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.
“Flodoardo!” muttered Abellino between his teeth; “hum—hum—that’s not so easy.”