The Betrothed Part 6

"Pa.s.s on, vile mechanic, or I will teach you the civility due to a gentleman."

"You lie; I am not vile."

"Ha! Do you give me the lie? If you were a gentleman I would soon settle matters with my sword."

"You are a coward also, or you would not hesitate to support by deeds the insolence of your words."

"Throw this rascal in the dirt," said the gentleman, turning to his followers.

"Let us see who will dare to do so," said Ludovico, stepping back and laying his hand on his sword.

"Rash man," cried the other, unsheathing his own, "I will break this in pieces when it shall have been stained with your base blood."

They rushed violently on each other; the servants of both sprang to the defence of their masters. The combat was unequal in numbers, and also unequal from Ludovico's desire to defend himself rather than to wound his enemy; whilst the latter intended nothing less than murder. Ludovico was warding off the dagger of one of the bravoes, after having received a slight scratch on the cheek, when his enemy thrust at him from behind; Christopher, seeing his master's peril, went to his a.s.sistance; upon this the anger of the enraged cavalier was turned against the shopman, and he thrust him through the heart with his sword. Ludovico, as if beside himself at the sight, buried his weapon in the breast of the murderer, who fell almost at the same instant with the poor Christopher!

The attendants of the gentleman, beholding him on the ground, took to flight; and Ludovico found himself alone, in the midst of a crowd, with two bodies lying at his feet.

"What has happened? One--two--he has been thrust through the body. Who is killed? A n.o.bleman.--Holy Virgin! what destruction! who seeks, finds.--A moment pays all.--What a wound!--It must have been a serious affair!--And this unfortunate man!--Mercy! what a spectacle!--Save, save him.--It will go hard with him also.--See how he is wounded--he is covered with blood!--Escape, poor man, escape; do not let yourself be taken." These words expressed the common suffrage, and with advice came also a.s.sistance; the affair had taken place near a church of the capuchins, an asylum impenetrable to the officers of justice. The murderer, bleeding and stupified, was carried thither by the crowd; the brotherhood received him from their hands with this recommendation, "He is an honest man who has made a proud rascal cold; but he did it in his own defence."

Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although in these times murder was a thing so common that all ceased to wonder at it, yet the impression which he received from the recollection of the dying (dying through his instrumentality,) was new and indescribable; a revelation of feelings. .h.i.therto unknown. The fall of his enemy, the alteration of those features, pa.s.sing in a moment from angry threatenings to the solemn stillness of death; this was a spectacle which wrought an instantaneous change in the soul of the murderer. Whilst they were carrying him to the convent he had been insensible to what was pa.s.sing; returning to his senses, he found himself in a bed of the infirmary, in the hands of a friar who was dressing his wounds. Another, whose particular duty it was to administer comfort to the dying, had been called to the scene of combat. He returned in a short time, and approaching Ludovico's bed, said, "Console yourself; he has died in peace, has forgiven you, and hoped for your forgiveness." At these words the soul of Ludovico was filled with remorse and sorrow. "And the other?" asked he anxiously.

"The other had expired before I arrived."

In the mean time the avenues and environs of the convent swarmed with people; the officers of justice arrived, dispersed the crowd, and placed themselves in ambush at a short distance from the gates, so that no one could pa.s.s through them un.o.bserved. A brother of the deceased and some of his family appeared in full armour with a large attendance of bravoes, and surrounded the place, watching with a threatening aspect the bystanders, who did not dare say, he is safe, but they had it written on their faces.

Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked for a father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, to ask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) the cause of her affliction, and to a.s.sure her that he would take the care of her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, his determination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if G.o.d himself had willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. He immediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to him his intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to form a resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would be accepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of all his estate to the widow and family of Christopher.

The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who felt themselves embarra.s.sed concerning him. To send him from the monastery, and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was not to be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; and they would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his opponent. But Ludovico, by a.s.suming the habit of a capuchin, removed all difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a punishment competent to the offence.

The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his ill.u.s.trious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico, politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable, the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart immediately from the city. To this the capuchin a.s.sented, as if in obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the ill.u.s.trious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling, and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall to him his crime,--thus he became _Friar Christopher_!

Hardly was the ceremony of a.s.suming the habit completed, when the superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his noviciate at ----, sixty miles' distance. The noviciate bowed submissively. "Permit me, father," said he, "before I leave the scene of my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps G.o.d will take away his but too just resentment."

It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of scorn and complacency. "Let him come to-morrow," said he, and appointed the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired permission.

The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was, the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following day they should a.s.semble at his house to receive a common satisfaction.

At mid-day the palace swarmed with n.o.bility of either s.e.x; there was a blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants, pages, and bravoes.

Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all this preparation, but recovering himself, said, "It is well; the deed was committed in public, the reparation should be public." Then, with his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow, he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and pa.s.sing through another crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head, exclaimed, "I am the murderer of your brother! G.o.d knows, that to restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of G.o.d!"

All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the n.o.bleman relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant, "Rise," said he, with a troubled voice. "The offence--the deed truly--but the habit you wear--not only this--but on your own account--rise, father!--my brother--I cannot deny it--was a cavalier--of a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not remain in this posture." And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued, "I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you utter the word!"

"Pardon!" said the n.o.bleman; "I pardon you with all my heart, and all----" turning to the company----"All! all!" resounded at once through the room.

The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however, was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which the remission of men could not repair. The n.o.bleman, entirely vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was given and received.

Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowded eagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered, bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing Father Christopher, said, "Father, afford me a proof of your friendship by accepting some of these trifles."

"Such things are no longer for me," replied the father; "but if you will allow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and your forgiveness, I shall be thankful." The bread was brought, and with an air of humble grat.i.tude he put it in his basket. He then took leave of the company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in the antechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursued his way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrian journey towards the place of his noviciate.

It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we will only say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily a.s.signed to him, of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, "the oppressor's wrongs, the proud man's contumely," aroused in him a spirit of resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirely to extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, but occasionally there pa.s.sed over it a shade of former impetuosity, which was with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which now predominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as his countenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language a.s.sumed a character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One who knew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by the smothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflict between the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter never failed to gain the mastery.

If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored his a.s.sistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much more solicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing and admiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing a lively indignation at the persecution of which she had become the object. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make known the conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advice might have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for her welfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painful feelings, which the good often experience.

But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling; Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in one breath, "Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome."

CHAPTER V.

Father Christopher perceived immediately, from the countenances of Lucy and her mother, that some evil had occurred. "Is all well with you?"

said he. Lucy replied by a flood of tears. "Quiet yourself, poor child,"

continued he; "and do you," turning to Agnes, "tell me what is the matter." Whilst the good dame proceeded with the melancholy relation, he experienced a variety of painful emotions. The story being done, he buried his face in his hands, and exclaimed, "Oh, blessed G.o.d! how long?"--He then turned to Lucy; "Poor child! G.o.d has, indeed, visited you," said he.

"You will not abandon us, father?" said Lucy, sobbing.

"Abandon you!" replied he. "How should I dare ask the protection of Almighty G.o.d for myself, if I abandoned _you_! You, so defenceless!--you, whom he has confided to me! Take courage! He will a.s.sist you--His eye beholds you--He can even make use of a feeble instrument like myself to confound a ----. Let us think what can be done."

Thus saying, he grasped his beard and chin with his hand, as if to concentrate more completely the powers of his mind. But the more clearly he perceived the pressing nature of the case, the more uncertain and dangerous appeared every mode of meeting it. To endeavour to make Don Abbondio sensible of a failure in duty? This appeared hopeless; fear was more powerful with him than either shame or duty. To inform the cardinal archbishop, and invoke his authority? That would require time; and, in the meanwhile, what was to be done? To resist Don Roderick? How?

Impossible! The affair being one of a private nature, he would not be sustained by the brethren of his order: he would, perhaps, be raising a storm against himself; and, what was worse, by a useless attempt render the condition of Lucy more hopeless and deplorable. After many reflections he came to the conclusion to go to Don Roderick himself, and to endeavour by prayers and representations of the punishments of the wicked in another state, to win him from his infamous purpose. At least he might at the interview discover something of his intentions, and determine his measures accordingly. At this moment Renzo, who, as the reader will readily imagine, could not long be absent at so interesting a crisis, appeared at the door of the room; the father raised his head and bowed to him affectionately, and with a look of intense pity.

"Have they told you, father?" enquired he, with a troubled voice.

"Yes, my son; and on that account I am here."

"What do you say of the villain?"

"What do I say of _him_? I say to _you_, dear Renzo, that you must confide in G.o.d, and He will not abandon you."

"Blessed words!" exclaimed the youth: "you are not one of those who wrong the poor. But the curate and this doctor----"

"Do not torment yourself uselessly: I am but a poor friar; but I repeat to you that which I have already said to Lucy and her mother--poor as I am, I will never abandon you."

"Oh! you are not like the friends of the world--rascals--when I was in prosperity, abundant in protestations; ready to shed their blood for me, to sustain me against the devil! Had I an enemy, they would soon put it out of his power to molest me! And now, to see them withdraw themselves!" He was interrupted in his vituperations by the dark shade which pa.s.sed over the countenance of his auditor; he perceived the blunder he had made, and attempting to remedy it, became perplexed and confused. "I would say--I did not at all intend--that is, I meant to say----"

"What did you mean to say? You have already begun to mar my undertaking.

It is well that thou art undeceived in time. What! thou didst seek friends! and what friends! they could not have aided thee, had they been willing. And thou didst not apply to the only friend who can and will protect thee;--dost thou not know that G.o.d is the friend of all who trust in Him? dost thou not know that to spread the talons does little good to the weak? and even if----" at these words he grasped forcibly Renzo's arm; his countenance, without losing his wonted authority, displayed an affecting remorse; his eyes were fixed on the ground; and his voice became slow and sepulchral: "and even if that little should be gained, how terribly awful! Renzo, will you confide in me?--that I should say in me! a worm of the dust! will you not confide in G.o.d?"

"Oh! yes!" replied Renzo; "He only is the Lord."

"Promise me, then, that you will not meet or provoke any one; that you will suffer yourself to be guided by me."

"I promise," said Renzo.

Lucy drew a long breath, as if relieved from a weight, and Agnes was loud in applauses.

"Listen, my children," resumed Father Christopher: "I will go myself to-day to speak to this man: if G.o.d touches his heart through my words, well; if not, _He_ will provide some other remedy. In the mean time keep yourselves quiet and retired; this evening, or to-morrow at the latest, you shall see me again." Having said this, he departed amidst thanks and blessings.