The Bravo of Venice Part 4

"Lady, fear nothing; _I_ protect you." This said, Abellino placed a whistle at his lips, and blew it shrilly.

Instantly sprang Matteo from his concealment in a neighbouring clump of trees, and rushed into the arbour. Abellino threw Rosabella on the bank of turf, advanced a few steps to meet Matteo, and plunged his dagger in his heart.

Without uttering a single cry, sank the banditti captain at the feet of Abellino: the death-rattle was heard in his throat, and after a few horrible convulsions all was over.

Now did Matteo's murderer look again towards the arbour, and beheld Rosabella half senseless, as she lay on the bank of turf.

"Your life is safe, beautiful Rosabella," said he; "there lies the villain bleeding, who conducted me hither to murder you. Recover yourself; return to your uncle, the Doge, and tell him that you owe your life to Abellino."

Rosabella could not speak. Trembling, she stretched her arms towards him, grasped his hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent grat.i.tude.

Abellino gazed with delight and wonder on the lovely sufferer; and in such a situation, who could have beheld her without emotion?

Rosabella had scarcely numbered seventeen summers; her light and delicate limbs, enveloped in a thin white garment, which fell around her in a thousand folds; her blue and melting eyes, whence beamed the expression of purest innocence; her forehead, white as ivory, overshadowed the ringlets of her bright dark hair; cheeks, whence terror had now stolen the roses; such was Rosabella, a creature in whose formation partial Nature seemed to have omitted nothing which might const.i.tute the perfection of female loveliness--such was she; and being such, the wretched Abellino may be forgiven if for some few minutes he stood like one enchanted, and bartered for those few minutes the tranquillity of his heart for ever.

"By Him who made me," cried he at length, "oh! thou art fair, Rosabella; Valeria was not fairer."

He bowed himself down to her, and imprinted a burning kiss on the pale cheeks of the beauty.

"Leave me, thou dreadful man," she stammered in terror; "oh, leave me."

"Ah, Rosabella, why art thou so beauteous, and why am I--Knowest thou who kissed thy cheek, Rosabella? Go, tell thy uncle, the proud Doge--'TWAS THE BRAVO, ABELLINO," he said, and rushed out of the arbour.

CHAPTER VII: THE BRAVO'S BRIDE.

It was not without good reason that Abellino took his departure in such haste. He had quitted the spot but a few minutes, when a large party accidentally strolled that way, and discovered with astonishment the corpse of Matteo, and Rosabella pale and trembling in the arbour.

A crowd immediately collected itself round them. It increased with every moment, and Rosabella was necessitated to repeat what had happened to her for the satisfaction of every newcomer.

In the meanwhile some of the Doge's courtiers, who happened to be among the crowd, hastened to call her attendants together; her gondola was already waiting for her, and the terrified girl soon reached her uncle's palace in safety.

In vain was an embargo laid upon every other gondola; in vain did they examine every person who was in the gardens of Dolabella at the time, when the murdered a.s.sa.s.sin was first discovered. No traces could be found of Abellino.

The report of this strange adventure spread like wildfire through Venice. Abellino, for Rosabella had preserved but too well in her memory that dreadful name, and by the relation of her danger had given it universal publicity, Abellino was the object of general wonder and curiosity. Every one pitied the poor Rosabella for what she had suffered, execrated the villain who had bribed Matteo to murder her, and endeavoured to connect the different circ.u.mstances together by the help of one hypothesis or other, among which it would have been difficult to decide which was the most improbable.

Every one who heard the adventure, told it again, and every one who told it, added something of his own, till at length it was made into a complete romantic novel, which might have been ent.i.tled with great propriety, "The Power of Beauty;" for the Venetian gentlemen and ladies had settled the point among themselves completely to their own satisfaction, that Abellino would undoubtedly have a.s.sa.s.sinated Rosabella, had he not been prevented by her uncommon beauty. But though Abellino's interference had preserved her life, it was doubted much whether this adventure would be at all relished by her destined bridegroom, the Prince of Monaldeschi, a Neapolitan of the first rank, possessed of immense wealth and extensive influence.

The Doge had for some time been secretly engaged in negotiating a match between his niece and this powerful n.o.bleman, who was soon expected to make his appearance at Venice. The motive of his journey, in spite of all the Doge's precautions, had been divulged, and it was no longer a secret to any but Rosabella, who had never seen the prince, and could not imagine why his expected visit should excite such general curiosity.

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 grat.i.tude 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 n.o.bleman 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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.

Parozzi.--And I tell you again that Lomellino knows not what he says.

Contarino.--Well, well, only be upon your guard. Andreas is a terrible fellow to deal with.

Falieri.--HE terrible. I tell you he is the most contemptible blockhead that the universe can furnish! Courage perhaps he possesses, but of brains not an atom.

Contarino.--And _I_ tell you that Andreas is as brave as a lion, and as crafty as a fox.

Falieri.--Pshaw! pshaw! Everything would go to rack and ruin were it not for the wiser heads of this triumvirate of counsellors, whom Heaven confound! Deprive him of Paolo Manfrone, Conari, and Lomellino, and the Doge would stand there looking as foolish as a schoolboy who was going to be examined and had forgotten his lesson.

Parozzi.--Falieri is in the right.

Memmo.--Quite, quite.

Falieri.--And then Andreas is as proud as a beggar grown rich and dressed in his first suit of embroidery. By St. Anthony, he is become quite insupportable. Do you not observe how he increases the number of his attendants daily?

Memmo.--Nay, that is an undoubted fact.

Contarino.--And then, to what an unbounded extent has he carried his influence. The Signoria, the Quaranti, the Procurators of St. Mark, the Avocatori, all think and act exactly as it suits the Doge's pleasure and convenience! Every soul of them depends as much on that one man's honour and caprices as puppets do who nod or shake their wooden heads just as the fellow behind the curtain thinks proper to move the wires.

Parozzi.--And yet the populace idolises this Andreas.

Memmo.--Ay, that is the worst part of the story.

Falieri.--But never credit me again if he does not experience a reverse of fortune speedily.

Contarino.--That might happen would we but set our shoulders to the wheel stoutly. But what do we do? We pa.s.s our time in taverns; drink and game, and throw ourselves headlong into such an ocean of debts, that the best swimmer must sink at last. Let us resolve to make the attempt. Let us seek recruits on all sides; let us labour with all our might and main. Things must change, or if they do not, take my word for it, my friends, this world is no longer a world for us.