Thus far the story had been told much to Rosabella’s credit; but at length the women began to envy her for her share in the adventure. The kiss which she had received from the bravo afforded them an excellent opportunity for throwing out a few malicious insinuations. “She received a great service,” said one, “and there’s no saying how far the fair Rosabella in the warmth of gratitude may have been carried in rewarding her preserver.” “Very true,” observed another, “and for my part, I think it not very likely that the fellow, being alone with a pretty girl, whose life he had just saved, should have gone away contented with a single kiss.” “Come, come,” interrupted a third, “do not let us judge uncharitably; the fact may be exactly as the lady relates it, though I must say, that gentlemen of Abellino’s profession are not usually so pretty-behaved, and that this is the first time I ever heard of a bravo in the Platonics.”
In short, Rosabella and the horrible Abellino furnished the indolent and gossiping Venetians with conversation so long, that at length the Doge’s niece was universally known by the honourable appellation of the “Bravo’s Bride.”
But no one gave himself more trouble about this affair than the Doge, the good but proud Andreas. He immediately issued orders that every person of suspicious appearance should be watched more closely than ever, the night patrols were doubled, and spies were employed daily in procuring intelligence of Abellino; and yet all was in vain. Abellino’s retreat was inscrutable.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONSPIRACY.
“Confusion!” exclaimed Parozzi, a Venetian nobleman of the first rank, as he paced his chamber with a disordered air on the morning after Matteo’s murder; “now all curses light upon the villain’s awkwardness; yet it seems inconceivable to me how all this should have fallen out so untowardly. Has any one discovered my designs? I know well that Verrino loves Rosabella. Was it he who opposed this confounded Abellino to Matteo, and charged him to mar my plans against her? That seems likely; and now, when the Doge inquires who it was that employed assassins to murder his niece, what other will be suspected than Parozzi, the discontented lover, to whom Rosabella refused her hand, and whom Andreas hates past hope of reconciliation? And now, having once found the scent—Parozzi! Parozzi! should the crafty Andreas get an insight into your plans, should he learn that you have placed yourself at the head of a troop of hare-brained youths—hare-brained may I well call children—who, in order to avoid the rod, set fire to their paternal mansions. Parozzi, should all this be revealed to Andreas—?”
Here his reflections were interrupted. Memmo, Falieri, and Contarino entered the room, three young Venetians of the highest rank, Parozzi’s inseparable companions, men depraved both in mind and body, spendthrifts, voluptuaries, well known to every usurer in Venice, and owing more than their paternal inheritance would ever admit of their paying.
“Why, how is this, Parozzi?” cried Memmo as he entered, a wretch whose every feature exhibited marks of that libertinism to which his life had been dedicated; “I can scarce recover myself from my astonishment. For Heaven’s sake, is this report true? Did you really hire Matteo to murder the Doge’s niece?”
“I?” exclaimed Parozzi, and hastily turned away to hide the deadly paleness which overspread his countenance; “why should you suppose that any such designs—surely, Memmo, you are distracted.”
Memmo.—By my soul, I speak but the plain matter of fact. Nay, only ask Falieri; he can tell you more.
Falieri.—Faith, it is certain, Parozzi, that Lomellino has declared to the Doge as a truth beyond doubting that you, and none but you, were the person who instigated Matteo to attempt Rosabella’s life.