Abellino laughed. Matteo proceeded with increased animation—
“Perhaps you will tell me that your trade is dishonourable! And what, then, is the thing called honour! ’Tis a word, an empty sound, a mere fantastic creature of the imagination! Ask, as you traverse some frequented street, in what honour consists? The usurer will answer—’To be honourable is to be rich, and he has most honour who can heap up the greatest quantity of sequins.’ ’By no means,’ cries the voluptuary; ‘honour consists in being beloved by a very handsome woman, and finding no virtue proof against your attacks.’ ‘How mistaken!’ interrupts the general; ‘to conquer whole cities, to destroy whole armies, to ruin all provinces, that indeed brings real honour.’ The man of learning places his renown in the number of pages which he has either written or read; the tinker, in the number of pots and kettles which he has made or mended; the nun, in the number of good things which she has done, or bad things which she has resisted; the coquette, in the list of her admirers; the Republic, in the extent of her provinces; and thus, my friend, every one thinks that honour consists in something different from the rest. And why, then, should not the bravo think that honour consists in reaching the perfection of his trade, and in guiding a dagger to the heart of an enemy with unerring aim?”
“By my life, ’tis a pity, Matteo, that you should be a bravo; the schools have lost an excellent teacher of philosophy.”
“Do you think so? Why, the fact is thus, Abellino. I was educated in a monastery; my father was a dignified prelate in Lucca, and my mother a nun of the Ursuline order, greatly respected for her chastity and devotion. Now, Signor, it was thought fitting that I should apply closely to my studies; my father, good man, would fain have made me a light of the Church; but I soon found that I was better qualified for an incendiary’s torch. I followed the bent of my genius, yet count I not my studies thrown away, since they taught me more philosophy than to tremble at phantoms created by my own imagination. Follow my example, friend, and so farewell.”
CHAPTER V.
SOLITUDE.
Abellino had already passed six weeks in Venice, and yet, either from want of opportunity, or of inclination, he had suffered his daggers to remain idle in their sheaths. This proceeded partly from his not being as yet sufficiently acquainted with the windings and turnings, the bye-lanes and private alleys of the town, and partly because he had hitherto found no customers, whose murderous designs stood in need of his helping hand.
This want of occupation was irksome to him in the extreme; he panted for action, and was condemned to indolence.
With a melancholy heart did he roam through Venice, and number every step with a sigh. He frequented the public places, the taverns, the gardens, and every scene which was dedicated to amusement. But nowhere could he find what ho sought—tranquillity.
One evening he had loitered beyond the other visitants in a public garden, situated on one of the most beautiful of the Venetian islands. He strolled from arbour to arbour, threw himself down on the sea-shore, and watched the play of the waves as they sparkled in the moonshine.
“Four years ago,” said he, with a sigh, “just such a heavenly evening was it, that I stole from Valeria’s lips the first kiss, and heard from Valeria’s lips for the first time the avowal that she loved me.”