"Oh, Tony," said Renzo, stopping before him, "is it you?" Tony raised his eyes, but not his head.
"Tony, do you not know me?"
"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he.
"Poor Tony! do you indeed not know me?"
"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he, with an idiotic smile, and then stood with his mouth open.
Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, pa.s.sed on still more afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheld advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio.
His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had not escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examined his person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognised Renzo with much surprise.
"Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a movement of wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves, which before could hardly contain them.
Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he had quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate.
"You here! you!" cried Don Abbondio.
"Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?"
"How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she is still in this world. But you----"
"And Agnes, is she living?"
"Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here.
But----"
"Where is she?"
"She has gone to Valsa.s.sina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for they say that down there the pestilence has not made such ravages as it has here. But you, I say----"
"I am glad of that. And Father Christopher?"
"He has been gone this long time. But you----"
"I heard that,--but has he not returned?"
"Oh no, we have heard nothing of him. But you----"
"I am sorry for it."
"But you, I say, what do you do here? For the love of Heaven, have you forgotten that little circ.u.mstance of the order for your apprehension?"
"What matters it? people have other things to think of now. I came here to see about my own affairs."
"There is nothing to see about; there is no one here now. It is the height of rashness in you to venture here, with this little difficulty impending. Listen to an old man who has more prudence than yourself, and who speaks to you from the love he bears you. Depart at once, before any one sees you, return whence you came. Do you think the air of this place good for you? Know you not that they have been here on the search for you?"
"I know it too well, the rascals."
"But then----"
"But, I tell you, they think no more about it. And _he_, does _he_ yet live? is _he_ here?"
"I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of the affairs of this place; I tell you that----"
"I ask you if _he_ is here;"
"Oh, just Heaven! Speak in another manner. Is it possible you still retain so much warmth, after all that has happened?"
"Is _he_ here, or is _he_ not?"
"He is not. But the plague, my son, the plague keeps every one from travelling at present."
"If the pestilence was all that we need fear--I speak for myself, I have had it, and I fear it not."
"You had better render thanks to Heaven. And----"
"I do, from the bottom of my heart."
"And not go in search of other evils, I say. Listen to my advice."
"You have had it also, sir, if I am not mistaken."
"That I have, truly! most terrible it was! it is by a miracle I am here; you see how it has left me. I have need of repose to restore my strength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name of Heaven, what do you do here? Go away, I beseech you."
"You always return to your _go away_. If I ought to go away, I would not have come. You keep saying, _What do you come for? what do you come for?_ Sir, I am come home."
"Home!"
"Tell me, have there been many deaths here?"
"Many!" cried Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he gave a long list of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it is true, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances, friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and could only exclaim, from time to time, "Misery! misery! misery!"
"And it is not yet over," pursued Don Abbondio. "If those who remain do not listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be the end of the world."
"Do not concern yourself; I do not intend to remain here."
"Heaven be praised! you talk reason at last. Go at once----"
"Do not trouble yourself about it; the affair belongs to me. I think I have arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one that you have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you will not betray me?"
"I understand," said Don Abbondio, angrily, "I understand. You would ruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I have suffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand." And continuing to mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way.
Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seek another asylum. In the catalogue of deaths given to him by Don Abbondio, there was a family which had all been carried off by the pestilence, with the exception of a young man nearly of his own age, who had been his companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a little beyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitality which it might afford him. On his way he pa.s.sed his own vineyard. The vines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and most luxuriant growth, princ.i.p.ally of the parasitical order, covered the place, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branches of the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. The garden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriant wildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of the lansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzo turned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to his friend"s. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on a small bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a man stupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound of steps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him to distinguish objects distinctly, he said, "Are there not others besides me? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an act of charity."
Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.
"Renzo?" replied he.