The Betrothed Part 48

"It is indeed," said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.

"Is it you indeed?" said his friend: "oh, how happy I am to see you! who would have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who torment me daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone!

alone as a hermit!"

"I know it but too well," said Renzo. They entered the cottage together, each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to prepare the table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with a pitcher of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seated themselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutually congratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years, and the circ.u.mstances under which they met, revived and added new vigour to their former friendship.

No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only on account of the particular affection she bore him, but she alone possessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitated awhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not very far off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, he adhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he could concerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt from his friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others were explained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures of Lucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed that Don Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt, moreover, to p.r.o.nounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it is true, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it was written; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange a sound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend, probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although this was the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was in question his mind was set at rest. The signor Podesta was dead, and most of the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters too pressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his own adventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of the pa.s.sage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies.

"Dreadful as are our afflictions," said he, as he led him for the night to a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants, "there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends."

At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. "If all goes well," said he, "if I find her living--if--I will return. I will go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, and then--but if, by a misfortune, which may G.o.d avert--then, I know not what I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me here again."

As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey, he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish, his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friend accompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell, prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity and enjoyment.

Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him to arrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on the morrow. His journey was without accident, except a repet.i.tion of the same wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he had done the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast, which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Pa.s.sing through Monza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; he bought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter; stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water, he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs he reached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket.

Towards evening he pa.s.sed through Greco, and quitting the high road, went into the fields in search of some small house where he might pa.s.s the night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a better shelter than he antic.i.p.ated; perceiving an opening in a hedge which surrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no one within: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the door of it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder, settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break of day. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, and proceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polar star. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding the entrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; but these were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when such prohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution.

Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life, than dangerous to that of others.

With this conviction, Renzo's design was to attempt a pa.s.sage at the first gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of the walls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult to say how many gates he thought Milan had.

When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was no indication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thick cloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, and infected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every where along the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholy conflagrations.

The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud, or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surrounding country was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a drop of dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, and silence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo's thoughts; he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gate _Nuova_, which had been hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed.

A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men, saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied and careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, a hand-barrow, upon which two _monatti_ were extending an unfortunate man, to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had just been attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of the convoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he pa.s.sed forwards quickly; the sentinel cried out "Holla!" Renzo stopping, showed him a half ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had the pestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed to Renzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, "Go in, quickly," a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He had hardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop.

He pretended not to hear, and pa.s.sed on. The call was repeated, but in a tone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed--and this being equally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his room.

Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads to the ca.n.a.l _Naviglio_, and had advanced some distance into the city without encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man coming towards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he moved towards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo, when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a polite mountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club, armed with a spike, he cried, "Off! off! off!" "Oh! oh!" cried Renzo; he put on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, he turned his back on the discourteous pa.s.senger and went on his way.

The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and looking back in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had met him with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamous impostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did not know exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he had not kept him at a distance. "It was unlucky," said he, "that we were in so private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would have called the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it was enough to have saved myself--but who knows what destruction he may not already have effected in the city:"--and years after, when the poisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact, as "he had had ocular proof."

Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflecting on this reception, he was more angry than fearful. "This is a bad beginning," thought he; "my star always seems unpropitious when I enter Milan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken.

However--by the help of G.o.d--if I find--if I succeed in finding--all will be well."

The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; a single disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the street and the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed to him; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman, surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. As he did so, "O good young man!" said she, "do me the kindness to go to the commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They have nailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; and since yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, and these poor innocents are dying of hunger."

"Of hunger!" cried Renzo. "Here, here," said he, drawing the two loaves from his pocket. "Lower something in which I may put them."

"G.o.d reward you! wait a moment," said the woman, as she went in search of a basket and cord to suspend it.

"As to the commissary, my good woman," said he, putting the loaves in the basket, "I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a stranger in Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one a little humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him."

The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street in which she lived.

"You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing,"

said Renzo. "Can you tell me where there is a n.o.bleman's house in Milan, named ***?"

"I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is.

Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you.

And remember to speak of us."

"Do not doubt me," said Renzo, as he pa.s.sed on.

As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a sound of wheels and horses' feet, with the noise of little bells, and occasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries.

As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were two beams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horrible instrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and widest streets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnished with the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted a condemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other act appeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme and inefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdly authorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard the sounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; it was an _apparitore_, and behind him came two horses, who advanced with difficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car came another, and another, and another; _monatti_ walked by the side of the horses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies were for the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heaped one upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seen hanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms were loosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of the spectator with indescribable horror!

The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknown dead. A frightful thought pa.s.sed over his mind. "There, perhaps, there, with them--O G.o.d! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!"

The funeral convoy having pa.s.sed on, he crossed the square, and reached the Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standing before a half-open door, in an att.i.tude of attention, as if he were confessing some one. "Here," said he, "is my man. If a priest, and in the discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in the world who has." When he was at a few paces distance from him, he took off his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping, however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good man unnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel.

"May G.o.d watch over you now and for ever!" said Renzo, "and," added he, "I would ask another favour." And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman.

The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestow help where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell.

Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turnings pointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensions for the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubts and fears; he was to be told, "she is living," or, "she is dead!" This idea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, he would rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at the commencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearly approached. He gathered courage, however. "Ah!" cried he, "if I play the child now, how will it end!" Plunging therefore into the heart of the city, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which is called the _Carrobio di Porta Nuova_. The fury of the contagion here, and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, that those who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst the pa.s.senger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senses were painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on, hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive at the end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still be called the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door was closed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open by the flight of the inhabitants, or by the _monatti_; some were nailed on the outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of the pestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose of informing the _monatti_ that their services were required, and much of this was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of health happened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforce the regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages, clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodies which had been left in the streets until a car should pa.s.s to take them up, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown from the houses; so much bad the long duration and the violence of the pest brutalised men's minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling or sympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure had ceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeral cars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or the vociferations of the _monatti_.

At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gave the signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by the archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches.

Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voices and groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed with consolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirds of the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or had left the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadful calamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. The cloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, in short, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, was carefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible.

Men's beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery on the part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even a pistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown in keeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown from windows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if the aspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe the condition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling to rise no more--beggars, children, women.

Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of this desolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishable the horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells.

At the entrance of one of the most s.p.a.cious streets, he perceived four cars standing; _monatti_ were seen entering houses, coming forth with burthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some were clothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but the greater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customary dress,--plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air of triumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from the different windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzo avoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but his attention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; a female, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty, veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility which seemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in the Lombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, although there were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillity and profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it was not _her_ appearance alone which excited compa.s.sion in hearts nearly closed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl about nine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hair divided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of the purest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady, her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed, if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and her head reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment more decided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! If the resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have known it by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance!

A hideous _monatto_ approached the lady, and with unusual respect offered to relieve her of her burthen. "No," said she, with an appearance neither of anger nor disgust, "do not touch her yet; it is I who must place her on the car. Take this," and she dropped a purse into the hands of the _monatto_; "promise me not to touch a hair of her head, nor to let others do it, and bury her thus."

The _monatto_ placed his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared a place on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed her forehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spread over her a white cloth, and took a last look; "Farewell! Cecilia! rest in peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separated no more!" Turning again to the _monatto_, "As you pa.s.s to-night," said she, "you will come for me; and not for me only!"

She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window, holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, but with the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated the unworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes, and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remained for them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts its head, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels every herb of the field.

"O G.o.d!" cried Renzo, "save her! protect her! her and this innocent creature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!"

He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity.

Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street on their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die on their own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women as usual with their little ones, and even some of these supported and encouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older than themselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for this affecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly pa.s.sed, he addressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than the rest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He replied, "The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left."

The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at his heart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raised his hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he could summon resolution to knock.

At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it, looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, "Is it _monatti_? thieves? or poisoners?"

"Signora," said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, "is there not here in service a young villager of the name of Lucy?"

"She is no longer here; begone," replied the woman, about to close the window.