The Bravo (52 page)

"Humor his wish," he said to the halberdiers; "but have him in
readiness to reappear."

Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful that the others might still
interfere to prevent his wish, he hurried from the room.

The march of the little procession, which proceeded from the chamber of
the inquisition to the summer cells of its victims, was sadly
characteristic of the place and the government.

It went through gloomy and secret corridors, that were hid from the
vulgar eye, while thin partitions only separated them from the
apartments of the Doge, which, like the specious aspect of the state,
concealed the nakedness and misery within, by their gorgeousness and
splendor! On reaching the attic, Jacopo stopped, and turned to his
conductors.

"If you are beings of God's forming," he said, "take off these clanking
chains, though it be but for a moment."

The keepers regarded each other in surprise, neither offering to do the
charitable office.

"I go to visit, probably for the last time," continued the prisoner, "a
bed-ridden—I may say—a dying father, who knows nothing of my
situation,—will ye that he should see me thus?"

The appeal which was made, more with the voice and manner, than in the
words, had its effect. A keeper removed the chains, and bade him
proceed. With a cautious tread, Jacopo advanced, and when the door was
opened he entered the room alone, for none there had sufficient
interest in an interview between a common Bravo and his father, to
endure the glowing warmth of the place, the while. The door was closed
after him, and the room became dark.

Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, Jacopo hesitated when he found
himself so suddenly introduced to the silent misery of the forlorn
captive. A hard breathing told him the situation of the pallet, but the
walls, which were solid on the side of the corridor, effectually
prevented the admission of light.

"Father!" said Jacopo with gentleness.

He got no answer.

"Father!" he repeated in a stronger voice.

The breathing became more audible, and then the captive spoke.

"Holy Maria hear my prayers!" he said feebly. "God hath sent thee, son,
to close my eyes!"

"Doth thy strength fail thee, father?"

"Greatly—my time is come—I had hoped to see the light of the day again
to bless thy dear mother and sister—God's will be done!"

"They pray for us both, father. They are beyond the power of the
Senate."

"Jacopo, I do not understand thee!"

"My mother and sister are dead; they are saints in Heaven, father."

The old man groaned, for the tie of earth had not yet been entirely
severed. Jacopo heard him murmuring a prayer, and he knelt by the side
of his pallet.

"This is a sudden blow!" whispered the old man. "We depart together."

"They are long dead, father."

"Why hast thou not told me this before, Jacopo?"

"Hadst thou not sorrows enough without this? Now that thou art about to
join them, it will be pleasant to know that they have so long been
happy."

"And thou?—thou wilt be alone—give me thy hand—poor Jacopo!"

The Bravo reached forth and took the feeble member of his parent; it was
clammy and cold.

"Jacopo," continued the captive, whose mind still sustained the body, "I
have prayed thrice within the hour: once for my own soul—once for the
peace of thy mother—lastly, for thee!"

"Bless thee, father!—bless thee! I have need of prayer!"

"I have asked of God favor in thy behalf. I have bethought me of all thy
love and care—of all thy devotion to my age and sufferings. When thou
wert a child, Jacopo, tenderness for thee tempted me to acts of
weakness: I trembled lest thy manhood might bring upon me pain and
repentance. Thou hast not known the yearnings of a parent for his
offspring, but thou hast well requited them. Kneel, Jacopo, that I may
ask of God, once more, to remember thee."

"I am at thy side, father."

The old man raised his feeble arms, and with a voice whose force
appeared reviving, he pronounced a fervent and solemn benediction.

"The blessing of a dying parent will sweeten thy life, Jacopo," he added
after a pause, "and give peace to thy last moments."

"It will do the latter, father."

A rude summons at the door interrupted them.

"Come forth, Jacopo," said a keeper, "the Council seeks thee!"

Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his father, but he did not answer.

"Will they not leave thee—a few minutes longer?" whispered the old
man—"I shall not keep thee long!"

The door opened, and a gleam from the lamp fell on the group in the
cell. The keeper had the humanity to shut it again, leaving all in
obscurity. The glimpse which Jacopo obtained, by that passing light, was
the last look he had of his father's countenance. Death was fearfully on
it, but the eyes were turned in unutterable affection on his own.

"The man is merciful—he will not shut thee out!" murmured the parent.

"They cannot leave thee to die alone, father!"

"Son, I am with my God—yet I would gladly have thee by my side!—Didst
thou say—thy mother and thy sister were dead!"

"Dead!"

"Thy young sister, too?"

"Father, both. They are saints in Heaven."

The old man breathed thick, and there was silence. Jacopo felt a hand
moving in the darkness, as if in quest of him. He aided the effort, and
laid the member in reverence on his own head.

"Maria undefiled, and her Son, who is God!—bless thee, Jacopo!"
whispered a voice, that to the excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo
appeared to hover in the air. The solemn words were followed by a
quivering sigh. Jacopo hid his face in the blanket, and prayed. After
which there was deep quiet.

"Father!" he added, trembling at his own smothered voice.

He was unanswered; stretching out a hand, it touched the features of a
corpse. With a firmness that had the quality of desperation, he again
bowed his head and uttered fervently a prayer for the dead.

When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo appeared to the keepers, with a
dignity of air that belongs only to character, and which was heightened
by the scene in which he had just been an actor. He raised his hands,
and stood immovable while the manacles were replaced. This office done,
they walked away together in the direction of the secret chamber. It was
not long ere all were again in their places, before the Council of
Three.

"Jacopo Frontoni," resumed the secretary, "thou art suspected of being
privy to another dark deed that hath had place of late within our city.
Hast thou any knowledge of a noble Calabrian, who hath high claim to the
senate's honors, and who hath long had his abode in Venice?"

"Signore, I have."

"Hast thou had aught of concern with him?"

"Signore, yes."

A movement of common interest made itself apparent among the auditors.

"Dost thou know where the Don Camillo Monforte is at present."

Jacopo hesitated. He so well understood the means of intelligence
possessed by the Council, that he doubted how far it might be prudent to
deny his connexion with the flight of the lovers. Besides, at that
moment, his mind was deeply impressed with a holy sentiment of truth.

"Canst thou say, why the young duca is not to be found in his palace?"
repeated the secretary.

"Illustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for ever."

"How canst thou know this?—Would he make a confidant of a common
Bravo?"

The smile which crossed the features of Jacopo was full of superiority;
it caused the conscious agent of the Secret Tribunal to look closely at
his papers, like one who felt its power.

"Art thou his confidant—I ask again?"

"Signore, in this, I am—I have the assurance from the mouth of Don
Camillo Monforte himself, that he will not return."

"This is impossible, since it would involve a loss of all his fair
hopes and illustrious fortunes."

"He consoled himself, Signore, with the possession of the heiress of
Tiepolo's love, and with her riches."

Again there was a movement among the Three, which all their practised
restraint, and the conventional dignity of their mysterious functions,
could not prevent.

"Let the keepers withdraw," said the inquisitor of the scarlet robe. So
soon as the prisoner was alone with the Three, and their permanent
officer, the examination continued; the Senators themselves, trusting to
the effect produced by their masks, and some feints, speaking as
occasion offered.

"This is important intelligence that thou hast communicated, Jacopo,"
continued he of the robe of flame. "It may yet redeem thy life, wert
thou wise enough to turn it to account."

"What would your eccellenza at my hands? It is plain that the Council
know of the flight of Don Camillo, nor will I believe that eyes, which
so seldom are closed, have not yet missed the daughter of the Tiepolo."

"Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast thou to say of the means?
Remember, that as thou findest favor with the council, thine own fate
will be decided."

The prisoner suffered another of those freezing gleams to cross his
face, which invariably caused his examiners to bend their looks aside.

"The means of escape cannot be wanting to a bold lover, Signore," he
replied. "Don Camillo is rich, and might employ a thousand agents, had
he need of them."

"Thou art equivocating; 'twill be the worse for thee, that thou triflest
with the Council—who are these agents?"

"He had a generous household, Eccellenza;—many hardy gondoliers, and
servitors of all conditions."

"Of these we have nothing to learn. He hath escaped by other means—or
art thou sure he hath escaped at all?"

"Signore, is he in Venice?"

"Nay, that we ask of thee. Here is an accusation, found in the lion's
mouth, which charges thee with his assassination."

"And the Donna Violetta's, too, eccellenza?"

"Of her, we have heard nothing. What answer dost make to the charge?"

"Signore, why should I betray my own secrets?"

"Ha! art thou equivocating and faithless? Remember that we have a
prisoner beneath the leads, who can extract the truth from thee."

Jacopo raised his form to such an altitude as one might fancy to express
the mounting of a liberated spirit. Still his eye was sad, and, spite of
an effort to the contrary, his voice melancholy.

"Senators," he said, "your prisoner beneath the leads is free."

"How! thou art trifling, in thy despair!"

"I speak truth. The liberation, so long delayed, hath come at last."

"Thy father—"

"Is dead," interrupted Jacopo, solemnly.

The two elder members of the Council looked at each other in surprise,
while their junior colleague listened with the interest of one who was
just entering on a noviciate of secret and embarrassing duties. The
former consulted together, and then they communicated as much of their
opinions to the Signor Soranzo, as they deemed necessary to the
occasion.

"Wilt thou consult thine own safety, Jacopo, and reveal all thou knowest
of this affair of the Neapolitan?" continued the inquisitor, when this
by-play was ended.

Jacopo betrayed no weakness at the menace implied by the words of the
senator; but, after a moment's reflection, he answered writh as much
frankness as he could have used at the confessional.

"It is known to you, illustrious senator," he said, "that the state had
a desire to match the heiress of Tiepolo, to its own advantage; that she
was beloved of the Neapolitan noble; and that, as is wont between young
and virtuous hearts, she returned his love as became a maiden of her
high condition and tender years. Is there anything extraordinary in the
circumstance that two of so illustrious hopes should struggle to prevent
their own misery? Signori, the night that old Antonio died, I was alone,
among the graves of the Lido, with many melancholy and bitter thoughts,
and life had become a burden to me. Had the evil spirit which was then
uppermost, maintained its mastery, I might have died the death of a
hopeless suicide. God sent Don Camillo Monforte to my succor. Praised be
the immaculate Maria, and her blessed Son, for the mercy! It was there I
learned the wishes of the Neapolitan, and enlisted myself in his
service. I swore to him, senators of Venice, to be true—to die in his
cause, should it be necessary, and to help him to his bride. This pledge
have I redeemed. The happy lovers are now in the States of the Church,
and under the puissant protection of the cardinal secretary, Don
Camillo's mother's brother."

"Fool! why did'st thou this? Had'st thou no thought for thyself?"

"Eccellenza, but little. I thought more of finding a human bosom to pour
out my sufferings to, than of your high displeasure. I have not known so
sweet a moment in years, as that in which I saw the lord of Sant' Agata
fold his beautiful and weeping bride to his heart!"

The inquisitors were struck with the quiet enthusiasm of the Bravo, and
surprise once more held them in suspense. At length the elder of the
three resumed the examination.

"Wilt thou impart the manner of this escape, Jacopo?" he demanded.
"Remember, thou hast still a life to redeem!"

"Signore, it is scarce worth the trouble. But to do your pleasure,
nothing shall be concealed."

Jacopo then recounted in simple and undisguised terms, the entire means
employed by Don Camillo in effecting his escape—his hopes, his
disappointments, and his final success. In this narrative nothing was
concealed but the place in which the ladies had temporarily taken
refuge, and the name of Gelsomina. Even the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo
on the life of the Neapolitan, and the agency of the Hebrew, were fully
exposed. None listened to this explanation so intently as the young
husband. Notwithstanding his public duties, his pulses quickened as the
prisoner dwelt on the different chances of the lovers, and when their
final union was proclaimed, he felt his heart bound with delight. On the
other hand, his more practised colleagues heard the detail of the Bravo
with politic coolness. The effect of all factitious systems is to render
the feelings subservient to expediency. Convention and fiction take
place of passion and truth, and like the Mussulman with his doctrine of
predestination, there is no one more acquiescent in defeat, than he who
has obtained an advantage in the face of nature and justice; his
resignation being, in common, as perfect as his previous arrogance was
insupportable. The two old senators perceived at once that Don Camillo
and his fair companion were completely beyond the reach of their power,
and they instantly admitted the wisdom of making a merit of necessity.
Having no farther occasion for Jacopo, they summoned the keepers, and
dismissed him to his cell.