! Some people always want to make a noise! Is it so difficult to act an honest part, all one's life, as I have? Not at all! but they prefer to murder, kill, and play the devil.--Oh! unhappy man that I am! they must always be in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repent at home, in private, without so much noise,--without giving others so much trouble.--And his ill.u.s.trious lords.h.i.+p! to receive him all at once with open arms; to call him his dear friend, his worthy friend; to listen to his least words as if he had seen him work miracles, to give him his public approbation to a.s.sist him in all his undertakings; I should call this precipitation! And without any pledge or security, to place a poor curate in his hands! A holy bishop--and he is such a.s.suredly--a holy bishop should regard his curates as the apple of his eye. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are things which, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanct.i.ty. And should this be all hypocrisy? Who can tell the designs of such a man? To think that I must accompany him into the castle? There must be some deviltry in it! Am I not unhappy enough? Let me not think of it. But how has Lucy fallen into the clutches of this man? It is a secret between him and my lord the cardinal, and they don't deign to inform me concerning it: I don't care to meddle with the affairs of others, but when one's life is in danger one has a right to know something.--But poor Lucy--I shall be satisfied if she escapes. Heaven knows what she has suffered. I pity her, but she was born to be my ruin. And if this man is really converted, what need has he of me? Oh! what a chaos! But Heaven owes me its protection, since I did not get myself into the difficulty. If I could only read in the countenance of this man what pa.s.ses in his soul!

Look at him; now he looks like Saint Anthony in the desert, and now like Holofernes himself."

In truth, the thoughts which agitated the Unknown pa.s.sed over his countenance, as in a stormy day the clouds fly over the face of the sun, producing a succession of light and shade. His soul, calmed by the gentle language of Frederick, felt elated at the hope of mercy, pardon, and love; but then he sank again under the weight of the terrible past.

Agitated and uneasy, he retraced in his memory those iniquities which were reparable, and considered what remedies would be the safest and quickest. And this unfortunate girl! how much she has suffered! how much he had caused her to suffer! At this thought his impatience to deliver her increased, and he made a sign to the coachman to hasten.

They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now our poor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which he had heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flower of the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them in flesh and blood,--to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true, respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what pa.s.sed in their hearts, and what wicked design against the poor priest might, even then, be forming in their brains.

They reached _Malanotte_; bravoes were at the door, who bowed to the Unknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter.

If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had been regarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is it a prize which he conducts? And how has he taken possession of it alone?

And what is this strange litter? And whose is this livery? They did not stir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that their silence was what he desired.

They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and at the door, retired on both sides to leave the pa.s.sage free. The Unknown made a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he pa.s.sed before the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman to follow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching a small door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced to hold his stirrup, he said, "Remain there yourself, and let none approach nearer." He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near the woman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in a low voice, "Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once that she is free, and with friends. G.o.d will reward you!" He then advanced to the curate, and helping him to dismount, said, "Signor Curate, I will not ask your forgiveness for the trouble you have taken on my account; you suffer for one who will reward you well, and for this poor girl."

His countenance not less than his words restored the courage of Don Abbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in his breast, he replied, "Your lords.h.i.+p jests, surely? But--but--" and accepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from the saddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the care of the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his two companions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Lucy had just risen. She was endeavouring to collect her senses, to separate the turbid visions of sleep from the remembrance of the sad reality, which appeared to her a dismal dream, when the old woman, in a voice which she meant to be humble and gentle, said to her, "Ah! you have slept! You would have done better to go to bed; I told you so a hundred times." Receiving no answer, she continued, "Eat a little; you have need of something; if you do not, he will complain of me when he returns."

"No, no, I wish to go to my mother. Your master promised me, he said, _to-morrow morning_. Where is he?"

"He has gone away; but he left word that he would return soon, and do all that you should desire."

"Did he say so? did he say so? Well; I wish to go to my mother, now, now."

Suddenly they heard steps in the adjoining chamber, and a knock at the door. The old woman demanded, "Who is there?"

"Open," replied the well-known voice.

The old woman drew the bolt, and holding the door open, the Unknown let Don Abbondio and the good woman pa.s.s in; then closing the door, and remaining outside himself, he sent away the old woman to a distant part of the castle. The first appearance of other persons increased the agitation of Lucy, to whom any change brought an accession of alarm. She looked, and beholding a priest and a female, felt somewhat rea.s.sured; she looked again! Can it be? Recognising Don Abbondio, her eyes remained fixed as by the wand of an enchanter. The kind woman bent over her, and with an affectionate and anxious countenance, said, "Alas! my poor child! come, come with us."

"Who are you?" said Lucy,--but, without waiting her reply, she turned again to Don Abbondio, exclaiming, "Is it you? Is it you indeed, Signor Curate? Where are we? Oh! unhappy girl! I am no longer in my right mind!"

"No, no, it is I, in truth; take courage. We have come to take you away.

I am indeed your curate, come for this purpose----"

As if restored to strength in an instant, Lucy stood up, and fixing her eyes again on their faces, she said, "The Virgin has sent you, then!"

"I have no doubt of it," said the good lady.

"But is it true, that we may go away? Is it true indeed?" resumed Lucy, lowering her voice to a timid and fearful tone. "And all these people,"

continued she, with her lips compressed, and trembling from alarm and horror; "and this lord--this man--he promised me indeed."

"He is here also in person with us," said Don Abbondio. "He is without, expecting us; let us go at once; we must not make such a man wait."

At this moment the Unknown appeared at the door. Lucy, who, a few moments before, had desired earnestly to see him--nay, having no other hope in the world, had desired to see none but him--now that she was so unexpectedly in the presence of friends, was, for a moment, overcome with terror. Shuddering with horror, she hid her face on the shoulder of the good dame. Beholding the innocent girl, on whom the evening before he had not had resolution to fix his eyes; beholding her countenance, pale, and changed, from fasting and prolonged suffering, the Unknown hesitated; but perceiving her impulse of terror, he cast down his eyes, and, after a moment's silence, exclaimed, "It is true! forgive me!"

"He comes to save you; he is not the same man; he has become good. Do you hear him ask your forgiveness?" whispered the dame in the ear of Lucy.

"Could any one say more? Come, lift up your head; do not play the child.

We can go away now, immediately," said Don Abbondio.

Lucy raised her head, looked at the Unknown, and beholding his humble and downcast expression, she was affected with a mingled feeling of grat.i.tude and pity: "Oh! my lord! may G.o.d reward you for your compa.s.sion to an unfortunate girl!" cried she; "and may he recompense you a hundred-fold for the consolation you afford me by these words!" So saying, he advanced towards the door, and went out, followed by Lucy; who, quite encouraged, was supported by the arm of the good lady, Don Abbondio bringing up the rear. They descended the stairs, pa.s.sed through the courts, and reached the litter; into which, the Unknown with almost timid politeness (a new thing for him!) a.s.sisted Lucy and her new companion to enter. He then aided Don Abbondio to reseat himself in the saddle. "Oh! what complaisance!" said the latter, moving much more lightly than he had done on first mounting.

The convoy resumed their way; as soon as the Unknown was mounted, his head was raised, and his countenance resumed its accustomed expression of command and authority. The robbers whom they met on their road discovered in it marks of strong thought and extraordinary solicitude; but they did not, they could not, comprehend the cause. They knew nothing as yet of the great change which had taken place in the soul of the man, and certainly such a conjecture would not have entered into their minds.

The good dame hastened to draw the curtains around the litter; pressing the hands of Lucy affectionately, she endeavoured to encourage her by words of piety, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, however, that besides the exhaustion from so much suffering, the confusion and obscurity of all that had happened prevented the poor girl from being alive to the satisfaction of her deliverance; she said what she thought would be most likely to restore her thoughts to their ordinary course.

She mentioned the village to which she belonged, and towards which they were hastening.

"Yes, indeed!" said Lucy, remembering that this village was but a short distance from her own. "Oh! holy Virgin! I render thee thanks. My mother! my mother!"

"We will send for her immediately," said her friend, not knowing that it had already been done.