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Betrothed (version 2 Dramatic Reading)

<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> 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 pass 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 reassured; 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 gratitude and pity: “Oh! my lord! may God reward you for your compassion 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, passed through the courts, and reached the litter; into which, the Unknown with almost timid politeness (a new thing for him!) assisted 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. “Yes, yes; God will reward you. And you,—who are you? How is it that you have come here?” “Our curate sent me, because this lord, whose heart God has touched, (blessed be his holy name!) came to our village to see the cardinal archbishop, who is visiting among us, the dear man of God! This lord has repented of his horrible sins, and wishes to change his life; and he told the cardinal that he had carried off an innocent girl, with the connivance of another, whose name the curate did not mention to me.” Lucy raised her eyes to heaven. “You know it, perhaps,” continued the lady. “Well, the lord cardinal thought, that a young girl being in the question, a female should be found to accompany her; he told the curate to look for one, and the curate kindly came to me——” “Oh! may God reward you for your goodness!” “And the curate desired me to encourage you, my poor child, to relieve you from uneasiness at once, and to make you understand, how the Lord has miraculously preserved you.” “Oh! miraculously indeed, through the intercession of the Virgin!” “He told me to comfort you, to advise you to pardon him who has done you this evil, to rejoice that God has shown compassion towards him, and even to pray for him; for, besides its being a duty, you will derive comfort from it to your own heart.” Lucy replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as if she had made use of words, and with a sweetness which words could not have expressed. “Worthy young woman!” resumed the friend. “And as your curate was also in our village, the lord cardinal judged it best to send him with us, thinking that he might be of some assistance. I had already heard that he was a poor sort of a timid man; and on this occasion, he has been wholly taken up with himself, like a hen with one chick.” “And he——he who is thus changed——who is he?” “How! do you not know?” said the good dame, repeating his name. “Oh! merciful heaven!” cried Lucy. For many times had she heard this name repeated with horror, in more than one story, in which he had appeared like the Ogre of the fairy tale. At the idea of having been in his terrible power, and of now being under his protection,—at the thought of such peril, and such deliverance, in reflecting who this man was that had appeared to her so ferocious, and then so humble and so gentle, she was lost in astonishment, and could only exclaim, from time to time, “Oh! merciful Heaven!” “Yes, it is indeed a great mercy! it is a great happiness for half the world in this neighbourhood, and afar off. When one thinks how many people he kept in continual alarm; and now, as our curate says——But you have only to look in his face to know that he is truly changed. And, besides, by ‘their works’ ye shall know them.” We should not tell the truth, did we say that the good dame had no curiosity to learn more of an affair in which she played so important a part; but, to her praise it must be added, that, feeling a respectful pity for Lucy, and estimating the weight and dignity of the charge confided to her, she did not for a moment think of asking her an indiscreet or idle question. All her discourse in their short journey was composed of expressions of tenderness and interest for the poor girl. “It must be long since you have eaten any thing.” “I do not remember——It must indeed be some time.” “Poor child! you must need something to restore your strength.” “Yes,” replied Lucy, in a faint voice. “At my house, thanks be to God, we shall find something presently. Be of good cheer, it is but a short distance off.” Lucy, wearied and exhausted by her various emotions, fell languidly to the bottom of the litter, overcome by drowsiness; and her kind companion left her to a short repose. As to Don Abbondio, the descent from the castle did not cause him so much fright as the ascent thither; but it was nevertheless not agreeable. When his alarm had first ceased, he felt relieved from an intolerable burthen; but he now began to torment himself in various ways, and found materials for such an operation in the present as well as in the future. His manner of travelling, to which he was not accustomed, he found to be exceedingly unpleasant, especially in the descent from the castle to the valley. The driver, obedient to a sign from the Unknown, made his beasts set off at a quick pace; the two mules kept up with the litter; and thus poor Don Abbondio, subjected to the unusual bounding and rebounding, which was more perilous from the steepness of the declivity they were descending, was obliged to hold fast by the saddle in order to keep his seat, not daring to ask his companions to abate somewhat of their speed. Moreover, if the road lay on a height, along a ridge, the mule, according to the custom of these animals, would obstinately keep on the outside, and place his feet literally on the very edge of the precipice. “Thou also,” said he in his heart to the beast, “thou also hath this cursed desire to seek danger, when there are so many other paths!” He tightened the rein on the other side, but in vain; so that, although dying of vexation and fear, he suffered himself, as was his custom, to be led by the will of another. The bravoes no longer caused him much uneasiness now that he felt confidence in their master. “But,” thought he, nevertheless, “if the news of this great conversion spreads, while we are yet here, who knows how these people may take it? Who knows what might be the result? Perhaps they might take it in their heads to think I had come as a missionary! and then (heaven preserve me!) they would make me suffer martyrdom!” But we have said enough of the terrors of Don Abbondio. The company at last arrived at the extremity of the valley; the countenance of the Unknown became more serene, and Don Abbondio recovered in some degree his usual composure; but still his mind was occupied with more distant evils. “What will this fool Don Roderick say? To be exposed thus to scoffs and jests—how sorely will he feel it! he'll certainly play the devil outright! Perhaps he will seek another quarrel with me because I have been engaged in this cursed business! Having had the heart to send those two demons to attack me in the road, what he will do now, heaven knows. He cannot molest my lord the cardinal, because he is obviously beyond his reach; he will be obliged to champ the bit. However, the poison will be in his veins, and he will need to discharge it somewhere. It is well known how these affairs end; the blows always fall on the weakest. The cardinal will busy himself with placing Lucy in safety; this other poor devil is beyond his reach, but what is to become of me? And what will the cardinal do to defend me, after having engaged me in the business? Can he hinder this atrocious being from serving me a worse turn than before? And then he has so many things to think of! he cannot pay attention to every body! They who do good, do it in the gross, and enjoy their satisfaction without regarding minute consequences: but your evil-doer is more diligent; he lingers behind till he sees the last result, because of the fear that torments him. Shall I say I have acted by my lord archbishop's command, and against my own will? But it will seem that I favour villany! I—for the pleasure it gives me! Heaven forbid! but enough—I'll tell Perpetua the whole story, and leave her to circulate it—if indeed, his reverend lordship should not take up the fancy to make the whole matter public, and thrust me forward as a chief actor. However, I am determined on one thing: I will take leave of my lord the cardinal as soon as we arrive at the village, and go to my home. Lucy has no longer any need of me; she is under good protection; and, after so many fatigues, I may claim the right to take some repose.—But, should my lord be seized with the desire to know all her story, and I be compelled to relate the affair of the marriage! there would then be nothing wanting to complete my misery. And if he should visit my parish! Oh! let come what will, I will not torment myself beforehand! I have cares enough. For the present I shall shut myself up at home. But I foresee too well that my last days must be passed in trouble and vexation.” The little troop arrived before the services of the church were over; and passing, as they had previously done, through the crowd, they proceeded to the house of Lucy's companion. Hardly had Don Abbondio alighted from his mule, when, making the most profuse compliments to the Unknown, he begged him to apologise for him to the cardinal, as he was obliged to return directly to his parish on some urgent business. He then went in search of a staff that he had left in the hall, and which he was accustomed to call his horse, and proceeded homewards. The Unknown remained at the cardinal's house, awaiting his return from the church. The good dame hastened to procure Lucy some refreshment to recruit her exhausted powers; she put some dry branches under a kettle which she replaced over the fire, and in which swam a good fowl; after having suffered it to boil a moment, she filled a plate with the soup, and offered it to Lucy, congratulating herself that the affair had happened on a day, when, as she said, “the cat was not on the hearth.” “It is a day of feasting for all the world,” added she, “except for those unfortunate creatures who can hardly obtain bread of vetches, and a polenta of millet; they hope, however, to receive something from our charitable cardinal. As for us, thank heaven, we are not in that situation; between the trade of my husband and a small piece of land, we manage to live comfortably. Eat, then, poor child, with a good appetite; the fowl will be done presently, and you shall have something better.” She then set about making preparations for dinner for the family. As Lucy's spirits and strength returned, the necessity of arranging her dress occurred to her mind; she therefore tied up her long disordered tresses, and adjusted the handkerchief about her neck; in doing this, her fingers entwined themselves in the chaplet, which was there suspended: she gazed at it with much emotion, and the recollection of the vow she had made, this recollection which had been suspended by so many painful sensations, now rose clearly and distinctly to her mind. All the newly-awakened powers of her soul were again in a moment subdued. And if she had not been prepared for this by a life of innocence, resignation, and confidence, the consternation she experienced would have terminated in despair. After the first tumult of her thoughts had in some measure subsided, she exclaimed, “Oh! unhappy girl! what have I done!” But hardly had she pronounced the words, when she was terrified at having done so; she recalled all the circumstances of her vow, her intolerable anguish, without hope of human aid, the fervour of her petition, the fulness of resolution with which the promise had been made; and to repent of this promise, after having obtained the favour she had implored, appeared to her sacrilegious ingratitude, perfidy towards God and the Virgin. It seemed to her that such infidelity would certainly draw upon her new and more terrible evils, and if these should indeed be its consequences she could no longer hope for an answer to her prayers; she therefore hastened to abjure her momentary regret, and drawing the chaplet reverently from her neck, and holding it in her trembling hand, she confirmed her vow; at the same time fervently praying to God that he would grant her strength to fulfil it, and to drive from her thoughts circumstances which might, if they did not move her resolution, still increase but too much the severity of the sacrifice. The absence of Renzo, without any probability of his return, which had at first been so bitter, appeared now to her a design of Providence, to make the two events conduce to the same end, and she endeavoured to find in one a consolation for the other. She also remembered that Providence would, to finish the work, find means to make Renzo resigned, and cause him to forget—— But scarcely had this idea entered her mind, when a new terror overwhelmed her. Conscious that her heart had still need of repentance, the unfortunate girl again had recourse to prayer, and mental conflict; and at length arose, if the expression may be allowed, like a victor wearied and wounded, having disarmed his enemy. Suddenly footsteps and joyous exclamations were heard; they proceeded from the children of the family, who were returning from church. Two little girls and a little boy ran into the room; stopping a moment to eye the stranger, they then came to their mother, one asking the name of their unknown guest, another wanting to relate the wonders they had seen. The good dame replied to them all with “Be quiet; silence!” The master of the house then entered with a calmer step; but with joy diffused over his countenance. He was the tailor of the village and its environs; a man who knew how to read, and who had even read, more than once, the Legend of the Saints and the Reali di Francia; he was regarded by the peasants as a man of knowledge, and when they lavished their praises on him, he repelled them with much modesty, only saying that he had indeed mistaken his vocation, and that, perhaps, if he had studied——  Notwithstanding this little vanity he was the best natured man in the world. He had been present when the curate requested his wife to undertake her benevolent journey, and had not only given his approbation, but would have added his own persuasions, if that had been necessary; and now that the ceremonies of the church, and above all, the sermon of the cardinal, had given an impetus to his amiable feelings, he returned home with an ardent desire to know if the enterprise had succeeded, and to see the poor innocent girl in safety. “See here!” said his wife to him as he entered, pointing to Lucy, who rose from her seat blushing, and stammering forth some apology. He advanced towards her, and, with a friendly tone, cried, “You are welcome! welcome! You bring the blessing of Heaven on this house! How glad I am to see you here! I knew that you would arrive safely to a haven, because I have never known the Lord commence a miracle without accomplishing it; but I am well content to see you here. Poor child! It is a great thing however to have been the subject of a miracle!” We must not believe he was the only one who characterised the event by this term, and that because he had read the legendary. Throughout the village, and the surrounding country, it was spoken of in no other terms, as long as its remembrance lasted; and to say truth, if we regard its attendant circumstances, it would be difficult to find another name for it. He then approached his wife, who was employed in taking the kettle from off the fire, and said in a low voice, “Has all gone well?” “Very well. I will tell you another time.” “Well, well, at your leisure.” When the dinner was ready, the mistress of the house made Lucy sit down with them at the table, and helping her to a wing of the chicken, entreated her to eat. The husband began to dilate with much animation on the events of the day; not without many interruptions from the children, who stood round the table eating their dinner, and who had seen too many extraordinary things to be satisfied with playing the part of mere listeners. He described the solemn ceremonies, and then recurred to the miraculous conversion; but that which had made the most impression on his mind, and of which he spoke the oftenest, was the sermon of the cardinal. “To see him before the altar,” said he, “a lord like him, to see him before the altar, as a simple curate——” “And that golden thing he had on his head,” said one of the little girls. “Hush, be quiet. When one thinks, I say, that a lord like him, a man so learned, who, as they say, has read all the books in the world, a thing which no one else has done, not even in Milan; when one thinks that he has adapted himself so to the comprehension of others, that every one understood him——” “I understood, I did,” said the other little chatterer. “Hush, be quiet. What did you understand, you?” “I understood that he explained the Gospel, instead of the curate.” “Be quiet. I do not say that he was understood by those only who know something, but even those who were the most stupid and ignorant, caught the sense perfectly. You might go now, and ask them to repeat his discourse; perhaps they might not remember a single word, but they would have its whole meaning in their head. And how easy it was to perceive that he alluded to this signor, although he never pronounced his name! But one might have guessed it from the tears which flowed from his eyes. And all the people wept——” “That is true,” cried the little boy. “But why did they all cry like little children?” “Be quiet. And there are, nevertheless, hard hearts in this country. He has made us feel that although there is a scarcity, we must return thanks to God, and be satisfied; be industrious; do what we can, and then be content, because unhappiness does not consist at all in suffering and poverty; unhappiness is the result of wicked actions. These are not fine words merely; it is well known that he lives like a poor man, that he takes the bread from his mouth to give to those that are in need, when he might live an easier life than any one. Oh, then, there is great satisfaction in hearing him speak. He is not like many others, who say, ‘Do as I say, and not as I do;’ and besides, he has made it very apparent, that those even who are not what they call gentlemen, but who have more than is necessary, are bound to impart to those who are in want.” And here he stopped, as if pained by some recollection; after a moment's silence, he filled a plate with meat from the table, and adding a loaf of bread to it, tied up the whole in a napkin. “Take that,” said he to the oldest of the children, and putting in her other hand a bottle of wine, “carry that to the widow Martha, and tell her to feast with her children. But be very careful what you say to her, don't seem to be doing a charity, and don't say a word of it, should you meet any one; and take care not to break any thing.” Lucy was touched, even to tears, and her soul was filled with a tenderness that withdrew her from the contemplation of her own sorrows. The conversation of this worthy man had already imparted a relief, that a direct appeal to her feelings would have failed to procure. Her spirit, yielding to the charm of the description of the august pomp of the church, of the emotions of piety there excited, and partaking of the enthusiasm of the narrator, forgot its woes, and, when obliged to recur to them, felt itself strengthened. The thought even of the great sacrifice she had imposed on herself, without having lost its bitterness, had assumed the character of austere and solemn tranquillity. A few moments after, the curate of the village entered, saying that he was sent by the cardinal for intelligence concerning Lucy, and also to inform her that he desired to see her that day; then he thanked, in his lordship's name, her kind hosts for their benevolence and hospitality. All three, moved to tears, could not find words to reply to such a message from such a person. “Has your mother not yet arrived?” said the curate to Lucy. “My mother!” cried she. Learning that the good archbishop had sent for her mother, that it was his own kind thought, her heart was overpowered, she raised her apron to her eyes, and her tears continued to flow long after the departure of the curate. As these tumultuous emotions, called forth by such unexpected benevolence, gradually subsided, the poor girl remembered that she had expressly solicited this very happiness of again beholding her mother, as a condition to her vow. “Return me safely to my mother.” These words recurred distinctly to her memory. She was confirmed more than ever in her purpose to keep her vow, and repented again bitterly of the regret which she had for a moment experienced. Agnes, indeed, even whilst they were speaking of her, was very near; it is easy to imagine the feelings of the poor woman at so unexpected an invitation, at the intelligence, necessarily confused and incomplete, of a peril which was passed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscure adventure, of which the messenger knew not the circumstances, and could give no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previous facts. “Ah, great God! ah, holy Virgin!” escaped from her lips, mingled with useless questions, during the journey. On the road she met Don Abbondio, who, by the aid of his staff, was travelling homewards. Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Agnes made the driver stop. She alighted, and with the curate withdrew into a grove of chestnuts, which was on the side of the road. Don Abbondio informed her of all he had seen and known: much obscurity still rested upon his statement, but at least Agnes ascertained that Lucy was now in safety. Don Abbondio then introduced another subject of conversation, and would have given her ample instruction on the manner of conducting herself with the archbishop, if he, as was probable, should wish to see her and her daughter. He said it would not answer for her to speak of the marriage; but Agnes, perceiving that he spoke only from his own interest, was determined to promise nothing, because she said, “she had other things to think of,” and bidding him farewell, she proceeded on her journey. The carriage at last reached the house of the tailor, and the mother and daughter were folded in each other's arms. The good wife, who was the only witness of the scene, endeavoured to soothe and calm their feelings; and then prudently left them alone, saying that she would go and prepare a bed for them. Their first tumultuous joy having in some measure subsided, Agnes requested to hear the adventures of Lucy, who attempted to relate them; but the reader knows that it was a history with which no one was entirely acquainted, and to Lucy herself there was much that was inexplicable, particularly the fatal coincidence of the carriage being at that place precisely at the moment that Lucy had gone there by an extraordinary chance. With regard to this, the mother and daughter lost themselves in conjecture, without even approaching the real cause. As to the principal author of this plot, however, they neither of them doubted that it was Don Roderick. “Ah, that firebrand!” cried Agnes; “but his hour will come. God will reward him according to his works, and then he will know——” “No, no, mother, no!” cried Lucy. “Do not wish harm to him! do not wish it to any one! If you knew what it is to suffer! if you had experienced it! No, no! rather let us pray to God and the Virgin for him, that God would touch his heart as he has done that of the other lord, who was worse than he, and who is now a saint.” The horror that Lucy felt in retracing events so painful and recent made her hesitate more than once. More than once she said she had not the heart to proceed, and, choked by her tears, she with difficulty went on with her narrative. But she was embarrassed by a different sentiment at a certain point of her recital, at the moment when she was about to speak of her vow. She feared her mother would accuse her of imprudence and precipitation; she feared that she would, as she had done in the affair of the marriage, bring forward her broad rules of conscience, and make them prevail; she feared that the poor woman would tell it to some one in confidence, if it were only to gain light and advice, and thus render it public. These reflections made Lucy experience insupportable shame, and an inexplicable repugnance to speak on the subject. She therefore passed over in silence this important circumstance, determining in her heart to communicate it first to Father Christopher; but how great was her sorrow at learning that he was no longer at the convent, that he had been sent to a distant country, a country called—— “And Renzo?” enquired Agnes. “He is in safety, is he not?” said Lucy, hastily. “It must be so, since every one says so. They say that he has certainly gone to Bergamo, but no one knows the place exactly, and there has been no intelligence from himself. He probably has not been able to find the means of informing us.” “Oh, if he is in safety, God be thanked!” said Lucy, commencing another subject of conversation, which was, however, interrupted by an unexpected event—the arrival of the cardinal archbishop. After having returned from the church, and having learnt from the Unknown the arrival of Lucy, he had seated himself at table, placing the Unknown on his right hand; the company was composed of a number of priests, who gazed earnestly at the countenance of their once formidable companion, so softened without weakness, so humbled without meanness, and compared it with the horrible idea they had so long entertained of him. Dinner being over, the Unknown and the cardinal retired together. After a long interview, the former departed for his castle, and the latter sent for the curate of the parish, and requested him to conduct him to the house where Lucy had received an asylum. “Oh, my lord,” replied the curate, “suffer me, suffer me. I will send for the young girl and her mother, if she has arrived,—the hosts themselves, if my lord desires it.” “I wish to go to them myself,” replied Frederick. “There is no necessity that you should inconvenience yourself; I will send for them immediately,” insisted the curate, who did not understand that, by this visit, the cardinal wished to do honour to misfortune, innocence, hospitality, and to his own ministry. But the superior repeating his desire, the inferior bowed, and they proceeded on their way. When they appeared in the street, a crowd immediately collected around them. The curate cried, “Come, come, back, keep off.”—“But,” said Frederick, “suffer them,” and he advanced, now raising his hands to bless the people, now lowering them to embrace the children, who obstructed his progress. They reached the house, and entered it, whilst the crowd remained without. But amidst the throng was the tailor, who had followed with others; his eyes fixed, and his mouth open, wondering where the cardinal was going. When he beheld him entering his own house, he bustled his way through the crowd, crying out, “Make room for those who have a right to enter,” and followed into the house. Agnes and Lucy heard an increasing murmur in the street; and whilst they were surmising the cause, the door opened, and, behold, the cardinal and the curate! “Is this she?” asked the former of the curate, and at a sign in the affirmative he approached Lucy, who with her mother was standing, motionless and mute with surprise and extreme diffidence: but the tones of the voice, the countenance, and above all, the words of Frederick, soon removed their embarrassment. “Poor young woman,” said he, “God has permitted you to be subjected to a great trial; but he has also made you see that he watches over you, and has never forgotten you. He has saved you, and in addition to that blessing, has made use of you to accomplish a great work through you, to impart the wonders of his grace and mercy to one man, and at the same time to comfort the hearts of many.” Here the mistress of the house entered the room with her husband: perceiving their guests engaged in conversation, they respectfully retired to a distant part of the apartment. The cardinal bowed to them courteously, and continued the conversation with Lucy and her mother. He mixed with the consolation he offered many enquiries, hoping to find from their answers some way of rendering them still farther services after their sufferings. “It is a pity all the clergy were not like your lordship, and then they would take the part of the poor, and not help to bring them into difficulty for the sake of drawing themselves out of it,” said Agnes, encouraged by the familiar and affable manner of Frederick, and vexed that Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others to his own selfishness, should dare to forbid her making the least complaint to one so much above him, when by so fortunate a chance the occasion presented itself. “Say all that you think,” said the cardinal; “speak freely.” “I would say, that if our curate had done his duty, things would not have been as they are.” The cardinal begging her to explain herself more clearly, she found some embarrassment in relating a history, in which she had at one time played a part, which she felt very unwilling to communicate to such a man. However, she got over the difficulty; she related the projected marriage, the refusal of Don Abbondio, and the pretext he had offered with respect to his superiors (oh, Agnes!); and passing to the attempt of Don Roderick, she told in what manner, being informed of it, they had been able to escape. “But, indeed,” added she in conclusion, “it was escaping to fall into another snare. If the curate had told us sincerely the difficulty, and had married my poor children, we would have left the country immediately, and gone where no one would have known us, not even the wind. Thus time was lost, and that which has happened, has happened.” “The curate shall render me an account of this,” said the cardinal. “No, my lord, no,” resumed Agnes. “I did not speak on that account, do not reprove him; because what is done, is done; and it would answer no purpose. He is a man of such a character, that if the thing were to do over again, he would act precisely in the same way.” But Lucy, dissatisfied with this manner of telling the story, added, “We have also been to blame; it is plain that it was the will of God the thing should not succeed.” “How can you have been to blame, my poor child?” said Frederick. Lucy, notwithstanding the winks of her mother, related in her turn the history of the attempt made in the house of Don Abbondio, saying, as she concluded, “We did wrong, and God has punished us.” “Accept from his hand the chastisement you have endured, and take courage,” said Frederick; “for who has a right to rejoice and hope, if not those who have suffered, and who accuse themselves?” He then asked where was the betrothed; and learning from Agnes (Lucy stood silent with downcast eyes) the fact of his flight, he expressed astonishment and displeasure, and asked the reason of it. Agnes told what she knew of the story of Renzo. “I have heard of him before,” said the cardinal; “but how could a man, who was engaged in affairs of this nature, be in treaty of marriage with this young girl?” “He was a worthy young man,” said Lucy, blushing, but in a firm voice. “He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps,” added Agnes; “your lordship may ask any one if he was not, even the curate. Who knows what intrigues and plots may have been going on at Milan? There needs little to make poor people pass for rogues.” “That is but too true,” said the cardinal; “I will enquire about him, without doubt.” He took a memorandum of the name of the young man, adding that he expected to be at their village in a few days; that during his sojourn there, Lucy could return home without fear, and in the mean while he would procure her an asylum till all was arranged for the best. Turning to the master and mistress of the house, they came forward; he renewed the thanks he had addressed to them by the mouth of the curate, and asked them if they would be willing to keep the guests God had sent them for a few days. “Oh yes, my lord,” replied the dame, with a manner which said more than this timid reply; but her husband, quite animated by the presence of such a man, by the desire to do himself honour on an occasion of such importance, studied to make a fine answer. He wrinkled his forehead, strained his eyes, and compressed his mouth, but nevertheless felt a confusion of ideas, which prevented him from uttering a syllable. But time pressed; the cardinal appeared to have interpreted his silence. The poor man opened his mouth, and said, “Imagine——” Not a word more could he say. His failure not only filled him with shame on that day, but ever after, the unfortunate recollection intruded itself to mar the pleasure of the great honour he had received. How many times, in thinking of this circumstance, did a crowd of words come to his mind, every one of which would have been better than “Imagine!” But the cavities of our brains are full enough of thoughts when it is too late to employ them. The cardinal departed, saying, “May the blessing of Heaven rest on this house!” That evening he asked the curate in what way it would be best to indemnify the tailor, who could not be rich, for his hospitality. The curate replied, that truly neither the profits of his trade, nor his income from some little fields that the good tailor possessed, would at this time have enabled him to be liberal to others; but from having saved something the few years previous, he was one of the most easy in circumstances in the district; that he could allow himself to exercise some hospitality without inconvenience, and that he would do it with pleasure; and that he was confident he would be hurt if money was offered to him. “He has probably,” said the cardinal, “some demands on people who are unable to pay.” “You may judge, my lord; the poor people pay with the overplus of the harvest; this year there has been no overplus; on the contrary, every one is behind in point even of necessities.” “Well, I take upon myself all these debts. You will do me the favour to obtain from him the memoranda, and cancel them.” “It may be a very large sum.” “So much the better. And perhaps you have but too many who are more miserable, having no debts, because they have no credit?” “Oh yes! indeed too many! they do what they can; but how can they supply their wants in these hard times?” “Have them clothed at my expense; it is true that it seems to be robbery to spend any thing this year, except for bread; but this is a particular case.” We cannot finish our record of the history of this day without briefly relating the conduct of the Unknown. Before his second return to the castle, the report of his conversion had preceded him; it had spread through the valley, and excited surprise, anxiety, and numerous conjectures. As he approached the castle he made a sign to all the bravoes he met to follow him: filled with unusual apprehension, but with their accustomed submission, they obeyed; their number increased every moment. Reaching the castle, he entered the first court, and there, resting on his saddle bow, in a voice of thunder he gave a loud call, the wonted signal which all habitually obeyed. In a moment those who were scattered about the castle hastened to join the troop collected around their leader. “Go and wait for me in the great hall,” said he; as they departed, he dismounted from his beast, and leading it himself to the stable, thence approached the hall. The whispering which was heard among them ceased at his appearance; retiring to one corner they left a large space around him. The Unknown raised his hand to enforce the silence that his presence alone had already effected; then raising his head, which yet was above that of any of his followers, he said, “Listen to me, all of you; and let no one speak, unless I ask him a question. My friends, the way which we have followed until to-day leads to hell. I do not wish to reproach you, I could not effect the important change, inasmuch as I have been your leader in our abominable career; I have been the most guilty of all; but listen to what I am about to say. “God in his mercy has called me to a change of life, and I have obeyed his call. May this same God do as much for you! Know, then, and hold for certain, that I would rather now die than undertake any thing against his holy law. I recall all the iniquitous orders which I may have given any one of you; you understand me. And farther, I order you to do nothing which I have hitherto prescribed to you. Hold equally for certain, that no one can hereafter commit evil under my protection, and in my service. Those who will remain with me on these conditions, I shall regard as children. I should be happy, in the day of famine, to share with them the last mouthful that remained to me. To those who do not wish to continue here, shall be paid what is due of their salaries, and a further donative; they have liberty to depart, but they must never return, unless they repent and intend to lead a new life, and under such circumstances they shall be received with open arms. Think of it this night; to-morrow morning I will receive your answer, and then I will give you your orders. Now, every one to his post. May God, who has shown compassion towards me, incline your hearts to repentance and good dispositions.” He ceased, and all kept silence. Although strange and tumultuous thoughts fermented in their minds, no indication of them was visible. They had been habituated to listen to the voice of their lord, as to a manifestation of absolute authority, to which it was necessary to yield implicit obedience. His will proclaimed itself changed, but not enfeebled: it did not therefore enter their minds, that because he was converted they might become bold in his presence, or reply to him as they would to another man. They regarded him as a saint, indeed, but a saint sword in hand. In addition to the fear with which he inspired them, they felt for him (especially those who were born in his service, and these were the greater number) the affection of vassals. Their admiration partook of the nature of love, mingled with that respect which the most rebellious and turbulent spirits feel for a superior, whom they have voluntarily recognised as such. The sentiments he expressed were certainly hateful to their ears, but they knew they were not false, neither were they entirely strange to them. If their custom had been to make them subjects of pleasantry, it was not from disbelief of their verity, but to drive away, by jesting, the apprehensions the contemplation of them might otherwise have excited. And now, there was none among them who did not feel some compunction at beholding their power exerted over the invincible courage of their master. Moreover, some of them had heard the extraordinary intelligence beyond the valley, and had witnessed and related the joy of the people, the new feeling with which the Unknown was regarded by them, the veneration which had succeeded their former hatred—their former terror. They beheld the man whom they had never regarded without trembling, even when they themselves constituted, to a great degree, his strength; they beheld him now, the wonder, the idol of the multitude,—still elevated above all others, in a different manner, no doubt, but in one not less imposing,—always above the world, always the first. They were confounded, and each was doubtful of the course he should pursue. One reflected hastily where he could find an asylum and employment; another questioned with himself his power to accommodate himself to the life of an honest man; another, moved by what he had said, felt some inclination for it; and another still was willing to promise any thing so as to be entitled to the share of a loaf, which had been so cordially proffered, and which was so scarce in those days. No one, however, broke the silence. The Unknown, at the conclusion of his speech, waved his hand imperiously for them to retire: obedient as a flock of sheep, they all quietly left the hall. He followed them, and stopping in the centre of the court, saw them all branch off to their different stations. He returned into the castle, visited the corridors, halls, and every avenue, and, finding all quiet, he retired to sleep,—yes, to sleep, for he was very sleepy. In spite of all the urgent and intricate affairs in which he was involved, more than at any former conjuncture, he was sleepy. Remorse had banished sleep the night before; its voice, so far from being subdued, was still more absolute—was louder—yet he was sleepy. The order of his household so long established, the absolute devotion of his faithful followers, his power and means of exercising it, its various ramifications, and the objects on which it was employed, all tended to create uncertainty and confusion in his mind,—still he was sleepy. To his bed then he went, that bed which the night before had been a bed of thorns; but first he knelt to pray. He sought, in the remotest corner of his memory, the words of prayer taught him in his days of childhood. They came one by one: an age of vice had not effaced them. And who shall define the sentiments that pervaded his soul at this return to the habits of happy innocence? He slept soundly. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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