"Carneades! who was he?" said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in his large chair, with a book open before him. "Carneades! this name I have either heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar of antiquity; but who the devil _was_ he?" Now, it should be known, that it was Don Abbondio"s custom to read a little every day, and that a curate, his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, one after the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at this moment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many years before in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for his love of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate well understood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotes related of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on to liken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. At this moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony.
"At such an hour?" said Don Abbondio.
"What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shoot the bird flying----"
"Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?" continued he. "Let him come in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?"
"The devil!" said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door, demanded, "Where are you?"
Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name.
"Good evening, Agnes," said she; "whence come you at this hour?"
"I come from----," naming a neighbouring village. "And do you know," she continued, "that I have been delayed on your account?"
"On my account!" exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said, "Go in, and I will follow you."
"Because," resumed Agnes, "a gossiping woman of the company said--would you believe it?--obstinately persisted in saying, that you were never engaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because they would not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both----"
"Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?"
"Don"t ask me; I don"t wish to make mischief."
"You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!"
"So it was; but you can"t believe how sorry I felt not to know all the story, that I might have confuted her."
"It is an infamous lie," said Perpetua. "As to Beppo, every one knows----"
In front of Don Abbondio"s house, there was a short and narrow lane, between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into the fields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talking with her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they could not see what pa.s.sed before the curate"s house, Agnes coughed loudly.
This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, with Lucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door, opened it softly, and entered the pa.s.sage, where the two brothers were waiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; the brothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remained concealed on the landing.
"_Deo gratias_," said Tony, in a clear voice.
"Tony, eh? come in," replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, opening the door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. The rays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on the darkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter tremble as if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed the door; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy"s heart might be heard in the stillness.
Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped in a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara, which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from the dim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneath the cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along his chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled visage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by moonlight.
"Ah! ah!" was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placed them on his book.
"Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?" said Tony, bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.
"Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I am ill?"
"Oh! I am sorry."
"Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why is this boy with you?"
"For company, Signor Curate."
"Well; let us see."
"Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose on horseback," said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket.
"Give here," said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it, counted the money, and found it correct.
"Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela."
"Certainly," replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drew forth the pledge, and carefully returned it.
"Now," said Tony, "you will please to put it in black and white?"
"Eh!" said Don Abbondio, "how suspicious the world has become! Do you not trust me?"
"How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on your book on the side of debtor----"
"Well, well," interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at the table, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words as they came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him, Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as to deprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness, moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, and also for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of this Don Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating sounds of the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with her behind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it over attentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, "Will you be satisfied now?" Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervase on the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio, affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; and while Renzo was uttering the words, "Sir Curate, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife," and the poor Lucy had begun, "And this is----" he had s.n.a.t.c.hed from the table the cloth which covered it, throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting fall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face of Lucy, at the same time roaring out, "Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery!
help!" The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering light over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue, making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them in darkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along the wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he entered, and locked himself in, crying out, "Perpetua! treachery! help!
out of the house! out of the house!" All was confusion in the apartment he had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, had followed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of the room, crying, "Open, open; don"t make such an outcry;" Lucy calling to Renzo, in a supplicating voice, "Let us go, let us go, for the love of G.o.d!" Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for his receipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, crying and jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as to escape with whole bones.
In the midst of this turmoil, we cannot stop to make reflections; but Renzo, causing disturbance at night in another person"s house, and holding the master of it besieged in an inner room, has all the appearance of an oppressor; when in fact he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, a.s.saulted in his own house, while he was tranquilly attending to his affairs, appeared the victim; when, in fact, it was he who had inflicted the injury. Thus goes the world, or rather, thus it went in the seventeenth century.
The besieged, seeing that the enemy gave no signs of retreat, opened a window which looked out upon the churchyard, and cried, "Help, help!"
The moon shone brightly--every object could be clearly discerned as in the day; but a deep repose rested over all--there was no indication of a living soul. Contiguous to the church, and on that side of it which fronted the parsonage, was a small habitation in which slept the s.e.xton.
Aroused by this strange outcry, he jumped from his bed, opened the small window, with his eyelids glued together all the time, and cried, "What is the matter?"
"Run, Ambrose, run! help! people in the house!" cried Don Abbondio. "I come in a moment," replied he, drawing in his head; he closed his curtain, and half stupid, and half affrighted, thought of an expedient to bring more help than had been required of him, without risking his own life in the contest, whatever it might be. He hastily took his breeches from the bed, and putting them under his arm, like an opera hat, ran to the belfry and pulled away l.u.s.tily.
_Ton, Ton, Ton_; the peasant aroused, sat up in his bed; the boy, sleeping in the hay-loft, listened eagerly, and sprang on his feet; "What is the matter? What is it? Fire! Robbers!" Each woman entreated her husband not to stir, but to leave it to others: such as were cowards obeyed, whilst the inquisitive and courageous took their arms, and ran towards the noise.
Long before this, however, the alarm had been given to other personages of our story; the bravoes in one place; and Agnes and Perpetua in another. It is necessary to relate briefly how the former had been occupied, since we last took leave of them; those at the old house, and those at the inn. The latter, when they ascertained that the inhabitants of the village had retired to rest, and that the road was clear, went to the cottage of Lucy, and found that a perfect stillness reigned within. They then returned to the old house to give in their report to Signor Griso. He immediately put on a slouched hat, with a pilgrim"s habit, and staff, saying, "Let us act as becometh soldiers; cautious, quiet, and attentive to orders." Then leading the way, he, with his company, arrived at the cottage, by a route different from that taken by our poor cottagers. Griso kept the band a few steps off, went forward alone to explore, and seeing all deserted and quiet on the outside, he beckoned to two of them, ordered them to mount very carefully and quietly the wall which enclosed the court-yard, and to conceal themselves on the other side behind a thick fig-tree, which he had observed in the morning. That being done, he knocked gently at the door, with the intention to call himself a pilgrim, who had wandered from his way, and request shelter until the morning. No answer; he knocked again, louder; not a sound! He then called a third robber, made him also descend into the yard, with orders to unfasten the bolt on the inside, so that they might have free entrance. All was performed with the utmost caution, and the most complete success. Griso then called the rest, and made some of them conceal themselves by the side of those behind the fig-tree; he then opened the door very softly, placed two centinels on the inside of it, and advanced to the lower chamber. He knocked; he waited--and well might wait; he raised the latch; no one from within said, "Who is there?" Nothing could go on better. He then called the robbers from the fig-tree, and with them entered the room where he had in the morning so villanously received the loaf of bread.
He drew out his flint, tinder-box, and matches, and striking a light, proceeded to the inner chamber; it was empty! He returned to the stairs, and listened; solitude and silence! He left two to keep watch below, and with the others carefully ascended the stairs, cursing in his heart the creaking of the steps. He reached the summit, pushed softly open the door of the first room, and listened if any one breathed or moved: no one! He advanced, shading his face with the lamp, and perceived a bed; it was made, and perfectly smooth, with the covering arranged in order on the bolster! He shrugged his shoulders, and returning to the company, made a sign to them, that he was going into the other room, and that they should remain quietly behind,--he did so, and had the same success; all deserted and quiet.
"What the devil"s this?" said he aloud; "some traitorous dog has played the spy!" They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house, putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorway heard a light step approaching in the street,--they kept very quiet, thinking it would pa.s.s on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front of the cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, to warn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refuge _there_, because--the _because_ is already known. He was surprised to find the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm, found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone, "Hush! be quiet, or you die!" He uttered a cry, at which one struck him a blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspire him with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt to stir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, and immediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. "The wicked are always cowards," says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes let go in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house, to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free, also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturally supposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains above stairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed and perplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find the nearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomed to confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, an undetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required all the superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should be a retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in a.s.sembling them in the middle of the court-yard. "Halt, halt," cried he, "pistols in hand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! for shame! fall behind me, and keep together." Reduced to order, they followed him in silence.
We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua, whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation.
Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint of appearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an occasional "Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? and he? and you?" In the midst of an important part of her narrative, the deep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for "_help!_" "Mercy! what is the matter?" cried Perpetua, and prepared to run.
"What is the matter? what is the matter?" cried Agnes, holding her by the gown.
"Mercy! did you not hear?" replied she, struggling to get free.
"What is the matter? what is the matter?" repeated Agnes, holding her firmly by the arm.
"Devil of a woman!" exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heard at a distance the light scream of Menico.
"Mercy!" cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound of the bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first, and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had found the stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to some place of safety.