“They have emptied the sack this morning,” thought Don Abbondio, and he stammered forth, “Your illustrious lordship has no doubt heard of all the difficulties of that business. It has been such an intricate affair, that it cannot even now be seen into clearly. Your illustrious lordship knows that the young girl is here, only by a miracle; and that no one can tell where the young man is.”
“I ask if it is true, that, before these unhappy events, you refused to celebrate the marriage on the day agreed upon? and why you did so?”
“Truly—if your illustrious lordship knew—what terrible orders I received—” and he stopped, indicating by his manner, though respectfully, that it would be imprudent in the cardinal to enquire farther.
“But,” said Frederick, in a tone of much more gravity than he was accustomed to employ, “it is your bishop, who, from a sense of duty, and for your own justification, would learn from you, why you have not done that which, in the ordinary course of events, it was your strict duty to do?”
“My lord,” said Don Abbondio, “I do not mean to say,—but it appears to me, that as these things are now without remedy, it is useless to stir them up—However, however, I say, that I am sure your illustrious lordship would not betray a poor curate, because, you see, my lord, your illustrious lordship cannot be every where present, and I—I remain here, exposed—However, if you order me, I will tell all.”
“Speak; I ask for nothing but to find you free from blame.”
Don Abbondio then related his melancholy story, suppressing the name of the principal personage, and substituting in its place, “a great lord,”—thus giving to prudence the little that was left him in such an extremity.
“And you had no other motive?” asked the cardinal, after having heard him through.
“Perhaps I have not clearly explained myself. It was under pain of death that they ordered me not to perform the ceremony.”
“And this reason appeared sufficient to prevent the fulfilment of a rigorous duty?”