"Yes. At least I hope so."
"Is she thy wife?"
"My dear father! alas! no, she is not my wife. Do you know nothing, then, of what has happened?"
"No, my son. Since G.o.d removed me from you, I have heard nothing. But now that he sends you to me, I wish much to know. And your banishment?"
"You know, then, what they did to me?"
"But you, what did _you_ do?"
"My father, if I were to say I was prudent on that day at Milan, I should tell a falsehood; but I committed no bad action wilfully."
"I believe you; I have always thought so."
"Now then I will tell you all."
"Wait a moment."
He approached a cabin, and called "_Father Victor_."
In a few moments a young capuchin appeared. "Do me the favour, Father Victor," said he, "to take my place in watching over our poor patients for a little while. If, however, any should particularly ask for me, be so good as to call me."
The young friar complied, and Father Christopher, turning to Renzo, "Let us enter here," said he. "But," added he, "you appear much exhausted, you have need of food."
"It is true. Now that you make me think of it, I have not tasted any thing to-day."
"Wait, then, a moment." He soon brought Renzo a bowl of broth, from a large kettle, the common property of the establishment, and making him sit down on his bed, the only seat his cabin afforded, and placing some wine on a little table by his side, he seated himself next him. "Now tell me about my poor child," said he, "and be in haste, for time is precious, and I have much to do, as you perceive."
Renzo related the history of Lucy; that she had been sheltered in the convent of Monza, and carried off from her asylum. At the idea of such treatment and peril, and at the thought, too, that it was he who had unwittingly exposed her to it, the good friar was breathless with attention; but he recovered his tranquillity when he heard of her miraculous deliverance, her restoration to her mother, and her having been placed under the protection of Donna Pra.s.sede.
Renzo then briefly related his journey to Milan, his flight, and his return home; that he had not found Agnes there; and at Milan had learned that Lucy was in the lazaretto. "And I am here," concluded he, "I am here in search of her; to see if she yet lives, and if----she still thinks of me----because----sometimes----"
"But what direction did they give you? Did they tell you where she was placed when she came here?"
"I know nothing, dear father, nothing; only that she is here, if she still lives, which may G.o.d grant!"
"Oh, poor child! But what have you done here until now?"
"I have searched, and searched, but have seen hardly any but men. I think the females must be in another part by themselves; you can tell me if this is the case?"
"Know you not that it is forbidden to men to enter there unless their duty calls them?"
"Oh, well! what can happen to me if I should attempt?"
"The law is a good one, my dear son; and if our weight of affliction does not permit us to enforce it, is that a reason why an honest man should infringe it?"
"But, Father Christopher, Lucy should have been my wife; you know how we have been separated; it is twenty months since I have suffered, and taken my misfortunes patiently; I have come here, risking every thing to behold her, and now----"
"I know not what to say," resumed the friar; "you are, no doubt, guided by a praiseworthy motive; would to G.o.d that all those who have free access to these places conducted themselves as well as I am sure you will. G.o.d, who certainly blesses thy perseverance of affection, thy fidelity in desiring and seeking her whom he has given thee, G.o.d, who is more rigorous than man, but also more indulgent, will not regard what may be irregular in this enquiry for one so dear."
So saying, he arose, and Renzo followed him. While listening to him, he had been confirmed in his resolution not to acquaint the father with Lucy"s vow. "If he learns that," thought he, "he will certainly raise new difficulties. Either I shall find her, and we can then disclose, or----and then----what use would it be?"
After having conducted him to the opening of the cabin, towards the north, "From yonder little temple," said he, "rising above the miserable tents, Father Felix is about to lead in procession the small remnant who are convalescent, to another station, to finish their quarantine. Avoid notice, but watch them as they pa.s.s. If she is not of the number, this side," added he, pointing to the edifice before them, "this side of the building and a part of the field before it are a.s.signed to the women.
You will perceive a railing which divides that quarter from this, but so broken, in many places, that you can easily pa.s.s through. Once there, if you do nothing to offend, probably no one will speak to you. If, however, there is any difficulty, say that Father Christopher knows you, and will answer for you. Seek her, then, seek her with confidence--and with resignation; for remember, it is an unusual expectation, a person alive within the walls of the lazaretto! Go, then, and be prepared for whatever result----"
"Yes, I understand!" said Renzo, a dark cloud overshadowing his countenance; "I understand, I will seek in every place, from one end of the lazaretto to the other----And if I do not find her!"
"If you do not find her?" repeated the father, in a serious and admonitory tone.
But Renzo, giving vent to the wrath which had been for some time pent up in his bosom, pursued, "If I do not find her, I will find _another_ person. Either at Milan, or in his abominable palace, or at the end of the world, or in the house of the devil, I will find the villain who separated us; but for whom Lucy would have been mine twenty months ago; and if we had been destined to die, at least we should have died together. If he still lives, I will find him----"
"Renzo!" said the friar, seizing him by the arm, and looking at him severely.
"And if I find him," continued Renzo, entirely blinded by rage, "if the pestilence has not already done justice--the time is past when a poltroon, surrounded by bravoes, can reduce men to despair, and laugh at them! the time is come when men meet face to face, and I will do myself justice."
"Unhappy youth!" cried Father Christopher, with a voice which had suddenly become strong and sonorous, his head raised, and eyes darting forth more than their wonted fire; "unhappy youth! look around you!
Behold who punishes and who judges; who punishes and pardons! But you, feeble worm, you would do yourself justice! Do you know what justice is?
Unhappy youth! begone! I hoped----yes, I hoped that before I died, G.o.d would afford me the consolation to learn that my poor Lucy still lived; to see her, perhaps, and to hear her promise that she would send a prayer to yonder grave where I shall rest. Begone, you have taken away my hope. G.o.d has not left her on the earth for thee, and you certainly have not the audacity to believe yourself worthy that G.o.d should think of consoling you. Go, I have no time to listen to you farther." And he dropped the arm of Renzo, which he had grasped, and moved towards a cabin.
"Oh, my father!" said Renzo, following him with a supplicating look, "will you send me away thus?"
"How!" resumed the capuchin, but in a gentler tone, "would you dare ask me to steal the time from these poor afflicted ones, who are expecting me to speak to them of the pardon of G.o.d, in order to listen to thy accents of rage--thy projects of vengeance? I listened to you, when you asked consolation and advice, but now that you have revenge in your heart, what do you want with me? Begone, I have listened to the forgiveness of the injured, and the repentance of the aggressor; I have wept with both; but what have I to do with thee?"
"Oh, I pardon him! I pardon him! I pardon him for ever!" said the young man.
"Renzo," said the friar, in a calmer tone, "think of it, and tell me how often you have pardoned him?"
He kept silence some time, and not receiving an answer, he bowed his head, and, with a voice trembling from emotion, continued, "You know why I wear this habit?"
Renzo hesitated.
"You know it?" repeated the old man.
"I know it."
"I likewise hated, I, who have reprimanded you for a thought, a word.
The man I hated, I killed."
"Yes, but it was a n.o.ble, one of those----"
"Silence!" interrupted the friar. "If that were justification, believe you I should not have found it in thirty years? Ah! if I could now make you experience the sentiment I have since had, and that I now have for the man I hated! If _I_ could _I_!--but G.o.d can. May he do it! Hear me, Renzo. He is a better friend to you, than you are to yourself; you have thought of revenge, but He has power enough, pity enough, to prevent it; you know you have often said that he can arrest the arm of the powerful; but learn, also, that he can arrest that of the vindictive. And because you are poor, because you are injured, can he not defend against you a man created in his image? Will he suffer you to do all you wish? No! but he can cast you off for ever; he can, for this sentiment which animates you, embitter your whole life, since, whatever happens to you, hold for certain, that all will be punishment until you have pardoned, pardoned freely and for ever!"
"Yes, yes," said Renzo, with much emotion, "I feel that I have never truly pardoned him; I have spoken as a brute and not as a Christian; and now, by the help of G.o.d, I pardon him from the bottom of my soul."
"And should you see him?"
"I would pray G.o.d to grant me patience, and to touch his heart."