Book the Third.
CHAPTER I.
THE LOVERS.
Rosabella, the idol of all Venice, lay on the bed of sickness; a sorrow, whose cause was carefully concealed from every one, undermined her health, and destroyed the bloom of her beauty. She loved the noble Flodoardo; and who could have known Flodoardo and not have loved him? His majestic stature, his expressive countenance, his enthusiastic glance, his whole being declared aloud—Flodoardo is Nature’s favourite, and Rosabella had been always a great admirer of Nature.
But if Rosabella was ill, Flodoardo was scarcely better. He confined himself to his own apartment; he shunned society, and frequently made long journeys to different cities of the Republic, in hopes of distracting his thoughts by change of place from that object which, wherever he went, still pursued him. He had now been absent for three whole weeks. No one knew in what quarter he was wandering; and it was during this absence that the so-long expected Prince of Monaldeschi arrived at Venice to claim Rosabella as his bride.
His appearance, to which a month before Andreas looked forward with such pleasing expectation, now afforded but little satisfaction to the Doge. Rosabella was too ill to receive her suitor’s visits, and he did not allow her much time to recover her health; for six days after his arrival at Venice the Prince was found murdered in a retired part of one of the public gardens. His sword lay by him unsheathed and bloody; his tablets were gone, but one leaf had been torn from them and fastened on his breast. It was examined, and found to contain the following lines, apparently written in blood:—
“Let no one pretend to Rosabella’s hand, who is not prepared to share the fate of Monaldeschi.
“The Bravo,
“Abellino.”
“Oh, where shall I now fly for comfort? for protection?” exclaimed the Doge in despair, when this dreadful news was announced. “Why, why, is Flodoardo absent?”
Anxiously did he now desire the youth’s return, to support him under the weight of these heavy misfortunes; nor was it long before that desire was gratified. Flodoardo returned.
“Welcome, noble youth!” said the Doge, when he saw the Florentine enter his apartment. “You must not in future deprive me of your presence for so long. I am now a poor forsaken old man. You have heard that Lomellino—that Manfrone—”
“I know all,” answered Flodoardo, with a melancholy air.
“Satan has burst his chains, and now inhabits Venice under the name of Abellino, robbing me of all that my soul holds precious. Flodoardo, for Heaven’s love, be cautious; often, during your absence, have I trembled lest the miscreant’s dagger should have deprived me too of you. I have much to say to you, my young friend, but I must defer it till the evening. A foreigner of consequence has appointed this hour for an audience, and I must hasten to receive him—but in the evening—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of Rosabella, who, with tottering steps and pale cheeks, advanced slowly into the apartment. She saw Flodoardo, and a faint blush overspread her countenance. Flodoardo rose from his seat, and welcomed her with an air of distant respect.
“Do not go yet,” said the Doge; “perhaps in half an hour I may be at liberty: in the meanwhile I leave you to entertain my poor Rosabella. She has been very ill during your absence; and I am still uneasy about her health. She kept her bed till yesterday, and truly I think she has left it too soon.”
The venerable Doge quitted the apartment, and the lovers once more found themselves alone. Rosabella drew near the window; Flodoardo at length ventured to approach it also.
“Signora,” said he, “are you still angry with me?”
“I am not angry with you,” stammered out Rosabella, and blushed as she recollected the garden scene.
“And you have quite forgiven my transgression?”
“Your transgression?” repeated Rosabella, with a faint smile; “yes, if it was a transgression, I have quite forgiven it. Dying people ought to pardon those who have trespassed against them, in order that they, in their turn, may be pardoned their trespasses against Heaven—and I am dying; I feel it.”
“Signora!”
“Nay, ’tis past a doubt. It’s true, I have quitted my sick-bed since yesterday; but I know well that I am soon to return to it, never to leave it more. And therefore—therefore, I now ask your pardon, signor, for the vexation which I was obliged to cause to you the last time we met.”
Flodoardo replied not.
“Will you not forgive me? You must be very difficult to appease—very revengeful!”
Flodoardo replied not.
“Will you refuse my offered hand? Shall all be forgotten?”
“Forgotten, lady? Never, never—every word and look of yours is stamped on my memory, never to be effaced. I cannot forget a transaction in which you bore a part: I cannot forget the scene that passed between us, every circumstance is too precious and sacred. As to pardon”—he took her extended hand and pressed it respectfully to his lips—“I would to Heaven, dear lady, that you had in truth injured me much, that I might have much to forgive you. Alas! I have at present nothing to pardon.”
Both were now silent. At length Rosabella resumed the conversation by saying—“You have made a long absence from Venice; did you travel far?”
“I did.”
“And received much pleasure from your journey?”
“Much; for everywhere I heard the praises of Rosabella.”
“Count Flodoardo,” she interrupted him with a look of reprehension, but in a gentle voice, “would you again offend me?”
“That will soon be out of my power. Perhaps you can guess what are my present intentions.”
“To resume your travels soon?”
“Exactly so; and the next time that I quit Venice, to return to it no more.”
“No more?” she repeated, eagerly. “Oh, not so, Flodoardo! Ah, can you leave me?”—She stopped, ashamed of her imprudence. “Can you leave my uncle? I meant to say. You do but jest, I doubt not.”
“By my honour, lady, I never was more in earnest.”
“And whither, then, do you mean to go?”
“To Malta, and assist the knights in their attacks upon the corsairs of Barbary. Providence, perhaps, may enable me to obtain the command of a galley, then will I call my vessel ‘Rosabella;’ then shall the war-cry be still ‘Rosabella;’ that name will render me invincible.”
“Oh! this is a mockery, Count. I have not deserved that you should sport with my feelings so cruelly.”
“It is to spare your feelings, signora, that I am now resolved to fly from Venice; my presence might cause you some uneasy moments. I am not the happy man whose sight is destined to give you pleasure; I will, at least, avoid giving you pain.”
“And you really can resolve to abandon the Doge, whose esteem for you is so sincere, whose friendship has always been so warm?”
“I value his friendship highly, but it is not sufficient to make me happy, and could he lay kingdoms at my feet, still would his friendship be insufficient to make me happy.”
“Does, then, your happiness require so much?”
“It does—much more than I have mentioned, infinitely more. But one boon can make me happy; I have begged for it on my knees.” He caught her hand and pressed it eagerly to his lips. “I have begged for it, Rosabella, and my suit has been rejected.”
“You are a strange enthusiast,” she said with difficulty, and scarcely knew what she said, while Flodoardo drew her gently nearer to him, and murmured in a supplicating voice, “Rosabella!”
“What would you of me?”
“My happiness!”
She gazed upon him for a moment undecided, then hastily drew away her hand, and exclaimed, “Leave me, this moment, I command you. Leave me, for Heaven’s sake!”
Flodoardo clasped his hands together in despair and anguish. He bowed his head in token of obedience. He left her with slow steps and a melancholy air, and as he passed the threshold, turned to bid her farewell for ever. Suddenly she rushed towards him, caught his hand, and pressed it to her heart.
“Flodoardo,” she cried, “I am thine!” and sank motionless at his feet.
CHAPTER II.
A DANGEROUS PROMISE.
And now who was so blessed as the fortunate Flodoardo? The victory was his own, he had heard the wished-for sentence pronounced by the lips of Rosabella. He raised her from the ground, and placed her on a sofa. Her blue eyes soon unclosed themselves once more, and the first object which they beheld was Flodoardo kneeling at her feet, while with one arm he encircled her waist. Her head sank upon the shoulder of the man for whom she had breathed so many sighs, who had occupied so many of her thoughts by day, who had been present in so many of her dreams by night.
As they gazed in silent rapture on each other, they forgot that they were mortals; they seemed to be transported to a happier, to a better world. Rosabella thought that the chamber in which she sat was transformed into an earthly Paradise; invisible seraphs seemed to hallow by their protecting presence the indulgence of her innocent affection, and she poured forth her secret thanks to Him who had given her a heart susceptible of love.
Through the whole course of man’s existence, such a moment as this occurs but once. Happy is he who sighs for its arrival; happy is he who, when it arrives, has a soul worthy of its enjoyment; happy is even he for whom that moment has long been passed, so it passed not unenjoyed, for the recollection of it still is precious. Sage philosophers, in vain do you assure us that the raptures of a moment like this are mere illusions of a heated imagination, scarcely more solid than an enchanting dream, which fades before the sunbeams of truth and reason. Alas! does there exist a happiness under the moon which owes not its charms in some degree to the magic of imagination!
“You are dear to me, Flodoardo,” murmured Rosabella, for Camilla and her counsels were quite forgotten; “oh, you are very, very dear!”
The youth only thanked her by clasping her still closer to his bosom, while, for the first time, he sealed her coral lips with his own.
At that moment the door was suddenly thrown open. The Doge Andreas re-entered the apartment: the expected stranger had been suddenly taken ill, and Andreas was no sooner at liberty than he hastened to rejoin his favourite. The rustling of his garments roused the lovers from their dream of bliss. Rosabella started from Flodoardo’s embrace with a cry of terror; Flodoardo quitted his kneeling posture, yet seemed by no means disconcerted at the discovery.
Andreas gazed upon them for some minutes, with a look which expressed at once anger, melancholy, and the most heartfelt disappointment. He sighed deeply, cast his eyes towards heaven, and in silence turned to leave the apartment.
“Stay yet one moment, noble Andreas,” cried the Florentine.
The Doge turned, and Flodoardo threw himself at his feet. Andreas looked down with calm and serious dignity on the kneeling offender, by whom his friendship had been so unworthily rewarded, and by whom his confidence had been so cruelly betrayed.
“Young man,” said he, in a stern voice, “the attempt to excuse yourself must be fruitless.”
“Excuse myself!” interrupted Flodoardo, boldly; “no, my lord, I need no excuses for loving Rosabella; ’twere for him to excuse himself who had seen Rosabella and not loved her; yet, if it is indeed a crime in me that I adore Rosabella, ’tis a crime of which Heaven itself will absolve me, since it formed Rosabella so worthy to be adored.”
“You seem to lay too much stress on this fantastic apology,” answered the Doge, contemptuously; “at least you cannot expect that it should have much weight with me.”
“I say it once more, my lord,” resumed Flodoardo, while he rose from the ground, “that I intend to make no apology; I mean not to excuse my love for Rosabella, but to request your approbation of that love. Andreas, I adore your niece; I demand her for my bride.”
The Doge started in astonishment at this bold and unexpected request.
“It is true,” continued the Florentine, “I am no more than a needy, unknown youth, and it seems a piece of strange temerity when such a man proposes himself to espouse the heiress of the Venetian Doge. But, by Heaven, I am confident that the great Andreas means not to bestow his Rosabella on one of those whose claims to favour are overflowing coffers, extensive territories, and sounding titles, or who vainly decorate their insignificance with the glory obtained by the titles of their ancestors, glory of which they are themselves incapable of acquiring a single ray. I acknowledge freely that I have as yet performed no actions which make me deserving of such a reward as Rosabella; but it shall not be long ere I will perform such actions, or perish in the attempt.”
The Doge turned from him with a look of displeasure.
“Oh, be not incensed with him, dear uncle,” said Rosabella. She hastened to detain the Doge, threw her white arms around his neck fondly, and concealed in his bosom the tears with which her countenance was bedewed.
“Make your demands,” continued Flodoardo, still addressing himself to the Doge; “say what you wish me to do, and what you would have me become, in order to obtain from you the hand of Rosabella. Ask what you will, I will look on the task, however difficult, as nothing more than sport and pastime. By Heaven, I would that Venice were at this moment exposed to the most imminent danger, and that ten thousand daggers were unsheathed against your life; Rosabella my reward—how certain should I be to rescue Venice, and strike the ten thousand daggers down.”
“I have served the Republic faithfully and fervently for many a long year,” answered Andreas, with a bitter smile; “I have risked my life without hesitation; I have shed my blood with profusion; I asked nothing for my reward but to pass my old age in soft tranquillity, and of this reward have I been cheated. My bosom friends, the companions of my youth, the confidants of my age, have been torn from me by the daggers of banditti; and you, Flodoardo, you, on whom I heaped all favours, have now deprived me of this my only remaining comfort. Answer me, Rosabella; hast thou in truth bestowed thy heart on Flodoardo irrevocably?”
One hand of Rosabella’s still rested on her uncle’s shoulder; with the other she clasped Flodoardo’s and pressed it fondly against her heart—yet Flodoardo seemed still unsatisfied. No sooner had the Doge’s question struck his ear, than his countenance became dejected; and though his hand returned the pressure of Rosabella’s, he shook his head mournfully, with an air of doubt, and cast on her a penetrating look, as would he have read the secrets of her inmost soul.
Andreas withdrew himself gently from Rosabella’s arm, and for some time paced the apartment slowly, with a countenance sad and earnest. Rosabella sank upon a sofa which stood near her, and wept. Flodoardo eyed the Doge, and waited for his decision with impatience.
Thus passed some minutes. An awful silence reigned through the chamber; Andreas seemed to be labouring with some resolution of dreadful importance. The lovers wished, yet dreaded, the conclusion of the scene, and with every moment their anxiety became more painful.
“Flodoardo!” at length said the Doge, and suddenly stood still in the middle of the chamber. Flodoardo advanced with a respectful air. “Young man,” he continued, “I am at length resolved; Rosabella loves you, nor will I oppose the decision of her heart; but Rosabella is much too precious to admit of my bestowing her on the first who thinks fit to demand her. The man to whom I give her must be worthy such a gift. She must be the reward of his services; nor can he do services so great that such a reward will not overpay them. Your claims on the Republic’s gratitude are as yet but trifling; an opportunity now offers of rendering as an essential service. The murderer of Conari, Manfrone, and Lomellino—go, bring him hither! Alive or dead, thou must bring to this palace the terrible banditti-king, Abellino!”
At this unexpected conclusion of a speech on which his happiness or despair depended, Flodoardo started back. The colour fled from his cheeks.
“My noble lord!” he said at length, hesitating, “you know well that—”
“I know well,” interrupted Andreas, “how difficult a task I enjoin, when I require the delivery of Abellino. For myself I swear that I had rather a thousand times force my passage with a single vessel through the whole Turkish fleet, and carry off the admiral’s ship from the midst of them, than attempt to seize this Abellino, who seems to have entered into a compact with Lucifer himself: who is to be found everywhere and nowhere; whom so many have seen, but whom no one knows; whose cautious subtlety has brought to shame the vigilance of our State inquisitors, of the College of Ten, and of all their legions of spies and sbirri; whose very name strikes terror into the hearts of the bravest Venetians, and from whose dagger I myself am not safe upon my throne. I know well, Flodoardo, how much I ask; but I know also how much I proffer. You seem irresolute? You are silent? Flodoardo, I have long watched you with attention. I have discovered in you marks of a superior genius, and therefore I am induced to make such a demand. If any one is able to cope with Abellino, thou art the man. I wait your answer.”
Flodoardo paced the chamber in silence. Dreadful was the enterprise proposed. Woe to him should Abellino discover his purpose. But Rosabella was the reward. He cast a look on the beloved one, and resolved to risk everything.
He advanced towards the Doge.
Andreas.—Now, then, Flodoardo—your resolution?
Flodoardo.—Should I deliver Abellino into your power, do you solemnly swear that Rosabella shall be my bride?
Andreas.—She shall! and not till then.
Rosabella.—Ah! Flodoardo, I fear this undertaking will end fatally. Abellino is so crafty, so dreadful. Oh! look well to yourself, for should you meet with the detested monster, whose dagger—
Flodoardo (interrupting her hastily).—Oh! silence, Rosabella—at least allow me to hope. Noble Andreas, give me your hand, and pledge your princely word that, Abellino once in your power, nothing shall prevent me from being Rosabella’s husband.
Andreas.—I swear it; deliver into my power, either alive or dead, this most dangerous foe of Venice, and nothing shall prevent Rosabella from being your wife. In pledge of which I here give you my princely hand.
Flodoardo grasped the Doge’s hand in silence, and shook it thrice. He turned to Rosabella, and seemed on the point of addressing her, when he suddenly turned away, struck his forehead, and measured the apartment with disordered and unsteady steps. The clock in the tower of St. Mark’s church struck five.
“Time flies!” cried Flodoardo; “no more delay, then. In four-and-twenty hours will I produce in this very palace this dreaded bravo, Abellino.”
Andreas shook his head. “Young man,” said he, “be less confident in your promises; I shall have more faith in your performance.”
Flodoardo (serious and firm).—Let things terminate as they may, either I will keep my word, or never again will cross the threshold of your palace. I have discovered some traces of the miscreant, and I trust that I shall amuse you to-morrow, at this time and in this place, with the representation of a comedy; but should it prove a tragedy instead, God’s will be done.
Andreas.—Remember that too much haste is dangerous; rashness will destroy even the frail hopes of success which you may reasonably indulge at present.
Flodoardo.—Rashness, my lord? He who has lived as I have lived, and suffered what I have suffered, must have been long since cured of rashness.
Rosabella (taking his hand).—Yet be not too confident of your own strength, I beseech you! Dear Flodoardo, my uncle loves you, and his advice is wise! Beware of Abellino’s dagger!
Flodoardo.—The best way to escape his dagger is not to allow him time to use it: within four-and-twenty hours must the deed be done, or never. Now, then, illustrious Prince, I take my leave of you. To-morrow I doubt not to convince you that nothing is too much for love to venture.
Andreas.—Right; to venture: but to achieve?
Flodoardo.—Ah, that must depend—He paused suddenly again his eyes were fastened eagerly on those of Rosabella, and it was evident that with every moment his uneasiness acquired fresh strength. He resumed his discourse to Andreas, with a movement of impatience.
“Noble Andreas,” said he, “do not make me dispirited; rather let me try whether I cannot inspire you with more confidence of my success. I must first request you to order a splendid entertainment to be prepared. At this hour in the afternoon of to-morrow let me find all the principal persons in Venice, both men and women, assembled in this chamber; for should my hopes be realised, I would willingly have spectators of my triumph. Particularly let the venerable members of the College of Ten he invited, in order that they may at last he brought face to face with this terrible Abellino, against whom they have so long been engaged in fruitless warfare.”
Andreas (after eyeing him some time with a look of mingled surprise and uncertainty).—They shall be present.
Flodoardo.—I understand, also, that since Conari’s death you have been reconciled to the Cardinal Gonzaga; and that he has convinced you how unjust were the prejudices with which Conari had inspired you against the nobility—Parozzi, Contarino, and the rest of that society. During my late excursions I have heard much in praise of these young men, which makes me wish to show myself to them in a favourable light. If you have no objection, let me beg you to invite them also.
Andreas.—You shall be gratified.
Flodoardo.—One thing more, which had nearly escaped my memory. Let no one know the motive of this entertainment till the whole company is assembled. Then let guards be placed around the palace, and, indeed, it may be as well to place them even before the doors of the saloon; for in truth this Abellino is such a desperate villain, that too many precautions cannot be taken against him. The sentinels must have their pieces loaded, and, above all things, they must be strictly charged, on pain of death, to let every one enter, but no one quit the chamber.
Andreas.—All this shall be done punctually.
Flodoardo.—I have nothing more to say. Noble Andreas, farewell. Rosabella, to-morrow, when the clock strikes five, we shall meet again, or never.
He said, and rushed out of the apartment. Andreas shook his head; while Rosabella sank upon her uncle’s bosom, and wept bitterly.
CHAPTER III.
THE MIDNIGHT MEETING.
“Victory!” shouted Parozzi, as he rushed into the Cardinal Gonzaga’s chamber, where the chief conspirators were all assembled; “our work goes on bravely. Flodoardo returned this morning to Venice, and Abellino has already received the required sum.”
Gonzaga.—Flodoardo does not want talents; I had rather he should live and join our party. He is seldom off his guard—
Parozzi.—Such vagabonds may well be cautious; they must not forget themselves, who have so much to conceal from others.
Falieri.—Rosabella, as I understand, by no means sees this Florentine with unfavourable eyes.
Parozzi.—Oh, wait till to-morrow, and then he may make love to the devil and his grandmother, if he likes it. Abellino by that time will have wrung his neck round, I warrant you.
Contarino.—It is strange that, in spite of all inquiries, I can learn but little at Florence respecting this Flodoardo. My letters inform me that some time ago there did exist a family of that name; but it has been long extinct, or if any of its descendants are still in being at Florence, their existence is quite a secret.
Gonzaga.—Are you all invited to the Doge’s to-morrow?
Contarino.—All of us, without exception.
Gonzaga.—That is well. It seems that my recommendations have obtained some weight with him, since his triumvirate has been removed. And in the evening a masked ball is to be given. Did not the Doge’s chamberlain say so?
Falieri.—He did.
Memmo.—I only hope there is no trick in all this. If he should have been given a hint of our conspiracy! Mercy on us! my teeth chatter at the thought.
Gonzaga.—Absurd! By what means should our designs have been made known to him? The thing is impossible.
Memmo.—Impossible? What, when there’s scarce a cutpurse, housebreaker, or vagabond in Venice who has not been enlisted in our service, would it be so strange if the Doge discovered a little of the business? A secret which is known to so many, how should it escape his penetration?
Contarino.—Simpleton! the same thing happens to him which happens to betrayed husbands. Everyone can see the horns except the man who carries them. And yet I confess it is full time that we should realise our projects, and prevent the possibility of our being betrayed.
Falieri.—You are right, friend; everything is ready now. The sooner that the blow is struck the better.
Parozzi.—Nay, the discontented populace, which at present sides with us, would be perfectly well pleased if the sport began this very night; delay the business longer, and their anger against Andreas will cool, and render them unfit for our purpose.
Contarino.—Then let us decide the game at once; be to-morrow the important day. Leave the Doge to my disposal. I’ll at least engage to bury my poniard in his heart, and then let the business end as it may, one of two things must happen: either we shall rescue ourselves from all trouble and vexation, by throwing everything into uproar and confusion, or else we shall sail with a full wind from this cursed world to another.
Parozzi.—Mark me, friends, we must go armed to the Doge’s entertainment.
Gonzaga.—All the members of the College of Ten have been particularly invited—
Falieri.—Down with every man of them!
Memmo.—Aye, aye! Fine talking, but suppose it should turn out to be down with ourselves?
Falieri.—Thou white-livered wretch! Stay at home, then, and take care of your worthless existence. But if our attempt succeeds, come not to us to reimburse you for the sums which you have already advanced. Not a sequin shall be paid you back, depend on’t.
Memmo.—You wrong me, Falieri; if you wish to prove my courage, draw your sword and measure it against mine. I am as brave as yourself; but, thank Heaven, I am not quite so hot-headed.
Gonzaga.—Nay, even suppose that the event should not answer our expectations? Andreas once dead, let the populace storm as it pleases; the protection of his Holiness will sanction our proceedings.
Memmo.—The Pope? May we count on his protection?
Gonzaga (throwing him a letter).—Read there, unbeliever. The Pope, I tell you, must protect us, since one of our objects is professed to be the assertion of the rights of St. Peter’s Chair in Venice. Prithee, Memmo, tease us no more with such doubts, but let Contarino’s proposal be adopted at once. Our confederates must be summoned to Parozzi’s palace with all diligence, and there furnished with such weapons as are necessary. Let the stroke of midnight be the signal for Contarino’s quitting the ball-room, and hastening to seize the arsenal. Salviati, who commands there, is in our interest, and will throw open the gates at the first summons.
Falieri.—The admiral Adorna, as soon as he hears the alarm-bell, will immediately lead his people to our assistance.
Parozzi.—Oh, our success is certain.
Contarino.—Only let us take care to make the confusion as general as possible. Our adversaries must be kept in the dark who are their friends and who their foes, and all but our own party must be left ignorant as to the authors, the origin, and the object of the uproar.
Parozzi.—Heaven, I am delighted at finding the business at length so near the moment of execution!
Falieri.—Parozzi, have you distributed the white ribbons by which we are to recognise our partisans?
Parozzi.—That was done some days ago.
Contarino.—Then there is no more necessary to be said on the subject. Comrades, fill your goblets. We will not meet again together till our work has been completed.
Memmo.—And yet methinks it would not be unwise to consider the matter over again coolly.
Contarino.—Pshaw! consideration and prudence have nothing to do with a rebellion; despair and rashness in this case are better counsellors. The work once begun, the constitution of Venice once boldly overturned, so that no one can tell who is master and who is subject, then consideration will be of service in instructing us how far it may be necessary for our interest to push the confusion. Come, friends! fill, fill, I say. I cannot help laughing when I reflect that, by giving this entertainment to-morrow, the Doge himself kindly affords us an opportunity of executing our plans.
Parozzi.—As to Flodoardo, I look upon him already as in his grave; yet before we go to-morrow to the Doge’s, it will be as well to have a conference with Abellino.
Contarino.—That care we will leave to you, Parozzi, and in the meanwhile here’s the health of Abellino.
All.—Abellino!
Gonzaga.—And success to our enterprise to-morrow.
Memmo.—I’ll drink that toast with all my heart.
All.—Success to to-morrow’s enterprise!
Parozzi.—The wine tastes well, and every face looks gay; pass eight-and-forty hours, and shall we look as gaily? We separate smiling; shall we smile when two nights hence we meet again? No matter.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DECISIVE DAY.
The next morning everything in Venice seemed as tranquil as if nothing more than ordinary was on the point of taking place; and yet, since her first foundation, never had a more important day risen on the Republic.
The inhabitants of the ducal palace were in motion early. The impatient Andreas forsook the couch on which he had passed a sleepless and anxious night, as soon as the first sunbeams penetrated through the lattice of his chamber. Rosabella had employed the hours of rest in dreams of Flodoardo, and she still seemed to be dreaming of him, even after sleep was fled. Camilla’s love for her fair pupil had broken her repose; she loved Rosabella as had she been her daughter, and was aware that on this interesting day depended the love-sick girl’s whole future happiness. For some time Rosabella was unusually gay; she sang to her harp the most lively airs, and jested with Camilla for looking so serious and so uneasy; but when mid-day approached, her spirits began to forsake her. She quitted her instrument, and paced the chamber with unsteady steps. With every succeeding hour her heart palpitated with greater pain and violence, and she trembled in expectation of the scene which was soon to take place.
The most illustrious persons in Venice already filled her uncle’s palace; the afternoon so much dreaded, and yet so much desired, was come; and the Doge now desired Camilla to conduct his niece to the great saloon, where she was expected with impatience by all those who were of most consequence in the Republic.
Rosabella sank on her knees before a statue of the Virgin. “Blessed Lady!” she exclaimed, with lifted hands, “have mercy on me! Let all to-day end well!”
Pale as death did she enter the chamber in which, on the day before, she had acknowledged her love for Flodoardo, and Flodoardo had sworn to risk his life to obtain her. Flodoardo was not yet arrived.
The assembly was brilliant, the conversation was gay. They talked over the politics of the day, and discussed the various occurrences of Europe. The Cardinal and Contarino were engaged in a conference with the Doge, while Memmo, Parozzi, and Falieri stood silent together, and revolved the project whose execution was to take place at midnight.
The weather was dark and tempestuous. The wind roared among the waters of the canal, and the vanes of the palace-towers creaked shrilly and discordantly. One storm of rain followed hard upon another.
The clock struck four. The cheeks of Rosabella, if possible, became paler than before. Andreas whispered something to his chamberlain. In a few minutes the tread of armed men seemed approaching the doors of the saloon, and soon after the clattering of weapons was heard.
Instantly a sudden silence reigned through the whole assembly. The young courtiers broke off their love-speeches abruptly, and the ladies stopped in their criticisms upon the last new fashions. The statesmen dropped their political discussions, and gazed on each other in silence and anxiety.
The Doge advanced slowly into the midst of the assembly. Every eye was fixed upon him. The hearts of the conspirators beat painfully.
“Be not surprised, my friends,” said Andreas, “at these unusual precautions; they relate to nothing which need interfere with the pleasures of this society. You have all heard but too much of the bravo Abellino, the murderer of the Procurator Conari, and of my faithful counsellors Manfrone and Lomellino, and to whose dagger my illustrious guest the Prince of Monaldeschi has but lately fallen a victim. This miscreant, the object of aversion to every honest man in Venice, to whom nothing is sacred or venerable, and who has hitherto set at defiance the whole vengeance of the Republic—before another hour expires, perhaps this outcast of hell may stand before you in this very saloon.”
All (astonished).—Abellino? What, the bravo Abellino?
Gonzaga.—Of his own accord!
Andreas.—No, not of his own accord, in truth. But Flodoardo of Florence has undertaken to render this important service to the Republic, to seize Abellino, cost what it may, and conduct him hither at the risk of his life.
A Senator.—The engagement will be difficult to fulfil. I doubt much Flodoardo’s keeping his promise.
Another.—But if he should perform it, the obligation which Flodoardo will lay upon the Republic will not be trifling.
A Third.—Nay, we shall be all his debtors, nor do I know how we can reward Flodoardo for so important a service.
Andreas.—Be that my task. Flodoardo has demanded my niece in marriage if he performs his promise. Rosabella shall be his reward.
All gazed on each other in silence; some with looks expressing the most heartfelt satisfaction, and others with glances of envy and surprise.
Falieri (in a low voice).—Parozzi, how will this end?
Memmo.—As I live, the very idea makes me shake as if I had a fever.
Parozzi (smiling contemptuously).—It’s very likely that Abellino should suffer himself to be caught!
Contarino.—Pray inform me, signors, have any of you ever met this Abellino face to face?
Several Noblemen at once.—Not I. Never.
A Senator.—He is a kind of spectre, who only appears now and then, when he is least expected and desired.
Rosabella.—I saw him once; never again shall I forget the monster.
Andreas.—And my interview with him is too well known to make it needful for me to relate it.
Memmo.—I have heard a thousand stories about this miscreant, the one more wonderful than the other; and for my own part I verily believe that he is Satan himself in a human form. I must say that I think it would be wiser not to let him be brought in among us, for he is capable of strangling us all as we stand here, one after another, without mercy.
“Gracious Heaven!” screamed several of the ladies, “you don’t say so? What, strangle us in this very chamber?”
Contarino.—The principal point is, whether Flodoardo will get the better of him, or he of Flodoardo. Now I would lay a heavy wager that the Florentine will return without having finished the business.
A Senator.—And I would engage, on the contrary, that there is but one man in Venice who is capable of seizing Abellino, and that that man is Flodoardo of Florence. The moment that I became acquainted with him, I prophesied that one day or other he would play a brilliant part in the annals of history.
Another Senator.—I think with you, signor. Never was I so struck with a man at first sight as I was with Flodoardo.
Contarino.—A thousand sequins on Abellino’s not being taken, unless death should have taken him first.
The First Senator.—A thousand sequins on Flodoardo seizing him—
Andreas.—And delivering him up to me, either alive or dead.
Contarino.—Illustrious signors, you are witnesses of the wager. My Lord Vitalba, there is my hand on it. A thousand sequins!
The Senator.—Done.
Contarino (smiling).—Many thanks for your gold, signor. I look on it as already in my purse. Flodoardo is a clever gentleman, no doubt, yet I would advise him to take good care of himself; for he will find that Abellino knows a trick or two, or I am much mistaken.
Gonzaga.—May I request your Highness to inform me whether Flodoardo is attended by the sbirri?
Andreas.—No, he is alone. Near four-and-twenty hours have elapsed since he set out in pursuit of the bravo.
Gonzaga (to Contarino, with a smile of triumph).—I wish you joy of your thousand sequins, signor.
Contarino (bowing respectfully).—Since your Excellency prophesies it I can no longer doubt my success.
Memmo.—I begin to recover myself! Well, well! let us see the end.
Three-and-twenty hours had elapsed since Flodoardo had entered into the rash engagement. The four-and-twentieth now hastened to its completion, and yet Flodoardo came not.
CHAPTER V.
THE CLOCK STRIKES FIVE.
The Doge became uneasy. The senator Vitalba began to tremble for his thousand sequins, and the conspirators could not restrain their spiteful laughter, when Contarino gravely declared that he would gladly lose, not one thousand sequins, but twenty, if the loss of his wager through Abellino’s being captured might but secure the general safety of the Republic.
“Hark!” cried Rosabella, “the clock strikes five!”
All listened to the chimes in the tower of St. Mark’s Church, and trembled as they counted the strokes. Had not Camilla supported her, Rosabella would have sank upon the ground. The destined hour was past, and still Flodoardo came not!
The venerable Andreas felt a sincere affection for the Florentine; he shuddered as he dwelt upon the probability that Abellino’s dagger had prevailed.
Rosabella advanced towards her uncle as if she would have spoken to him; but anxiety fettered her tongue, and tears forced themselves into her eyes. She struggled for a while to conceal her emotions, but the effort was too much for her. She threw herself on a sofa, wrung her hands, and prayed to the God of mercy for help and comfort.
The rest of the company either formed groups of whisperers, or strolled up and down the apartment in evident uneasiness. They would willingly have appeared gay and unconcerned, but they found it impossible to assume even an affectation of gaiety, and thus elapsed another hour, and still Flodoardo came not.
At that moment the evening sun broke through the clouds, and a ray of its setting glory was thrown full upon the countenance of Rosabella. She started from the sofa, extended her arms towards the radiant orb, and exclaimed, while a smile of hope played round her lips, “God is merciful; God will have mercy on me.”
Contarino.—Was it at five o’clock that Flodoardo engaged to produce Abellino? It is now a full hour beyond his time.
The Senator Vitalba.—Let him only produce him at last, and he may be a month beyond his time if he choose.
Andreas.—Hark! No. Silence! silence! Surely I hear footsteps approaching the saloon.
The words were scarcely spoken when the folding doors were thrown open, and Flodoardo rushed into the room enveloped in his mantle. His hair streamed on the air in wild disorder; a deep shade was thrown over his face by the drooping plumes of his barrette, from which the rain was flowing. Extreme melancholy was impressed on all his features, and he threw gloomy looks around him as he bowed his head in salutation of the assembly.
Every one crowded round him; every mouth was unclosed to question him; every eye was fixed on his face as if eager to anticipate his answers.
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Memmo, “I am afraid that—”
“Be silent, signor!” interrupted Contarino, sternly; “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
“Illustrious Venetians!”—it was thus that Flodoardo broke silence, and he spoke with the commanding tone of a hero—“I conclude that his Highness has already made known to you the object of your being thus assembled. I come to put an end to your anxiety; but first, noble Andreas, I must once more receive the assurance that Rosabella of Corfu shall become my bride, provided I deliver into your power the bravo Abellino.”
Andreas (examining his countenance with extreme anxiety).—Flodoardo, have you succeeded? Is Abellino your prisoner?
Flodoardo.—If Abellino is my prisoner, shall Rosabella be my bride?
Andreas.—Bring me Abellino, alive or dead, and she is yours. I swear it beyond the power of retracting, and also that her dowry shall be royal!
Flodoardo.—Illustrious Venetians, ye have heard the Doge’s oath?
All.—We are your witnesses.
Flodoardo (advancing a few paces with a bold air, and speaking in a firm voice).—Well, then, Abellino is in my power—is in yours.
All (in confusion and a kind of uproar).—In ours? Merciful heaven! Where is he? Abellino!
Andreas.—Is he dead or living?
Flodoardo.—He still lives.
Gonzaga (hastily).—He lives?
Flodoardo (bowing to the Cardinal respectfully).—He still lives, signor.
Rosabella (pressing Camilla to her bosom). Didst thou hear that, Camilla? Didst thou hear it? The villain still lives. Not one drop of blood has stained the innocent hand of Flodoardo.
The Senator Vitalba.—Signor Contarino, I have won a thousand sequins of you.
Contarino.—So it should seem, signor.
Andreas.—My son, you have bound the Republic to you for ever, and I rejoice that it is to Flodoardo that she is indebted for a service so essential.
Vitalba.—And permit me, noble Florentine, to thank you for this heroic act in the name of the Senate of Venice. Our first care shall be to seek out a reward proportioned to your merits.
Flodoardo (extending his arms towards Rosabella, with a melancholy air).—There stands the only reward for which I wish.
Andreas (joyfully).—And that reward is your own. But where have you left the bloodhound? Conduct him hither, my son, and let me look at him once more. When I last saw him, he had the insolence to tell me, “Doge, I am your equal. This narrow chamber now holds the two greatest men in Venice.” Now, then, let me see how this other great man looks in captivity.
Two or three Senators.—Where is he? Bring him hither.
Several of the ladies screamed at hearing this proposal. “For heaven’s sake,” cried they, “keep the monster away from us! I shall be frightened out of my senses if he comes here.”
“Noble ladies,” said Flodoardo, with a smile, expressing rather sorrow than joy, “you have nothing to apprehend. Abellino shall do you no harm; but he needs must come hither to claim The Bravo’s Bride.” And he pointed to Rosabella.
“Oh, my best friend,” she answered, “how shall I express my thanks to you for having thus put an end to my terrors? I shall tremble no more at hearing Abellino named. Rosabella shall now be called the Bravo’s Bride no longer.”
Falieri.—Is Abellino already in this palace?
Flodoardo.—He is.
Vitalba.—Then why do you not produce him? Why do you trifle so long with our impatience?
Flodoardo.—Be patient. It’s now time that the play should begin. Be seated, noble Andreas. Let all the rest arrange themselves behind the Doge. Abellino’s coming!
At that word both old and young, both male and female, with the rapidity of lightning, flew to take shelter behind Andreas. Every heart beat anxiously; but as to the conspirators, while expecting Abellino’s appearance, they suffered the torments of the damned.
Grave and tranquil sat the Doge in his chair, like a judge appointed to pass sentence on this King of the Banditti. The spectators stood around in various groups, all hushed and solemn, as if they were waiting to receive their final judgment. The lovely Rosabella, with all the security of angels whose innocence have nothing to fear, reclined her head on Camilla’s shoulder and gazed on her heroic lover with looks of adoration. The conspirators, with pallid cheeks and staring eyes, filled up the background, and a dead and awful silence prevailed through the assembly, scarcely interrupted by a single breath.
“And now, then,” said Flodoardo, “prepare yourselves, for this terrible Abellino shall immediately appear before you. Do not tremble; he shall do no one harm.”
With these words he turned away from the company, advanced towards the folding-doors. He paused for a few moments, and concealed his face in his cloak.
“Abellino!” cried he at length, raising his head, and extending his arm towards the door. At that name all who heard it shuddered involuntarily, and Rosabella advanced unconsciously a few steps towards her lover. She trembled more for Flodoardo than herself.
“Abellino!” the Florentine repeated, in a loud and angry tone, threw from him his mantle and barrette, and had already laid his hand on the lock of the door to open it, when Rosabella uttered a cry of terror.
“Stay, Flodoardo!” she cried, rushing towards him, and—Ha! Flodoardo was gone, and there, in his place, stood Abellino, and shouted out, “Ho! ho!”
CHAPTER VI.
APPARITIONS.
Instantly a loud cry of terror resounded through the apartment. Rosabella sank fainting at the bravo’s feet; the conspirators were almost suffocated with rage, terror, and astonishment; the ladies made signs of the cross, and began in all haste to repeat their paternosters; the senators stood rooted to their places like so many statues; and the Doge doubted the information of his ears and eyes.
Calm and terrible stood the bravo before them, in all the pomp of his strange and awful ugliness, with his bravo’s habit, his girdle filled with pistols and poniards, his distorted yellow countenance, his black and bushy eyebrows, his lips convulsed, his right eye covered by a large patch, and his left half buried among the wrinkles of flesh which swelled around it. He gazed around him for a few moments in silence, and then approached the stupefied Andreas.
“Ho! ho!” he roared in a voice like thunder, “you wish to see the bravo Abellino? Doge of Venice, here he stands, and is come to claim his bride.”
Andreas gazed with looks of horror on this model for demons, and at length stammered out with difficulty, “It cannot be real; I must surely be the sport of some terrible dream.”
“Without there, guards!” exclaimed the Cardinal Gonzaga, and would have hastened to the folding doors, when Abellino put his back against them, snatched a pistol from his girdle, and pointed it at the Cardinal’s bosom.
“The first,” cried he, “who calls for the guard, or advances one step from the place on which he stands, expires that moment. Fools! Do ye think I would have delivered myself up, and desired that guards might beset these doors, had I feared their swords, or intended to escape from your power? No; I am content to be your prisoner, but not through compulsion! I am content to be your prisoner; and it was with that intent that I came hither. No mortal should have the glory of seizing Abellino. If justice required him to be delivered up, it was necessary that he should be delivered up by himself! Or do ye take Abellino for an ordinary ruffian, who passes his time in skulking from the sbirri, and who murders for the sake of despicable plunder? No, by heaven, no! Abellino was no such common villain. It’s true I was a bravo; but the motives which induced me to become one were great and striking.”
Andreas (clasping his hands together).—Almighty God! can all this be possible?
An awful silence again reigned through the saloon. All trembled while they listened to the voice of the terrible assassin, who strode through the chamber proud and majestic as the monarch of the infernal world.
Rosabella opened her eyes; their first look fell upon the bravo.
“Oh, God of mercy!” she exclaimed, “he is still there. Methought, too, that Flodoardo—. No, no; it could not be! I was deceived by witchcraft.”
Abellino advanced towards her, and attempted to raise her. She shrunk from his touch with horror.
“No, Rosabella,” said the bravo, in an altered voice, “what you saw was no illusion. Your favoured Flodoardo is no other than Abellino the bravo.”
“It is false!” interrupted Rosabella, starting from the ground in despair, and throwing herself for refuge on Camilla’s bosom. “Monster! thou canst not be Flodoardo! such a fiend can never have been such a seraph. Flodoardo’s actions were good and glorious as a demi-god’s! ’Twas of him that I learned to love good and glorious actions, and ’twas he who encouraged me to attempt them myself; his heart was pure from all mean passions, and capable of conceiving all great designs. Never did he scruple, in the cause of virtue, to endure fatigue and pain, and to dry up the tears of suffering innocence—that was Flodoardo’s proudest triumph! Flodoardo and thou—! Wretch, whom many a bleeding ghost has long since accused before the throne of heaven, darest thou to profane the name of Flodoardo!”
Abellino (proud and earnest).—Rosabella, wilt thou forsake me? Wilt thou retract thy promise? Look, Rosabella, and be convinced: I, the bravo, and thy Flodoardo are the same.
He said, removing the patch from his eye, and passed a handkerchief over his face once or twice. In an instant his complexion was altered, his bushy eyebrows and straight black hair disappeared, his features were replaced in their natural symmetry, and lo! the handsome Florentine stood before the whole assembly, dressed in the habit of the bravo Abellino.
Abellino.—Mark me, Rosabella! Seven times over, and seven times again, will I change my appearance, even before your eyes, and that so artfully that, study me as you will, the transformation shall deceive you. But change as I may, of one thing be assured: I am the man whom you loved as Flodoardo.
The Doge gazed and listened without being able to recover from his confusion, but every now and then the words “Dreadful! dreadful!” escaped from his lips, and he wrung his hands in agony. Abellino approached Rosabella, and said in the tone of supplication: “Rosabella, wilt thou break thy promise? Am I no longer dear to thee?”
Rosabella was unable to answer; she stood like one changed to a statue, and fixed her motionless eyes on the bravo.
Abellino took her cold hand and pressed it to his lips.
“Rosabella,” said he, “art thou still mine?”
Rosabella.—Flodoardo, oh! that I had never loved, had never seen thee!
Abellino.—Rosabella wilt thou still be the bride of Flodoardo? wilt thou be “the Bravo’s Bride?”
Love struggled with abhorrence in Rosabella’s bosom, and painful was the contest.
Abellino.—Hear me, beloved one! It was for thee that I have discovered myself—that I have delivered myself into the hands of justice. For thee—oh, what would I not do for thee! Rosabella, I wait but to hear one syllable from your lips; speak but a decisive yes or no, and all is ended. Rosabella, dost thou love me still?
And still she answered not; but she threw upon him a look innocent and tender as ever beamed from the eye of an angel, and that look betrayed but too plainly that the miscreant was still master of her heart. She turned from him hastily, threw herself into Camilla’s arms, and exclaimed, “God forgive you, man, for torturing me so cruelly!”
The Doge had by this time recovered from his stupor. He started from his chair, threats flashed from his eyes, and his lips trembled with passion. He rushed towards Abellino; but the senators threw themselves in his passage, and held him back by force. In the meanwhile the bravo advanced towards him with the most insolent composure, and requested him to calm his agitation.
“Doge of Venice,” said he, “will you keep your promise? That you gave it to me, these noble lords and ladies can testify.”
Andreas.—Monster! miscreant! Oh! how artfully has this plan been laid to ensnare me! Tell me, Venetians, to such a creditor am I obliged to discharge my fearful debt? Long has he been playing a deceitful bloody part; the bravest of our citizens have fallen beneath his dagger, and it was the price of their blood which has enabled him to act the nobleman in Venice. Then comes he to me in disguise of a man of honour, seduces the heart of my unfortunate Rosabella, obtains my promise by an artful trick, and now claims the maiden for his bride, in the hope that the husband of the Doge’s niece will easily obtain an absolution for his crimes. Tell me, Venetians, ought I to keep my word with this miscreant?
All the Senators.—No, no, by no means.
Abellino (with solemnity).—If you have once pledged your word, you ought to keep it, though given to the Prince of Darkness. Oh, fie, fie! Abellino, how shamefully hast thou been deceived in thy reckoning. I thought I had to do with men of honour. Oh! how grossly have I been mistaken. (In a terrible voice.)—Once again, and for the last time, I ask you, Doge of Venice, wilt thou break thy princely word?
Andreas (in the tone of authority).—Give up your arms.
Abellino.—And you will really withhold from me my just reward? Shall it be in vain that I delivered Abellino into your power?
Andreas.—It was to the brave Flodoardo that I promised Rosabella. I never entered into any engagement with the murderer Abellino. Let Flodoardo claim my niece, and she is his; but Abellino can have no claim to her. Again I say lay down your arms.
Abellino (laughing wildly).—The murderer Abellino, say you? Ho! ho! Be it your care to keep your own promises, and trouble not yourself about my murders, they are my affair, and I warrant I shall find a word or two to say in defence of them, when the judgment day arrives.
Gonzaga (to the Doge).—What dreadful blasphemy.
Abellino.—Oh, good Lord Cardinal, intercede in my behalf, you know me well; I have always acted by you like a man of honour, that at least you cannot deny. Say a word in my favour, then, good Lord Cardinal.
Gonzaga (angrily, and with imperious dignity).—Address not thyself to me, miscreant. What canst thou and I have to do together? Venerable Andreas, delay no longer; let the guards be called in.
Abellino.—What? Is there then no hope for me? Does no one feel compassion for the wretched Abellino? What! no one?—(a pause)—All are silent?—all! ’Tis enough. Then my fate is decided—call in your guards.
Rosabella (with a scream of agony, springing forward, and falling at the feet of the Doge).—Mercy, mercy! Pardon him—pardon Abellino!
Abellino (in rapture).—Sayest thou so? Ho! ho! then an angel prays for Abellino in his last moments.
Rosabella (clasping the Doge’s knees).—Have mercy on him, my friend, my father, he is a sinner; but leave him to the justice of Heaven. He is a sinner, but oh, Rosabella loves him still.
Andreas (pushing her away with indignation).—Away, unworthy girl; you rave.
Abellino folded his arms, gazed with eagerness on what was passing, and tears gushed into his brilliant eyes. Rosabella caught the Doge’s hand, as he turned to leave her, kissed it twice, and said, “If you have no mercy on him, then have none on me. The sentence which you pass on Abellino will be mine; ’tis for my own life that I plead as well as Abellino’s. Father, dear father, reject not my suit, but spare him.”
Andreas (in an angry and decided tone).—Abellino dies.
Abellino.—And can you look on with dry eyes while that innocent dove bleeds at your feet? Go, barbarian; you never loved Rosabella as she deserved. Now she is yours no longer. She is mine, she is Abellino’s.
He raised her from the ground, and pressed her pale lips against his own.
“Rosabella, thou art mine; death alone can part us. Thou lovest me as I would be loved; I am blest whate’er may happen, and can now set fortune at defiance. To business, then.”
He replaced Rosabella, who was almost fainting, on the bosom of Camilla, then advanced into the middle of the chamber, and addressed the assembly with an undaunted air—
“Venetians, you are determined to deliver me up to the axe of justice; there is for me no hope of mercy. ’Tis well, act as you please; but ere you sit in judgment over me, signors, I shall take the liberty of passing sentence upon some few of you. Now mark me, you see in me the murderer of Conari, the murderer of Paolo Manfrone, the murderer of Lomellino. I deny it not. But would you know the illustrious persons who paid me for the use of my dagger?”
With these words he put a whistle to his lips, sounded it, and instantly the doors flew open, the guards rushed in, and ere they had time to recollect themselves, the chief conspirators were in custody, and disarmed.
“Guard them well,” said Abellino, in a terrible voice to the sentinels; “you have your orders. Noble Venetians, look on these villains; it is to them that you are indebted for the loss of your three citizens. I accuse of those murders one, two, three, four, and my good Lord Cardinal there has the honour to be the fifth.”
Motionless and bewildered stood the accused; tale-telling confusion spoke in every feature that the charge was true, and no one was bold enough to contradict Abellino.
“What can all this mean?” asked the senators of each other, in the utmost surprise and confusion.
“This is all a shameful artifice,” the Cardinal at length contrived to say; “the villain, perceiving that he has no chance of escaping punishment, is willing, out of mere resentment, to involve us in his destruction.”
Contarino (recovering himself).—In the wickedness of his life he has surpassed all former miscreants, and now he is trying to surpass them in the wickedness of his death.
Abellino (with majesty).—Be silent. I know your whole plot, have seen your list of proscriptions, am well informed of your whole arrangement, and at the moment that I speak to you the officers of justice are employed, by my orders, in seizing the gentlemen with the white ribbons round their arms, who this very night intended to overturn Venice. Be silent, for defence were vain.
Andreas (in astonishment)—Abellino, what is the meaning of all this?
Abellino.—Neither more nor less than that Abellino has discovered and defeated a conspiracy against the constitution of Venice and the life of its Doge! The bravo, in return for your kind intention of sending him to destruction in a few hours, has preserved you from it.
Vitalba (to the accused).—Noble Venetians, you are silent under this heavy charge.
Abellino.—They are wise, for no defence can now avail them. Their troops are already disarmed, and lodged in separate dungeons of the State prison; visit them there, and you will learn more. You now understand probably that I did not order the doors of this saloon to be guarded for the purpose of seizing the terrible bravo Abellino, but of taking those heroes into secure custody.
And now, Venetians, compare together your conduct and mine. At the hazard of my life have I preserved the State from ruin. Disguised as a bravo, I dared to enter the assembly of those ruthless villains, whose daggers laid Venice waste. I have endured for your sakes storm, and rain, and frost, and heat; I have watched for your safety while you were sleeping. Venice owes to my care her constitution and your lives; and yet are my services deserving of no reward? All this have I done for Rosabella of Corfu, and yet will you withhold from me my promised bride? I have saved you from death, have saved the honour of your wives, and the throats of your innocent children from the knife of the assassin. Men! men! and yet will you send me to the scaffold?
Look on this list! See how many among you would have bled this night, had it not been for Abellino, and see where the miscreants stand by whom you would have bled! Read you not in every feature that they are already condemned by heaven and their own conscience? Does a single mouth unclose itself in exculpation? Does a single movement of the head give the lie to my charge? Yet the truth of what I have advanced shall be made still more evident.
He turned himself to the conspirators
“Mark me!” said he, “the first among you who acknowledges the truth shall receive a free pardon. I swear it, I, the bravo Abellino!”
The conspirators remained silent. Suddenly Memmo started forward and threw himself trembling at the Doge’s feet.
“Venetians,” he exclaimed, “Abellino has told you true.”
“’Tis false, ’tis false!” exclaimed the accused altogether.
“Silence!” cried Abellino, in a voice of thunder, while the indignation which flamed in every feature struck terror into his hearers: “Silence, I say, and hear me, or rather hear the ghosts of your victims. Appear, appear!” cried this dreadful man, in a tone still louder: “’Tis time!”
Again he sounded his whistle. The folding doors were thrown open, and there stood the Doge’s much lamented friends—Conari, Lomellino, and Manfrone.
“We are betrayed!” shouted Contarino, who drew out a concealed dagger, and plunged it in his bosom up to the very hilt.
And now what a scene of rapture followed. Tears streamed down the silver beard of Andreas, as he rushed into the arms of his long-lost companions; tears bedewed the cheeks of the venerable triumvirate, as they once more clasped the knees of their prince, their friend, their brother. These excellent men, these heroes, never had Andreas hoped to meet them again till they should meet in heaven; and Andreas blessed heaven for permitting him to meet them once more on earth. These four men, who had valued each other in the first dawn of youth, who had fought by each other’s sides in manhood, were now assembled in age, and valued each other more than ever. The spectators gazed with universal interest on the scene before them, and the good old senators mingled tears of joy with those shed by the re-united companions. In the happy delirium of this moment, nothing but Andreas and his friends were attended to; no one was aware that the conspirators and the self-murderer Contarino were removed by the guards from the saloon; no one but Camilla observed Rosabella, who threw herself sobbing on the bosom of the handsome bravo, and repeated a thousand times, “Abellino, then, is not a murderer!”
At length they began to recollect themselves they looked round them—and the first words which broke from every lip were—“Hail, saviour of Venice!”—The roof rung with the name of Abellino, and unnumbered blessings accompanied the name.
That very Abellino, who not an hour before had been doomed to the scaffold by the whole assembly, now stood calm and dignified as a god before the adoring spectators; and now he viewed with complacency the men whose lives he had saved, and now his eye dwelt with rapture on the woman whose love was the reward of all his dangers.
“Abellino!” said Andreas advancing to the bravo, and extending his hand towards him.
“I am not Abellino,” replied he, smiling, while he pressed the Doge’s hand respectfully to his lips “neither am I Flodoardo of Florence. I am by birth a Neapolitan, and by name Rosalvo. The death of my inveterate enemy the Prince of Monaldeschi makes it no longer necessary to conceal who I really am.”
“Monaldeschi?” repeated Andreas, with a look of anxiety.
“Fear not,” continued Rosalvo; “Monaldeschi, it is true, fell by my hand, but fell in honourable combat. The blood which stained his sword flowed from my veins, and in his last moments conscience asserted her empire in his bosom. He died not till he had written in his tablets the most positive declaration of my innocence as to the crimes with which his hatred had contrived to blacken me; and he also instructed me by what means I might obtain at Naples the restoration of my forfeited estates and the re-establishment of my injured honour. Those means have been already efficacious, and all Naples is by this time informed of the arts by which Monaldeschi procured my banishment, and of the many plots which he laid for my destruction; plots, which made it necessary for me to drop my own character, and never to appear but in disguise. After various wanderings chance led me to Venice. My appearance was so much altered, that I dreaded not discovery, but I dreaded (and with reason) perishing in your streets with hunger. In this situation accident brought me acquainted with the banditti, by whom Venice was then infested. I willingly united myself to their society, partly with a view of purifying the Republic from the presence of these wretches, and partly in the hope of discovering through them the more illustrious villains by whom their daggers were employed. I was successful. I delivered the banditti up to justice, and stabbed their captain in Rosabella’s sight. I was now the only bravo in Venice. Every scoundrel was obliged to have recourse to me. I discovered the plans of the conspirators, and now you know them also. I found that the deaths of the Doge’s three friends had been determined on; and in order to obtain full confidence with the confederates, it was necessary to persuade them that these men had fallen beneath my dagger. No sooner had my plan been formed than I imparted it to Lomellino. He, and he only, was my confidant in this business. He presented me to the Doge as the son of a deceased friend; he assisted me with his advice; he furnished me with keys to those doors to the public gardens, which none were permitted to pass through except Andreas and his particular friends, and which frequently enabled me to elude pursuit; he showed me several private passages in the palace by which I could penetrate unobserved even into the Doge’s very bed-chamber. When the time for his disappearance arrived, he not only readily consented to lie concealed in a retreat known only to ourselves, but was also the means of inducing Manfrone and Conari to join him in his retirement, till the fortunate issue of this day’s adventure permitted me to set them once more at liberty. The banditti exist no longer; the conspirators are in chains; my plans are accomplished; and now, Venetians, if you still think him deserving of it, here stands the bravo Abellino, and you may lead him to the scaffold when you will.”
“To the scaffold!” exclaimed at once the Doge, the senators, and the whole crowd of nobility; and every one burst into enthusiastic praises of the dauntless Neapolitan.
“Oh, Abellino,” exclaimed Andreas, while he wiped away a tear, “I would gladly give my ducal bonnet to be such a bravo as thou hast been. ‘Doge,’ did thou once say to me, ‘thou and I are the two greatest men in Venice,’ but oh, how much greater is the bravo than the Doge! Rosabella is that jewel, than which I have nothing in the world more precious; Rosabella is dearer to me than an emperor’s crown; Rosabella is thine.”
“Abellino,” said Rosabella, and extended her hand to the handsome Bravo.
“Triumph!” cried he, “Rosabella is the Bravo’s Bride,” and he clasped the blushing maid to his bosom.
CHAPTER VII.
CONCLUSION.
And now it would not be at all amiss to make Count Rosalvo sit down quietly between the good old Doge and his lovely niece; and then cause him to relate the motive of Monaldeschi’s hatred, in what manner he lost Valeria, what crimes were imputed to him, and how he escaped from the assassins sent in pursuit of him by his enemy; how he had long wandered from place to place, and how he had at length learned, during his abode in Bohemia with a gang of gipsies, such means of disguising his features as enabled him to defy the keenest penetration to discover in the beggar Abellino the once admired Count Rosalvo; how in this disguise he had returned to Italy; and how Lomellino, having ascertained that he was universally believed at Naples to have long since perished by shipwreck, and therefore that neither the officers of the Inquisition, nor the assassins of his enemies were likely to trouble themselves any more about him, he had ventured to resume, with some slight alterations, his own appearance at Venice; how the arrival of Monaldeschi had obliged him to conceal himself, till an opportunity offered of presenting himself to the Prince when unattended, and of demanding satisfaction for his injuries; how he had been himself wounded in several places by his antagonist, though the combat finally terminated in his favour; how he had resolved to make use of Monaldeschi’s death to terrify Andreas still further, and of Parozzi’s conspiracy to obtain Rosabella’s hand of the Doge; how he had trembled lest the heart of his mistress should have been only captivated by the romantic appearance of the adventurer Flodoardo, and have rejected him when known to be the bravo Abellino; how he had resolved to make use of the terror inspired by the assassin to put her love to the severest trial; and how, had she failed in that trial, he had determined to renounce the inconstant maid for ever; with many other hows, whys, and wherefores, which, not being explained, will, I doubt, leave much of this tale involved in mystery: but before I begin Rosalvo’s history, I must ask two questions—First—do my readers like the manner in which I relate adventures?
Secondly—If my readers do like my manner of relating adventures, can I employ my time better than in relating them?
When these questions are answered, I may probably resume my pen. In the meanwhile, gentlemen and ladies, good-night, and pleasant dreams attend you.