CHAPTER XXXII.
One night, towards the end of the month of August, in the very height ofthe pestilence, Don Roderick returned to his house at Milan, accompaniedby his faithful Griso, one of the small number of his servants who stillsurvived. He had just left a company of friends, who were accustomed toassemble together, to banish by debauchery the melancholy of the times;at each meeting there were new guests added, and old ones missing. Onthat day Don Roderick had been one of the gayest, and, among othersubjects of merriment which he introduced, he had made the company laughat a mock funeral sermon on Count Attilio, who had been carried off bythe pestilence a few days before.
After leaving the house where he had held his carousal, he was consciousof an uneasiness, a faintness, a weariness of his limbs, a difficulty ofbreathing, and an internal heat, which he was ready to attribute to thewine, the late hour, and the influence of the season. He spoke not aword during the whole route. Arriving at his house, he ordered Griso tolight him to his chamber. Griso, perceiving the change in his master'scountenance, kept at a distance, as, in these dangerous times, every onewas obliged to keep for himself, as was said, a medical eye.
"I feel very well, do you see," said Don Roderick, reading in thefeatures of Griso the thoughts which were passing through his mind,--"Ifeel very well; but I have drank a little too much. The wine was sofine! With a good sleep all will be well again. I am overcome by sleep.Take away the light; I cannot bear it; it troubles me."
"It is the effect of the wine, signor," said Griso, still keeping at adistance; "but go to bed, sleep will do you good."
"You are right; if I could sleep---- I am well, were it not for the wantof sleep. Place the little bell near me, in case I should wantsomething; and be attentive if I ring. But I shall need nothing. Carryaway that cursed light," added he; "it troubles me more than I cantell."
Griso carried off the light; and, wishing his master a good night, hequitted the apartment as Don Roderick crouched beneath the bed-clothes.
But the bed-clothes weighed upon him like a mountain; throwing them off,he endeavoured to compose himself to sleep; hardly had he closed hiseyes when he awoke with a start, as if he had been roused by a blow, andhe felt that the pain and fever had increased. He endeavoured to findthe cause of his sufferings in the heat of the weather, the wine, andthe debauch in which he had just been engaged; but one ideainvoluntarily mingled itself with all his reflections, an idea at whichhe had been laughing all the evening with his companions, as it waseasier to make it a subject of raillery than to drive it away,--the ideaof the plague.
After having struggled a long time, he at last fell asleep, but wastormented by frightful dreams. It appeared to him that he was in a vastchurch, in the midst of a crowd of people. How he came there he couldnot tell, nor how the thought to do so could have entered his head,especially at such a time. Looking on those by whom he was surrounded,he perceived them to be lean, livid figures, with wild and glaring eyes;the garments of these hideous creatures fell in shreds from theirbodies, and through them might be seen frightful blotches and swellings.He thought he cried, "Give way, you rascals!" as he looked towards thedoor, which was far, far off, accompanying the cry with a menacingexpression of countenance, and wrapping his arms around his body toprevent coming in contact with them, for they seemed to be touching himon every side. But they moved not, nor even seemed to hear him: itappeared to him, however, that some one amongst them, with his elbow,pressed his left side near his heart, where he felt a painful pricking.Trying to withdraw himself from so irksome a situation, he experienced arecurrence of the sensation. Irritated beyond measure, he stretched outhis hand for his sword, and, behold, it had glided the whole length ofhis body, and the hilt of it was pressing him in this very place. Vainlydid he endeavour to remove it, every effort only increased his agonies.Agitated and out of breath, he again cried aloud; at the sound, allthose wild and hideous phantoms rushed to one side of the church,leaving the pulpit exposed to view, in which stood, with his venerablecountenance, his bald head and white beard, Father Christopher. Itappeared to Don Roderick that the capuchin, after having looked over theassembly, fixed his eyes upon him, with the same expression as on thewell-remembered interview in his castle, and, at the same time, raisedhis arm, and held it suspended above his head; making an effort toarrest the blow, a cry which struggled in his throat escaped him, and heawoke. He opened his eyes; the light of day, which was already advanced,pressed upon his brain, and imparted as keen an anguish as the torch ofthe preceding night. Looking around on his bed and his room, hecomprehended that it was a dream; the church, the crowd, the friar, allhad vanished; but not so the pain in his left side. He was sensible ofan agonising and rapid beating of his heart, a buzzing in his ears, aninternal heat which consumed him, and a weight and weariness in hislimbs greater than when he went to bed. He could not resolve to look atthe spot where he felt the pain; but, finally gathering courage to doso, he beheld with horror a hideous tumour of a livid purple.
Don Roderick saw that he was lost. The fear of death took possession ofhim, and with it came the apprehension, stronger perhaps than the dreadof death itself, of becoming the prey of the _monatti_, and of beingthrown into the lazaretto. Endeavouring to think of some means ofavoiding this terrible fate, he experienced a confusion and obscurity inhis ideas which told him that the moment was fast approaching when heshould have no feeling left but of despair. Seizing the bell, he shookit violently. Griso, who was on the watch, appeared immediately;stopping at a distance from the bed, he looked attentively at hismaster, and became certain of that which he had only conjectured thenight before.
"Griso," said Don Roderick, with difficulty raising himself in his bed,"you have always been my favourite."
"Yes, my lord."
"I have always done well by you."
"The consequence of your goodness."
"I can trust you, I think. I am ill, Griso."
"I perceived that you were."
"If I am cured, I will do still more for you than I have ever yet done."
Griso made no answer, waiting to see to what this preamble would lead.
"I would not trust any one but you," resumed Don Roderick; "do me afavour."
"Command me."
"Do you know where the surgeon Chiodo lives?"
"I do."
"He is an honest man, who, if he be well paid, keeps secret the sick. Goto him; tell him I will give him four or six crowns a visit,--more, ifhe wishes it. Tell him to come here immediately; act with prudence; letno one get knowledge of it."
"Well thought of," said Griso; "I will return immediately."
"First, Griso, give me a little water; I burn with thirst."
"No, my lord, nothing without the advice of a physician. This is a rapiddisease, and there is no time to lose. Be tranquil. In the twinkling ofan eye, I will be here with the signor Chiodo." So saying, he left theroom.
Don Roderick followed him in imagination to the house of Chiodo, countedhis steps, measured the time. He often looked at his side, but,horror-struck, could only regard it a moment. Continuing to listenintently for the arrival of the surgeon, this effort of attentionsuspended the sense of suffering, and left him the free exercise of histhoughts. Suddenly he heard a noise of small bells, which appeared tocome from some of the apartments, and not from the street. Listeningagain, he heard it louder, and at the same time a sound of steps. Ahorrible suspicion darted across his mind. He sat up, listened stillmore attentively, and heard a sound in the next chamber, as of a chestcarefully placed on the floor; he threw his limbs out of bed, so as tobe ready to rise; and kept his eyes fastened on the door; it opened,and, behold, two _monatti_ with their diabolical countenances, andcursed liveries, advancing towards the bed, whilst from the half-opendoor was seen the figure of Griso, awaiting the success of his sordidtreachery.
"Ah, infamous traitor! Begone, rascals! Biondino, Carlotto, help!murder!" cried Don Roderick, extending his hand under his pillow for hispistol.
A
t his very first cry the _monatti_ had rushed towards the bed, and themost active of the two was upon him before he could make anothermovement; jerking the pistol from his hand, and throwing it on thefloor, he forced him to lie down, crying in an accent of rage andmockery, "Ah, scoundrel! against the _monatti_! against the ministers ofthe tribunal!"
"Keep him down until we are ready to carry him out," said the other, ashe advanced to a strong box. Griso entered the room, and with himcommenced forcing its lock. "Villain!" shouted Don Roderick, strugglingto get free: "let me kill this infamous rascal," said he to the_monatti_, "and then you may do with me what you will." He then calledagain loudly on his other servants, but in vain; the abominable Grisohad sent them far away with orders as if from his master, before hehimself went to propose this expedition, and a share of its spoils, tothe _monatti_.
"Be quiet, be quiet," said the man, who held him extended on the bed, tothe unhappy Don Roderick; then, turning to those who were taking thebooty, he said, "Behave like honest men."
"You! you!" murmured Don Roderick to Griso, "you! after---- Ah, demonof hell! I may still be cured! I may still be cured!"
Griso spoke not a word, and was careful to avoid looking at his master.
"Hold him tight," said the other _monatto_, "he is frantic."
The unfortunate man, after many violent efforts, became suddenlyexhausted; but from time to time was seen to struggle feebly and vainly,for a moment, against his persecutors.
The _monatti_ deposited him on a hand-barrow which had been left in theouter room; one of them returned for the booty, then raising theirmiserable burden, they carried him off. Griso remained awhile to make aselection of such articles as were valuable and portable; he had beenvery careful not to touch the _monatti_, nor be touched by them; but, inhis thirst for gain, his prudence forsook him; taking the differentarticles of his master's dress from off the bed, he shook them, for thepurpose of ascertaining if there was money in them.
He had, however, occasion to remember his want of caution the next day;whilst carousing in a tavern, he was seized with a shivering, his eyesgrew dim, his strength failed, and he fell lifeless. Abandoned by hiscompanions, he fell into the hands of the _monatti_, who, after havingplundered him, threw him on a car, where he expired, before arriving atthe lazaretto to which his master had been carried.
We must leave Don Roderick in this abode of horror, and return to Renzo,whom our readers may remember we left in a manufactory under the name ofAntony Rivolta. He remained there five or six months; after which, warbeing declared between the republic and the King of Spain, and all fearon his account having ceased, Bortolo hastened to bring him back, bothbecause he was attached to him, and because Renzo was a great assistanceto the _factotum_ of a manufactory, without the possibility of his everaspiring to be one himself, on account of his inability to write.Bortolo was a good man, and in the main generous, but, like other men,he had his failings; and as this motive really had a place in hiscalculations, we have thought it our duty to state it. From this timeRenzo continued to work with his cousin. More than once, and especiallyafter having received a letter from Agnes, he felt a desire to turnsoldier; and opportunities were not wanting, for at this epoch therepublic was in want of recruits. The temptation was the stronger, asthere was a talk of invading the Milanese, and it appeared to him thatit would be a fine thing to return there as a conqueror, see Lucy again,and have an explanation with her; but Bortolo always diverted him fromthis resolution. "If they go there," said he, "they can go without you,and you can go afterwards at your leisure. If they return with brokenheads, you will be glad to have been out of the scrape. The Milanese isnot a mouthful to be easily swallowed; and then the question, my friend,turns on the power of Spain. Have a little patience. Are you not wellhere? I know what you will say; but if it is written above that theaffair shall succeed, succeed it will, without your committing morefollies. Some saint will come to your assistance. Believe me, war is nota trade for you. It needs men expressly trained to the business."
At other times Renzo thought of returning home in disguise, under afalse name, but Bortolo dissuaded him from this project also.
The plague afterwards spreading over all the Milanese, and advancing tothe Bergamascan territory----don't be alarmed, reader, our design is notto relate its history; all that we would say is, that Renzo was attackedwith it, and recovered. He was at death's door; but his strongconstitution repelling the disease, in a few days he was out of danger.With life, the hopes and recollections and projects of life returnedwith greater vigour than ever; more than ever were his thoughts occupiedwith his Lucy: what had become of her in these disastrous times? "To beat so short distance from her, and to know nothing concerning her, andto remain, God knows how long, in this uncertainty! and then her vow! Iwill go myself, I will go and relieve these terrible doubts," said he."If she lives, I will find her; I will hear herself explain thispromise; I will show her that it is not binding; and I will bring herhere, and poor Agnes also, who has always wished me well, and I am suredoes so still,--yes, I will go in search of them."
As soon as he was able to walk, he went in search of Bortolo, who hadkept himself shut up in his house, on account of the pestilence. Hecalled to him to come to the window.
"Ah, ah," said Bortolo, "you have recovered. It is well for you."
"I have still some weakness in my limbs, as you see, but I am out ofdanger."
"Oh, I wish I was on your legs. Formerly, when one said, _I am well_, itexpressed all that could be desired; but now-a-days that is of littleconsequence. When one can say _I am better_, that's the word for you!"
Renzo informed his cousin of his determination.
"Go now, and may Heaven bless you," replied he; "avoid the law as Ishall avoid the pestilence; and if it is the will of God, we shall seeeach other again."
"Oh, I shall certainly return. If I were only sure of not returningalone! I hope for the best."
"Well, I join in your hopes; if God wills, we will work, and livetogether here. Heaven grant you may find me here, and that this devilishdisease may have ceased."
"We shall meet again, we shall meet again, I am sure."
"I say again, God bless you."
In a few days Renzo, finding his strength sufficiently restored,prepared for his departure; he put on a girdle in which he placed thefifty crowns sent him by Agnes, together with his own small savings; hetook under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and secured in his pockethis certificate of good conduct from his second master; and having armedhimself with a good knife, a necessary appendage to an honest man inthose days, he commenced his journey towards the end of August, threedays after Don Roderick had been carried to the lazaretto. He took theroad to Lecco, before venturing into Milan, as he hoped to find Agnesthere, and learn from her some little of what he desired so much toknow.
The small number of those who had been cured of the plague formed aprivileged class amidst the rest of the population; those who had notbeen attacked by the disease lived in perpetual apprehension of it; theywalked about with precaution, with an unquiet air, with a hurried andhesitating step; the former, on the contrary, nearly certain of security(for to have the plague twice was rather a prodigy than a rarity),advanced into the very midst of the pestilence with boldness andunconcern. With such security, tempered, however, by his own peculiaranxieties, and by the spectacle of the misery of a whole people, Renzotravelled towards his village, under a fine sky, and through a beautifulcountry; meeting on the way, after long intervals of dismal solitude,men more like shadows and wandering phantoms than living beings; or deadbodies about to be consigned to the trench without funeral rites.Towards the middle of the day he stopped in a grove to eat his meat andbread; he was bountifully supplied with fruits from the gardens by theroad, for the year was remarkably fertile, the trees along the road wereladen with figs, peaches, plums, apples, and other various kinds, withhardly a living creature to gather them.
Towards evening he discovered his village; although pr
epared for thesight, he felt his heart beat, and he was assailed in a moment by acrowd of painful recollections and harrowing presentiments: a deathlikesilence reigned around. His agitation increased as he entered thechurchyard, and became hardly supportable at the end of the lane--it wasthere, where stood the house of Lucy--one only of its inmates could nowbe there, and the only favour he asked from Heaven was to find Agnesstill living; he hoped to find an asylum at her cottage, as he judgedtruly that his own roust be in ruins.
As he went on he looked attentively before him, fearing, and at the sametime hoping, to meet some one from whom he might obtain information. Hesaw at last a man seated on the ground, leaning against a hedge ofjessamines, in the listless attitude of an idiot. He thought it must bethe poor simpleton Jervase, who had been employed as a witness in hisunsuccessful expedition to the curate's house. But approaching nearer,he recognised it to be Anthony. The disease had affected his mind, aswell as his body, so that in every act a slight resemblance to his weakbrother might be traced.
"Oh, Tony," said Renzo, stopping before him, "is it you?" Tony raisedhis 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, andthen stood with his mouth open.
Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still moreafflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheldadvancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio.His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had notescaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examinedhis person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognisedRenzo with much surprise.
"Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a movement ofwonder 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 hadquitted 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 isstill 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 Valsassina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for theysay that down there the pestilence has not made such ravages as it hashere. 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 youforgotten that little circumstance of the order for your apprehension?"
"What matters it? people have other things to think of now. I came hereto see about my own affairs."
"There is nothing to see about; there is no one here now. It is theheight of rashness in you to venture here, with this little difficultyimpending. Listen to an old man who has more prudence than yourself, andwho speaks to you from the love he bears you. Depart at once, before anyone sees you, return whence you came. Do you think the air of this placegood for you? Know you not that they have been here on the search foryou?"
"I know it too well, the rascals."
"But then----"
"But, I tell you, they think no more about it. And _he_, does _he_ yetlive? is _he_ here?"
"I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of theaffairs 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 stillretain 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 fromtravelling at present."
"If the pestilence was all that we need fear--I speak for myself, I havehad 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 mystrength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name ofHeaven, 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 nothave come. You keep saying, _What do you come for? what do you comefor?_ 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 longlist of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it istrue, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances,friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and couldonly exclaim, from time to time, "Misery! misery! misery!"
"And it is not yet over," pursued Don Abbondio. "If those who remain donot listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be theend 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 Ihave arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one thatyou have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you willnot betray me?"
"I understand," said Don Abbondio, angrily, "I understand. You wouldruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I havesuffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand." And continuingto mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way.
Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seekanother 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 beenhis companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a littlebeyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitalitywhich it might afford him. On his way he passed his own vineyard. Thevines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and mostluxuriant growth, principally of the parasitical order, covered theplace, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branchesof the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. Thegarden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriantwildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of thelansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzoturned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to hisfriend's. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on asmall bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a manstupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound ofsteps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him todistinguish objects distinctly, he said, "Are there not others besidesme? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an actof charity."
Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.
"Renzo?" replied he.
"It is indeed," said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.
"Is it you indeed?" said his friend: "oh, how happy I am to see you! whowould have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who tormentme daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone!alone as a hermit!"
"I know it but too well," said Renzo. They entered the cottage together,each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to preparethe table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with apitc
her of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seatedthemselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutuallycongratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years,and the circumstances under which they met, revived and added new vigourto their former friendship.
No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only onaccount of the particular affection she bore him, but she alonepossessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitatedawhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not veryfar off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, headhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he couldconcerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt fromhis friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others wereexplained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures ofLucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed thatDon Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt,moreover, to pronounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it istrue, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it waswritten; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange asound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend,probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although thiswas the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was inquestion his mind was set at rest. The signor Podesta was dead, and mostof the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters toopressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his ownadventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of thepassage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies."Dreadful as are our afflictions," said he, as he led him for the nightto a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants,"there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends."
At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. "Ifall goes well," said he, "if I find her living--if--I will return. Iwill go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, andthen--but if, by a misfortune, which may God avert--then, I know notwhat I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me hereagain."
As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey,he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish,his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friendaccompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell,prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity andenjoyment.
Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him toarrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on themorrow. His journey was without accident, except a repetition of thesame wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he haddone the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast,which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Passing throughMonza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; hebought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter;stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water,he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs hereached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket.
Towards evening he passed through Greco, and quitting the high road,went into the fields in search of some small house where he might passthe night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a bettershelter than he anticipated; perceiving an opening in a hedge whichsurrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no onewithin: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the doorof it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder,settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break ofday. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, andproceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polarstar. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate.
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